The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.

My own personality has become a burden to me. I want to escape, to go away, to forget.

What fire does not destroy, it hardens.

Mere color, unspoiled by meaning, and unallied with definite form, can speak to the soul in a thousand different ways.

Women are wonderfully practical," murmured Lord Henry, "much more practical than we are. In situations of that kind we often forget to say anything about marriage, and they always remind us.

It often seems to me that art conceals the artist far more completely than it ever reveals him.

The final mystery is oneself.