Artists reproduce themselves or each other, with wearisome iteration. But criticism is always moving on, and the critic is always developing.

I analyzed you, though you did not adore me.

Conversation about the weather is the last refuge of the unimaginative.

The secret of life is in art.

The value of an idea has nothing whatever to do with the sincerity of the man who expresses it.

What the hell is an oboe?

They spoil every romance by trying to make it last forever.