And With His Arms Crossed

There Is No Reward So Delightful, No Pleasure So Exquisite, As Having One's Work Known And Acclaimed By Those Whose Applause Confers Honor.

There's A Sort Of Decency Among The Dead, A Remarkable Discretion: You Never Find Them Making Any Complaint Against The Doctor Who Killed Them!

How Strange It Is To See With How Much Passion People See Things Only In Their Own Fashion!

There Is No Fate More Distressing For An Artist Than To Have To Show Himself Off Before Fools, To See His Work Exposed To The Criticism Of The Vulgar And Ignorant.

There Is No Praise To Bear The Sort That You Put In Your Pocket.