Truth Is A Torch, But A Terrific

It Used To Happen, And Still Happens, To Me To Take No Pleasure In A Work Of Art At The First Sight Of It, Because It Is Too Much For Me; But If I Suspect Any Merit In It, I Try To Get At It; And Then I Never Fail To Make The Most Gratifying Discoveries--to Find New Qualities In The Work Itself And New Faculties In Myself.

Sound And Sufficient Reason Falls, After All, To The Share Of But Few Men, And Those Few Men Exert Their Influence In Silence.

Everyone Holds His Fortune In His Own Hands, Like A Sculptor The Raw Material He Will Fashion Into A Figure. But It's The Same With That Type Of Artistic Activity As With All Others: We Are Merely Born With The Capability To Do It. The Skill To Mold The Material Into What We Want Must Be Learned And Attentively Cultivated.

Alas! Sorrow From Happiness Is Oft Evolved.

What Sort Of Faults May We Retain, Nay, Even Cherish In Ourselves? Those Faults Which Are Rather Pleasant Than Offensive To Others.