Were I called on to define, very briefly, the term art, I should call it “the reproduction of what the senses perceive in nature through the veil of the soul.” The mere imitation, however accurate, of what is in nature, entitles no man to the sacred name of “artist.”

All art is a revolt against man’s fate.

I cannot live without books, but fewer will suffice where amusement, and not use, is the only future object.

Art, like morality, consists of drawing the line somewhere.

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.