In painting as in prose, a good eye is not enough to tell you whether what you see is real or fake.

Translating is a respectable, valuable, creative and worthwhile use of a human brain.

The surge of his ardour swept through him in climatic release, filling her womb with his final, mortal sowing.

It's never over. You don't want to be in the position to be down four runs in the ninth inning, but it's not over until the last out.

Let fire and the cross; let the crowds of wild beasts; let tearings ... let shatterings of the whole body; and let all the evil torments of the devil come upon me: only let me attain to Jesus Christ.

Impious! forbear thus the first general hail. To disappoint, Increase and multiply, To shed thy blossoms thro' the desert air, And sow thy perish'd offspring in the winds.

Were she better or you sicker, then the stars would not be so terribly crossed, but it is the nature of the stars to cross.

A face painted in a picture gives a pitiful parody of life. . . but a painted surface lives.

See, you're out your mind tryin' to face tha God. Your rhyme is like an empty prison...a waste of bars.

In the theater, everything is ephemeral. Everything is almost weightless and without a very clear definition of how you made it.

I mean, Scorsese's a genius, and that's one way of shooting.

He knelt and bent lower, till her breath warmed his face, and in a moment his cheek was in contact with hers. She was sleeping soundly, and upon her eyelashes there lingered tears.