Beauty is as relative as light and dark. Thus, there exists no beautiful woman, none at all, because you are never certain that a still far more beautiful woman will not appear and completely shame the supposed beauty of the first.

Nothing can be rushed. It must grow, it should grow of itself, and if the time ever comes for that work, then so much the better!

To emphasize only the beautiful seems to me to be like a mathematical system that only concerns itself with positive numbers.

It is a great difficulty and a great necessity to have to start with the smallest.

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.

Color has got me. I no longer need to chase after it. It has got me for ever. I know it. That is the meaning of this happy hour.

It is the artistic mission to penetrate as far as may be toward that secret ground where primal law feeds growth.