It is in the brain that the poppy is red, that the apple is odorous, that the skylark sings.

I find him in the curves of certain lines, in the loveliness and subtleties of certain colours.

The great events of life often leave one unmoved; they pass out of consciousness, and, when thinks of them, become unreal. Even the scarlet flowers of passion seem to grow in the same meadow as the poppies of oblivion. We reject the burden of their memory, and have anodynes against them. But the little things, the things of no moment, remain with us. In some tiny ivory cell the brain stores the most delicate, and the most fleeting impressions.

Despotism is unjust to everybody, including the despot, who was probably made for better things.

While we look to the dramatist to give romance to realism, we ask of the actor to give realism to romance.

In going to America one learns that poverty is not a necessary accompaniment to civilization.

Most people are boring and stupid.