Do you not see with your own eyes the chrysalis fact assume by degrees the wings of fiction?

Do you know that charming part of our country which has been called the garden of France - that spot where, amid verdant plains watered by wide streams, one inhales the purest air of heaven?

The study of social progress is today not less needed in literature than is the analysis of the human heart.

But it is the province of religion, of philosophy, of pure poetry only, to go beyond life, beyond time, into eternity.

Of what use is the memory of facts, if not to serve as an example of good or of evil?

France, for example, loves at the same time history and the drama, because the one explores the vast destinies of humanity, and the other the individual lot of man.

We live in an age of universal investigation, and of exploration of the sources of all movements.

Of what use were the arts if they were only the reproduction and the imitation of life?

What is the use of theorizing as to wherein lies the charm that moves us?

No writer, no matter how gifted, immortalizes himself unless he has crystallized into expressive and original phrase the eternal sentiments and yearnings of the human heart.

Just as we descend into our consciences to judge of actions which our minds can not weigh, can we not also search in ourselves for the feeling which gives birth to forms of thought, always vague and cloudy?

Art ought never to be considered except in its relations with its ideal beauty.

From this, without doubt, sprang the fable. Man created it thus, because it was not given him to see more than himself and nature, which surrounds him; but he created it true with a truth all its own.

I think, then, that man, after having satisfied his first longing for facts, wanted something fuller - some grouping, some adaptation to his capacity and experience, of the links of this vast chain of events which his sight could not take in.

Do you not see with your own eyes the chrysalis fact assume by degrees the wings of fiction?

One might almost reckon mathematically that, having undergone the double composition of public opinion and of the author, their history reaches us at third hand and is thus separated by two stages from the original fact.

What it values most of all is the sum total of events and the advance of civilization, which carries individuals along with it; but, indifferent to details, it cares less to have them real than noble or, rather, grand and complete.

On the day when man told the story of his life to man, history was born.

The human mind, I believe, cares for the True only in the general character of an epoch.

The acts of the human race on the world's stage have doubtless a coherent unity, but the meaning of the vast tragedy enacted will be visible only to the eye of God, until the end, which will reveal it perhaps to the last man.

Of late years (perhaps as a result of our political changes) art has borrowed from history more than ever.

We shall find in our troubled hearts, where discord reigns, two needs which seem at variance, but which merge, as I think, in a common source - the love of the true, and the love of the fabulous.

An army is a nation within a nation, it is one of the vices of courage.

We live in an age of universal investigation and of exploration of the sources of all movements.

History is a novel for which the people is the author.

In this watering-place I acted an heroic character, badly studied; and being a novice on such a stage, I forgot my part before a pair of lovely blue eyes.

I hate failure and that divorce was a Number One failure in my eyes. It was the worst period of my life. Neither Desi nor I have been the same since, physically or mentally.

Terrorism, ladies and gentlemen, in my eyes I have a very, very, very simple explanation. Gangs of criminals, killers, used unfortunately by certain governments in the past for political purposes, who are on their own now as gangs.

When I read a book I seem to read it with my eyes only, but now and then I come across a passage, perhaps only a phrase, which has a meaning for me, and it becomes part of me.

Love is seeing without eyes, hearing without ears; hatred is nothing.

A time will come when men will stretch out their eyes. They should see planets like our Earth.

I keep my eyes clear and I hit 'em where they ain't.

They're just big in the eyes of the American public.

My greatest challenge has been to change the mindset of people. Mindsets play strange tricks on us. We see things the way our minds have instructed our eyes to see.

For once you have tasted flight you will walk the earth with your eyes turned skywards, for there you have been and there you will long to return.

Young man, if God had wanted you to see me that way, he would have put your eyes in your bellybutton.

He that has eyes to see and ears to hear may convince himself that no mortal can keep a secret. If his lips are silent, he chatters with his fingertips; betrayal oozes out of him at every pore.

The decision to go to war is the most important decision that I can make as a representative in Congress. As a veteran, I see any potential military action first through the eyes of the young men and women who volunteered to wear the uniform and would carry out such a mission.

If we can but tear the blindfold of self-deception from our eyes and loosen the gag of self-denial from our voices, we can restore our country to greatness.

Model. Two mobile eyes in a mobile head, itself on a mobile body.

The reader becomes God, for all textual purposes. I see your eyes glazing over, so I'll hush.

Love is the opener as well as closer of eyes.

You can close your eyes to reality but not to memories.

A lot of the stuff that I do with Betty is in the eyes. A lot of the feelings that I evoke with her are unspoken, so that's been fun to play with.

Thou has a thousand eyes and yet not one eye; Thou host a thousand forms and yet not one form.

Weak eyes are fondest of glittering objects.

In these times you have to be an optimist to open your eyes when you awake in the morning.

A woman is more beautiful than the world in which I live; and so I close my eyes.

This tragic brow, these closed eyes, eyebrows raised and knotted.