To Sit For One's Portrait Is Like

Every Day Travels Toward Death; The Last Only Arrives At It.

If You Wish To Preserve Your Secret, Wrap It Up In Frankness.

The Greatness Of An Artist Or A Writer Does Not Depend On What He Has In Common With Other Artists And Writers, But On What He Has Peculiar To Himself.

My Garden, With Its Silence And Pulses Of Fragrance That Come And Go On The Airy Undulations, Affects Me Like Sweet Music. Care Stops At The Gates, And Gazes At Me Wistfully Through The Bars.

Winter Does Not Work Only On A Broad Scale; He Is Careful In Trifles.