I act as the tongue of you, ... tied in your mouth . . . . in mine it begins to be loosened.

You road I enter upon and look around, I believe you are not all that is here, I believe much unseen is also here

Most works are most beautiful without ornament.

It is a beautiful truth that all men contain something of the artist in them. And perhaps it is the case that the greatest artists live and die, the world and themselves alike ignorant what they possess.

That the hands of the sisters Death and Night incessantly softly wash again and ever again, this soiled world.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean

What a devil art thou, Poverty! How many desires - how many aspirations after goodness and truth - how many noble thoughts, loving wishes toward our fellows, beautiful imaginings thou hast crushed under thy heel, without remorse or pause!