How little inventiveness there is in man, Grave copier of copies, I give thanks For a new relish, careless to inquire My pleasure's pedigree, if so it please, Nobly, I mean, nor renegade to art. The Grecian gluts me with its perfectness, Unanswerable as Euclid, self-contained, The one thing finished in this hasty world, Forever finished, though the barbarous pit, Fanatical on hearsay, stamp and shout As if a miracle could be encored.

Ye come and go incessant; we remain Safe in the hallowed quiets of the past; Be reverent, ye who flit and are forgot, Of faith so nobly realized as this.

The wisest man could ask no more of Fate Than to be simple, modest, manly, true, Safe from the Many-honored by the Few; To count as naught in World or Church o…

Though old the thought and oft expressed, 'Tis his at last who says it best.

If modern painters feel qualms about applying the term 'masterpiece' to describe a work of capital importance, this is because it has come to convey a notion o…

You raved and you bitched when you came home about the stupidity of audiences. The goddam 'unskilled laughter' coming from the fifth row. And that's right, tha…

An original artist is unable to copy. So he has only to copy in order to be original.