Do you know what will soon be the ultimate in truth?

Poor artist! You gave away part of your soul when you painted the picture which you are now trying to dispose of.

Color! What a deep and mysterious language, the language of dreams.

The missionary is no longer a man, a conscience. He is a corpse, in the hands of a confraternity, without family, without love, without any of the sentiments that are dear to us. Emasculated, in a sense, by his vow of chastity, he offers us the distressing spectacle of a man deformed and impotent or engaged in a stupid and useless struggle with the sacred needs of the flesh, a struggle which, seven times out of ten, leads him to sodomy, the gallows, or prison.

Beautiful colors exist, though we do not realize it, and are glimpsed behind the veil that modesty has drawn over them.

There are two sorts of beauty; one is the result of instinct, the other of study. A combination of the two, with the resulting modifications, brings with it a very complicated richness, which the art critic ought to try to discover.

A meter of green is greener than a centimeter.