Give Me Some Mud, And I Will

Cold Exactitude Is Not Art; Ingenious Artifice, When It Pleases Or When It Expresses, Is Art Itself.

Delsarte Tells Me That Mozart Stole Outrageously From Galuppi, In The Same Way, I Suppose, That Molière Stole From Anybody Anywhere, If He Found Something Work Taking. I Said That What Was Mozart Had Not Been Stolen From Galuppi, Or From Anyone Else For That Matter.

Can Any Man Say With Certainty That He Was Happy At A Particular Moment Of Time Which He Remembers As Being Delightful? Remembering It Certainly Makes Him Happy, Because He Realizes How Happy He Could Have Been, But At The Actual Moment When The Alleged Happiness Was Occurring, Did He Really Feel Happy? He Was Like A Man Owning A Piece Of Ground In Which, Unknown To Himself, A Treasure Lay Buried.

Perhaps The Sketch Of A Work Is So Pleasing Because Everyone Can Finish It As He Chooses.

There Is No Merit In Being Truthful When One Is Truthful By Nature, Or Rather When One Can Be Nothing Else; It Is A Gift, Like Poetry Or Music. But It Needs Courage To Be Truthful After Carefully Considering The Matter, Unless A Kind Of Pride Is Involved; For Example, The Man Who Says To Himself, "i Am Ugly," And Then Says, "i Am Ugly" To His Friends, Lest They Should Think Themselves The First To Make The Discovery.