The only link between Literature and the Drama left to us in England at the present moment is the bill of the play.

I summed up all systems in a phrase, and all existence in an epigram.

If I am occasionally a little over-dressed, I make up for it by being always immensely over-educated.

Can they feel, I wonder, those white silent people we call the dead?

Every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter.

What the artist is always looking for is the mode of existence in which soul and body are one and indivisible: in which the outward is expressive of the inward: in which form reveals.

The world is a stage, but the play is badly cast.