Friendship is far more tragic than love. It lasts longer.

Every woman becomes their mother. That's their tragedy. And no man becomes his. That's his tragedy.

She has form," he said to himself, as he walked away through the grove - "that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling? I am afraid not. In fact, she is like most artists; she is all style, without any sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself for others. She thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that arts are selfish. Still, it must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her voice. What a pity it is that they do not mean anything, or do any practical good.

But what of life whose bitter hungry sea Flows at our heels, and gloom of sunless night Covers the days which never more return? Ambition, love and all the thoughts that burn We lose too soon, and only find delight In withered husks of some dead memory.

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

I cannot choose one hundred best books because I have only written five

There are moments when art attains almost to the dignity of manual labor.