The true poem is the poet's mind.
The True Artist has the planet for his pedestal; the adventurer, after years of strife, has nothing broader than his shoes.
The arts and inventions of each period are only its costume, and do not invigorate men.
Sculpture and painting have the effect of teaching us manners and abolishing hurry.
Perpetual modernness is the measure of merit in every work of art.
New arts destroy the old.
Every artist was first an amateur.
Artists must be sacrificed to their art.
Art is the path of the creator to his work.
Art is a jealous mistress; and if a man have a genius for painting, poetry, music, architecture or philosophy, he makes a bad husband and an ill provider.
Each work of art excludes the world, concentrates attention on itself. For the time it is the only thing worth doing --to do just that; be it a sonnet, a statue, a landscape, an outline head of Caesar, or an oration. Presently we return to the sight of another that globes itself into a whole as did the first, for example, a beautiful garden; and nothing seems worth doing in life but laying out a garden.
To different minds, the same world is a hell, and a heaven.
It is long ere we discover how rich we are. Our history, we are sure, is quite tame: we have nothing to write, nothing to infer. But our wiser years still run back to the despised recollections of childhood, and always we are fishing up some wonderful article out of that pond; until, by and by, we begin to suspect that the biography of the one foolish person we know is, in reality, nothing less than the miniature paraphrase of the hundred volumes of the Universal History.
Infancy conforms to nobody: all conform to it, so that one babe commonly makes four or five out of the adults who prattle and play to it.
A beautiful form is better than a beautiful face; it gives a higher pleasure than statues or pictures; it is the finest of the fine arts.