The Humblest Painter Is A

Those Who Speak Ill Of The Spiritual Life, Although They Come And Go By Day, Are Like The Smith's Bellows: They Take Breath But Are Not Alive.

We Are Cold To Others Only When We Are Dull In Ourselves.

They Are The Only Honest Hypocrites, Their Life Is A Voluntary Dream, A Studied Madness.

It Is Better To Be Able Neither To Read Nor Write Than To Be Able To Do Nothing Else.

It Is Only Those Who Never Think At All, Or Else Who Have Accustomed Themselves To Blood Invariably On Abstract Ideas, That Ever Feel Ennui.