Modesty Is The Conscience Of The Body.

If The Artist Does Not Fling Himself, Without Reflecting, Into His Work, As Curtis Flung Himself Into The Yawning Gulf, As The Soldier Flings Himself Into The Enemy's Trenches, And If, Once In This Crater, He Does Not Work Like A Miner On Whom The Walls Of His Gallery Have Fallen In; If He Contemplates Difficulties Instead Of Overcoming Them One By One ... He Is Simply Looking On At The Suicide Of His Own Talent.

It Is The Mark Of A Great Man That He Puts To Flight All Ordinary Calculations. He Is At Once Sublime And Touching, Childlike And Of The Race Of Giants.

Loyalty In Time Of Need Is Possibly One Of The Noblest Of Victories A Courtier Can Win Over Himself.

In The Silence Of Their Studios, Busied For Days At A Time With Works Which Leave The Mind Relatively Free, Painters Become Like Women; Their Thoughts Can Revolve Around The Minor Facts Of Life And Penetrate Their Hidden Meaning.

True Love Is Eternal, Infinite, And Always Like Itself. It Is Equal And Pure.