All art is a revolt against man’s fate.

Art imitates nature as well as it can, as a pupil follows his master; thus it is a sort of grandchild of God.

This is a fault common to all singers, that among their friends they will never sing when they are asked; unasked, they will never desist.

If it were not for the intellectual snobs who pay in solid cash—the tribute which philistinism owes to culture, the arts would perish with their starving practitioners. Let us thank heaven for hypocrisy.

I hate the whole race. There is no believing a word they say—your professional poets, I mean—there never existed a more worthless set than Byron and his friends for example.