“So far as female beauty is concerned, the Circassian women have no superiors. They have preserved in their mountain home the purity of the Grecian models, and still display the perfect physical loveliness, whose type has descended to us in the Venus de Medici.”

By wisdom wealth is won; but riches purchased wisdom yet for none.

But still I dream that somewhere there must be The spirit of a child that waits for me.

In the glory which overhangs Palestine afar off, we imagine emotions which never come, when we tread the soil and walk over the hallowed sites.

I love thee, I love but thee, With a love that shall not die.

The knowledge of my sin Is half-repentance.

The clouds are scudding across the moon, A misty light is on the sea; The wind in the shrouds has a wintry tune, And the foam is flying free.

Sometimes an hour of Fate’s serenest weather Strikes through our changeful sky its coming beams; Somewhere above us, in elusive ether, Waits the fulfilment of our dearest dreams.

Death is not rare, alas! nor burials few, And soon the grassy coverlet of God Spreads equal green above their ashes pale.

The stream from Wisdom’s well, Which God supplies, is inexhaustible.

Love is better than Fame.

Sweeter than the stolen kiss Are the granted kisses

From the desert I come to thee, On a stallion shod with fire; And the winds are left behind In the speed of my desire.

Peace the offspring is of Power.

The bravest are the most tender; the loving are the daring.

The Poet’s leaves are gathered one by one, In the slow process of the doubtful years.

To learn by observation is traveling, people must also bring knowledge with them.

I hope I have made it clear that the work is about perfection as we are aware of it in our minds but that the paintings are very far from being perfect – completely removed in fact – even as we ourselves are.

Beauty and happiness and life are all the same and they are pervasive, unattached and abstract and they are our only concern.

I often paint tranquility. If you stop thinking and rest, then a little happiness comes into your mind. At perfect rest you are comfortable.

They are immeasurable, completely lacking in substance. They are perfect and sublime. This is the subject matter of art.

I acknowledge that we are all human and are on a journey. We are not born perfect, mistakes are inevitable.

The sight or sound of perfect things causes a certain suffering.

Maybe I could be Supergirl on Broadway! That would be perfect.

I cannot imagine a more perfect guide to such a rich trove of ancient and modern memories. Illuminating, erudite, entertaining, and evocative.