The camera, you know, will never capture you. Photography, in my experience, has the miraculous power of transferring wine into water.
I played with an idea, and grew willful; tossed it into the air; transformed it; let it escape and recaptured it; made it iridescent with fancy, and winged it with paradox.
Two men look out a window. One sees mud, the other sees the stars.
Concordantly, while your first question may be the most pertinent, you may or may not realize it is also the most irrelevant.
Love is a sacrament that should be taken kneeling.
What do you call a bad man? The sort of man who admires innocence.
It is always painful fo part from people whom one has known for a very brief space of time. The absence of old friends one can endure with equanimity. But even a momentary separation from anyone to whom one has just been introduced is almost unbearable.
It is not the perfect, but the imperfect, who have need of love.
It is only fair to state, with regard to modern journalists, that they always apologize to one in private for what they have written against one in public.
What is said of man is nothing; the point is, who says it.
Nothing looks so like innocence as an indiscretion.
Early in life she had discovered the important truth that nothing looks so like innocence as an indiscretion; and by a series of reckless escapades, half of them quite harmless, she had acquired all the privileges of a personality.
It is only the unimaginative who ever invents. The true artist is known by the use he makes of what he annexes.
The State is to make what is useful. The individual is to make what is beautiful.
The exquisite art of idleness, one of the most important things that any University can teach.
The liar at any rate recognizes that recreation, not instruction, is the aim of conversation, and is a far more civilized being than the blockhead who loudly expresses his disbelief in a story which is told simply for the amusement of the company.
Everything is dangerous, my dear fellow. If it wasn’t so, life wouldn’t be worth living.
He is fairer than the morning star, and whiter than the moon. For his body I would give my soul, and for his love I would surrender heaven.
The truth about the life of a man is not what he does, but the legend which he creates around himself.
Art creates an incomparable and unique effect, and, having done so, passes on to other things. Nature, upon the other hand, forgetting that that imitation can be made the sincerest form of insult, keeps on repeating this effect until we all become absolutely wearied of it.