The journey home to God is what life is about. In a sense it's not even a journey. It's an ongoing experience.
There is no expedient to which a man will not resort to avoid the real labor of thinking.
It is but a poor eloquence which only shows that the orator can talk.
Genius is supposed to be a power of producing excellences which are put of the reach of the rules of art: a power which no precepts can teach, and which no industry can acquire.
Simplicity is an exact mediumbetween too little and too much.
Style in painting is the same as in writing; a power over materials, whether words or colors, by which conceptions or sentiments are conveyed.
Every art, like our own, has in its composition fluctuating as well as fixed principles. It is an attentive inquiry into their difference that will enable us to determine how far we are influenced by custom and habit, and what is fixed in the nature of things.
Our lives are but specks of dust falling through the fingers of time. Like sands of the hourglass, so are the days of our lives.
I just did a spread in 'Maxim', I'm 35 years old. I've had women and parents email me asking if I should really be doing that, since I'm still considered a role model.
Where is human nature so weak as in the bookstore?
See that unfortunate soldier who is falling hurt to death ("tombe blessé à. . . ", Fr. ) on the battlefield; he learns that his folks have vanquished and dies happy. He detached himself from himself (s'est détacher de lui-même", Fr. ), has identified himself with something greater and more lasting than himself; his homeland ("patrie", Fr. ); thus, while dying as an individual, he has the certainty to survive in a larger existence.