That very concentration of vision and intensity of purpose which is the characteristic of the artistic temperament is in itself a mode of limitation. To those who are preoccupied with the beauty of form nothing else seems of much importance.

I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read in the train.

The bright dawn flooded the room, and swept the fantastic shadows into dusky corners, where they lay shuddering.

I am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die. I am jealous of the portrait you have painted of me. Why should it keep what I must lose? Every moment that passes takes something from me and gives something to it. Oh, if it were only the other way! If the picture could change, and I could be always what I am now! Why did you paint it? It will mock me some day—mock me horribly!

I will not bare my soul to their shallow prying eyes. My heart shall never be put under their microscope.

Anyone can sympathize with the sufferings of a friend, but it requires a very fine nature to sympathize with a friend's success.

It is Nature who makes our artists for us, though it may be Art who taught them their right mode of expression.