How Can This World, Which Is So

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.

Mediocre People Have An Answer For Everything And Are Astonished At Nothing. They Always Want To Have The Air Of Knowing Better Than You What You Are Going To Tell Them; When, In Their Turn, They Begin To Speak, They Repeat To You With The Greatest Confidence, As If Dealing With Their Own Property, The Things That They Have Heard You Say Yourself At Some Other Place. A Capable And Superior Look Is The Natural Accompaniment Of This Type Of Character.

A Taste For Simplicity Cannot Last For Long.

Real Beauty In The Arts Is Eternal And Would Be Accepted At All Periods; But It Wears The Dress Of Its Century: Something Of That Dress Clings To It, And Woe To The Works Which Appear In Periods When The General Taste Is Corrupted.

A Picture Is Nothing But A Bridge Between The Soul Of The Artist And That Of The Spectator.