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I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat.
Were I called on to define, very briefly, the term Art, I should call it ‘the reproduction of what the Senses perceive in Nature through the veil of the soul.’ The mere imitation, however accurate, of what is in Nature, entitles no man to the sacred name of ‘Artist.’
There is something in the unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes directly to the heart of him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendship and gossamer fidelity of mere Man.
We loved with a love that was more than love.
Man’s real life is happy, chiefly because he is ever expecting that it soon will be so.
The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?
Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things that escape those who dream only at night.
The ninety and nine are with dreams, content but the hope of the world made new, is the hundredth man who is grimly bent on making those dreams come true.
To vilify a great man is the readiest way in which a little man can himself attain greatness.
I have great faith in fools self-confidence my friends call it.