An Artist's Saddest Secrets Are Those That

In Great Misfortunes, People Want To Be Alone. They Have A Right To Be. And The Misfortunes That Occur Within One Are The Greatest. Surely The Saddest Thing In The World Is Falling Out Of Love--if Once One Has Ever Fallen In.

If The Street Life, Not The Whitechapel Street Life, But That Of The Common But So-called Respectable Part Of Town Is In Any City More Gloomy, More Ugly, More Grimy, More Cruel Than In London, I Certainly Don't Care To See It. Sometimes It Occurs To One That Possibly All The Failures Of This Generation, The World Over, Have Been Suddenly Swept Into London, For The Streets Are A Restless, Breathing, Malodorous Pageant Of The Seedy Of All Nations.

Artistic Growth Is, More Than It Is Anything Else, A Refining Of The Sense Of Truthfulness.

How Terrible It Was To Love People When You Could Not Really Share Their Lives!

Personal Hatred And Family Affection Are Not Incompatible; They Often Flourish And Grow Strong Together.