Count art by gold, and it fetters the feet it once winged.
Talent wears well, genius wears itself out; talent drives a snug brougham in fact; genius, a sun-chariot in fancy.
The fire of true enthusiasm is like the fires of Baku, which no water can ever quench, and which burn steadily on from night to day, and year to year, because their well-spring is eternal.
Who has passed by the fates of disillusion has died twice.
Belief of some sort is the lifeblood of Art.
I have met a thousand scamps; but I never met one who considered himself so. Self-knowledge isn't so common.