Art Honors One's Innermost Self

   It is the secretion of one’s innermost life, written in solitude and for oneself alone, that one gives to the public. What one bestows on private life. . . is the product of a quite superficial self, not of the innermost self which one can only recover by putting aside the world and the self that frequents the world; that innermost self which has waited while one was in company, which one feels certain is the only real self, and which artists — and they only — end by living for, like a god whom they less and less often depart from, and to whom they have sacrificed a life that has no purpose except to do him honour.