I Criticise By Creation, Not By Finding

Trifles Make Perfection, And Perfection Is No Trifle.

It Is Better Decoration When, In Painting, Some Monstrosity Is Introduced For Variety And A Relaxation Of The Senses And To Attract The Attention Of Mortal Eyes, Which At Times Desire To See That Which They Have Never Seen.

The Greatest Artist Has No Conception Which A Single Block Of White Marble Does Not Potentially Contain Within Its Mass, But Only A Hand Obedient To The Mind Can Penetrate To This Image.

There Is No Tongue To Speak His Eulogy; Too Brightly Burned His Splendour For Our Eyes: Far Easier To Condemn His Injurers, Than For The Tongue To Reach His Smallest Worth. He To The Realms Of Sinfulness Came Down, To Teach Mankind; Ascending Then To God, Heaven Unbarred To Him Her Lofty Gates, To Whom His Country Hers Refused To Ope. Ungrateful Land, To Its Own Injury Nurse Of His Fate! Well Too Does This Instruct, That Greatest Ills Fall To The Perfectest. And 'midst A Thousand Proofs, Let This Suffice, That, As His Exile Had No Parallel, So Never Was There Man More Great Than He.

The True Work Of Art Is But A Shadow Of The Divine Perfection.