Art transcends its limitations only by staying within them.

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

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

Modesty is a virtue not often found among poets, for almost every one of them thinks himself the greatest in the world.

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.

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.

If we pretend to respect the artist at all, we must allow him his freedom of choice, in the face, in particular cases, of innumerable presumptions that the choice will not fructify. Art derives a considerable part of its beneficial exercise from flying in the face of presumptions.

Art is a jealous mistress, and if a man have a genius for painting, poetry, music, architecture, or philosophy, he makes a bad husband and an ill provider.

The aim of art is to represent not the outward appearance of things, but their inward significance.

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.”

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

The first mistake of art is to assume that it’s serious.

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