Revolution today is taken for granted, and in consequence becomes rather dull.

Revolution today is taken for granted, and in consequence becomes rather dull.

But ‘art’ is not anything serious or exclusive: it is the smell of oil paint, Henri Murger’s Vie de Boheme, corduroy trousers, the operatic Italian model: but the poetry, above all, of linseed oil and turpentine.

A hundred things are done today in the divine name of Youth, that if they showed their true colors would be seen by rights to belong rather to old age.

Spain is an overflow of sombreness . . . a strong and threatening tide of history meets you at the frontier.

No American worth his salt should go looking around for a root. I advance this in all modesty, as a not unreasonable opinion.

People are so overwhelmed with the prestige of their instruments that they consider their personal judgement of hardly any account.