I Have Often Been Asked

We Must Live For The Few Who Know And Appreciate Us, Who Judge And Absolve Us, And For Whom We Have The Same Affection And Indulgence. The Rest I Look Upon As A Mere Crowd, Lively Or Sad, Loyal Or Corrupt, From Whom There Is Nothing To Be Expected But Fleeting Emotions, Either Pleasant Or Unpleasant, Which Leave No Trace Behind Them.

What Matters Poverty? What Matters Anything To Him Who Is Enamoured Of Our Art? Does He Not Carry In Himself Every Joy And Every Beauty?

The Monster Of Advertisement...is A Sort Of Octopus With Innumerable Tentacles. It Throws Out To Right And Left, In Front And Behind, Its Clammy Arms, And Gathers In, Through Its Thousand Little Suckers, All The Gossip And Slander And Praise Afloat.

I Have, Thanks To My Travels, Added To My Stock All The Superstitions Of Other Countries. I Know Them All Now, And In Any Critical Moment Of My Life, They All Rise Up In Armed Legions For Or Against Me.

You Must Have This Charm To Reach The Pinnacle. It Is Made Of Everything And Of Nothing, The Striving Will, The Look, The Walk, The Proportions Of The Body, The Sound Of The Voice, The Ease Of The Gestures. It Is Not At All Necessary To Be Handsome Or To Be Pretty; All That Is Needful Is Charm.