All art is a revolt against man’s fate.

When we see a natural style we are quite amazed and delighted, because we expected to see an author and find a man.

Art lives from constraints and dies from freedom.

To be a poet is to have a soul so quick to discern that no shade of quality escapes it, and so quick to feel that discernment is but a hand playing with finely ordered variety on the chords of emotion—a soul in which knowledge passes instantaneously into feeling, and feeling flashes back as a new organ of knowledge. One may have that condition by fits only.

Art is making something out of nothing and selling it.