Cold Exactitude Is Not Art; Ingenious Artifice,

Glory To That Homer Of Painting, To That Father Of Warmth And Enthusiasm... He Really Paints Men.

Real Beauty In The Arts Is Eternal And Would Be Accepted At All Periods; But It Wears The Dress Of Its Century: Something Of That Dress Clings To It, And Woe To The Works Which Appear In Periods When The General Taste Is Corrupted.

What I Have Done Cannot Be Taken From Me.

Can Any Man Say With Certainty That He Was Happy At A Particular Moment Of Time Which He Remembers As Being Delightful? Remembering It Certainly Makes Him Happy, Because He Realizes How Happy He Could Have Been, But At The Actual Moment When The Alleged Happiness Was Occurring, Did He Really Feel Happy? He Was Like A Man Owning A Piece Of Ground In Which, Unknown To Himself, A Treasure Lay Buried.

Seeing Artistically Does Not Happen Automatically. We Must Constantly Develop Our Powers Of Observation.