A Critic is incapable of writing books himself, and therefore contents himself with condemning those of others.
The Critic is, in America, like American universities. They both have dull and half-dead faculties.
The Critic is he who can translate his impression of beautiful things into another manner or a new material.
The Critic is one involved not in prognosis, but in diagnosis... not therapeutics, but pathology.
A Critic is needed because good artist have such a distinctive style that they cannot see the beauty in, nor appreciate, another artist's work.
A Critic is a true critic who dwells upon the excellencies rather than imperfections, and communicates to the world such things as are worth their observation.
The Critic is like a horse-flie which hinder the horses in their plowing of the soil. The horse works, all its muscles drawn tight like the strings on a double-bass, and a fly settles on his flanks and tickles and buzzes. And what does the fly buzz about' It scarcely knows itself... simply because it is restless and wants to proclaim: 'Look, I too am living on the earth. See, I can buzz, too, buzz about anything'.
The Critic is like the insect which stings not from malice but because they want to live. They desire blood not pain.