An artist is an artist only because of his exquisite sense of beauty a sense which shows him intoxicating pleasures but which at the same time implies and contains an equally exquisite sense of all deformities and all disproportion.
Beauty is the disinterested one without which the ancient world refused to understand itself a word which both imperceptibly and yet unmistakably has bid farewell to our new world a world of interests leaving it to its own avarice and sadness.
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San Francisco is a mad city – inhabited for the most part by perfectly insane people whose women are of a remarkable beauty.
