Even in a personal sense, after all, art is an intensified life. By art one is more deeply satisfied and more rapidly used up. It engraves on the countenance of its servant the traces of imaginary and intellectual adventures, and even if he has outwardly existed in cloistral tranquility, it leads in the long term to overfastidiousness, over-refinement, nervous fatigue and overstimulation, such as can seldom result from a life of the most extravagant passions and pleasures.
[Anne, commenting on city life] "I think I would probably come to the conclusion that I'd like it for a while. . . but in the end, I'd still prefer the sound of the wind in the firs across the brook more than the tinkling of crystal.