It has always been my practice to cast a long paragraph in a single mold, to try it by my ear, to deposit it in my memory, but to suspend the action of the pen till I had given the last polish to my work.

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, like morality, consists of drawing the line somewhere.

If a king loves music, there is little wrong in the land.

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.

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

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.

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.

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

All art is a revolt against man’s fate.

Art transcends its limitations only by staying within them.

We possess art lest we perish of the truth.