Everything vanishes round me and good works rise from me of their own accord.

To give emphasis only to beauty makes me think of a mathematics that deals with positive numbers only.

My self . . . is a dramatic ensemble. Here a prophetic ancestor makes his appearance. Here a brutal hero shouts. Here an alcoholic bon vivant argues with a learned professor. Here a lyric muse, chronically love-struck, raises her eyes to heaven. Her papa steps forward, uttering pedantic protests. Here the indulgent uncle intercedes. Here the aunt babbles gossip. Here the maid giggles lasciviously. And I look upon it all with amazement, the sharpened pen in my left hand.

When looking at any significant work of art, remember that a more significant one probably has had to be sacrificed.

You adapt yourself to the contents of the paintbox.

Chosen are those artists who penetrate to the region of that secret place where primeval power nurtures all evolution. There, where the powerhouse of all time and space call it brain or heart of creation activates every function, who is the artist who would not dwell there?

He has found his style, when he cannot do otherwise.