I Have The Handicap Of Being Born

Reveal Art; Conceal The Artist.

He Loved A Book Because It Was A Book; He Loved Its Odor, Its Form, Its Title. What He Loved In A Manuscript Was Its Old Illegible Date, The Bizarre And Strange Gothic Characters, The Heavy Gilding Which Loaded Its Drawings. It Was Its Pages Covered With Dust — Dust Of Which He Breathed The Sweet And Tender Perfume With Delight.

By Dint Of Railing At Idiots, One Runs The Risk Of Becoming An Idiot Oneself.

By Trying To Understand Everything, Everything Makes Me Dream

You Can Calculate The Worth Of A Man By The Number Of His Enemies, And The Importance Of A Work Of Art By The Harm That Is Spoken Of It.