Only the very greatest art invigorates without consoling.

It is not simply that suppression of self is required before accurate vision can be obtained. The great artist sees his objects (and this is true whether they are sad, absurd, repulsive or even evil) in a light of justice and mercy. The direction of attention is, contrary to nature, outward, away from self which reduces all to a false unity, towards the great surprising variety of the world, and the ability so to direct attention is love.

The painter copies this bed from one point of view. He is thus at three removes from reality. He does not understand the bed, he does not measure it, he could not make it.

Do you think she'll change?""Hope nothing.""Is there a cure?""Only art. Or more love.""I should die of more love.

Εγώ δεν μπορώ να καταλάβω πως είναι δυνατό να είναι κανείς καλλιτέχνης και να μην προσπαθεί συνεχώς να γίνει τέλειος.

That art gives charm to terrible things is perhaps its glory, perhaps its curse. Art is a doom.

You're such an agonizer, Bradley. You romanticize art. You're a masochist about it, you want to suffer, you want to feel that your inability to create is continuously significant.

Give yourself to these great works of art. They suffice for a lifetime.

Art is not cosy and it is not mocked. Art tells the only truth that ultimately matters. It is the light by which human things can be mended. And after art there is, let me assure you all, nothing.