Venice appeared to me as in a recurring dream, a place once visited and now fixed in memory like images on a photographer’s plates so that my return was akin to turning the leaves of...

To say “He was a young fool, and now he’s an old fool” is to make a distinction without a difference.

The philosophers write about things as they are and as they appear to be, but as an artist I find that appearance is everything.

Thank heaven for people who are satisfied with facts that conform to the reality they wish to believe.

The great city seemed to weigh upon me, as though it were crushing me under its heap of brick and stone. Gray, drizzly skies, congested streets, the soot-belching boats and barges chugging up and down...