The true work of art is but a shadow of the divine perfection.

Trifles make perfection, and perfection is no trifle.

I am a poor man and of little worth, who is laboring in that art that God has given me in order to extend my life as long as possible.

If in my youth I had realized that the sustaining splendour of beauty of with which I was in love would one day flood back into my heart, there to ignite a flame that would torture me without end, how gladly would I have put out the light in my eyes.

Every beauty which is seen here by persons of perception resembles more than anything else that celestial source from which we all are come.