[On Venice:] Every hour of the day is a miracle of light. In summer with daybreak the rising sun produces such a tender magic on the water that it nearly breaks one's heart.

[On John Tunnard:] One day a marvelous man in a highly elaborate tweed coat walked into the gallery. He looked a little like Groucho Marx. He was as animated as a jazz-band leader, which he turned out to be. He showed us his gouaches, which were as musical as Kandinsky's, as delicate as Klee's, and as gay as Miró's.

Having plenty of time and all the museum's funds at my disposal, I put myself on a regime to buy one picture a day.

I don't collect anymore. Everything is so terribly expensive. I don't see anything I like anyhow.

I was much more interested in literature than I was in art. I just got into art by mistake.

If anything can rival Venice in its beauty, it must be its reflection at sunset in the Grand Canal.

It is always assumed that Venice is the ideal place for a honeymoon. This is a grave error. To live in Venice or even to visit it means that you fall in love with the city itself. There is nothing left over in your heart for anyone else.