Yours?
why, what can you really call your own?
Every talent you have, every breath you draw, every drop of blood flowing in your veins, is lent to you only; you must pay it all back.

And as far as the arts go, it is a bad sign of poet, painter, or musician, who is arrogant enough to call his work his own.

It never was his, and never will be.

It is planned by a higher intelligence than his, only he happens to be the hired labourer chosen to carry out the conception; a sort of mechanic in whom boastfulness looks absurd; as absurd as if one of the stonemasons working at the cornice of a cathedral were to vaunt himself as the designer of the whole edifice.

And when a work, any work, is completed, it passes out of the labourer's hands; it belongs to the age and the people for whom it was accomplished, and, if deserving, goes on belonging to future ages and future peoples.