The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.

Actions are the first tragedy in life, words are the second. Words are perhaps the worst. Words are merciless. . .

The public is wonderfully tolerant. It forgives everything except genius.

Consistency is the last refuge of the unimagininative.

Cats are put on earth to remind us that not everything has a purpose.

Memory is the diary that chronicles things that never have happened and couldn't possibly have happened.

Talent borrows, genius steals!