Perhaps the least cheering statement ever made on the subject of art is that life imitates it.

Life imitates art far more than art imitates Life.

Making art, any art, you are in some way trying to imitate life, and the ways in which that succeeds or fails is fascinating to me…

Paradoxically though it may seem, it is none the less true that life imitates art far more than art imitates life.

Like a groupie incognito posing as a real singer, life imitates art.

Paradox though it may seem - and paradoxes are always dangerous things - it is none the less true that Life imitates art far more than Art imitates life.

All art is but imitation of nature.

We strive all the time to give our life its form, but we do so by copying willy-nilly, like a drawing, the features of the person that we are and not of the person we should like to be.

To imitate nature involves the verb to do. To copy is merely to reflect something already there, inertly: Shakespeare's mirror is all that is needed for it. But by imitation we enlarge nature itself, we become nature or we discover in ourselves nature's active part.

Art imitates nature not in its effects as such, but in its causes, in its ‘manner,’ in its process, which are nothing but a participation in and a derivation of actual objects, of the Art of God himself.

Life does imitate art many times, and people pick up from the movies. Messages are sent that way. I’d like to see more and more women collaborate on films in which they show great, deep devotion and friendship. It’s important.

The purblind majority quite honestly believed that literature was meant to mimic human life, and that it did so. And in consequence, their love-affairs, their maxims, their so-called natural ties and instincts, and above all, their wickedness, became just so many bungling plagiarisms from something they had read, in a novel or a Bible or a poem or a newspaper. People progressed from the kindergarten to the cemetery assuming that their emotion at every crisis was what books taught them was the appropriate emotion, and without noticing that it was in reality something quite different. Human life was a distorting tarnished mirror held up to literature: this much at least of Wilde's old paradox — that life mimicked art — was indisputable. Human life, very clumsily, tried to reproduce the printed word.

The painter who draws merely by practice and by eye, without any reason, is like a mirror which copies every thing placed in front of it without being conscious of their existence.

Man is simply playing by nature's rules,and art is man's attempt to imitate the beauty of the Creator's hand