My imagination can picture no fairer happiness than to continue living for art.

Treasures are no longer to be got by instrumental art.

Is an artist much more than a beggar?

There is nothing greater than the joy of composing something oneself and then listening to it.

I wish to lead a life free from care, and I see that I shall be unhappy if I cannot always work at my art.

Why hurry over beautiful things? Why not linger and enjoy them?