I'm still working on reading through The Memorials of Edward Burne-Jones. What a great book that is! I have to share a selection of wonderful quotes from it about Ned.
"Unmothered, with a sad papa, without sister or brother, always alone, I was never unhappy, because I was always drawing. And when I think of what made the essence of a picture to me in those days it's wonderful how little I have stirred. I couldn't draw people, of course, but I never failed to draw mountains at the back of everything just as I do now, though I'd never seen one." pg 8
But also it was with Edward then, as it continued to be throughout his life, that between work and work he felt as actual a necessity for 'fun' as he did for food and air. I can find no other word to describe a characteristic of him which will be recognized by every one who knew him. Gentle and lambent at times, wild enough and noisy at others, whimsical in words, ominous in silence whilst some swiftly-conceived Puck-like scheme of mischief took shape, carrying all things before it, compelling the least likely to join in it, always ending in the laugh that we remember, the cloud-scattering laugh! pg 19
Edward all through his life made little account of dates or ages: a friend was a friend, whether in the nursery or on crutches. pg 37
This habit [constantly drawing] continued as long as he lived; he must have covered reams of paper with drawings that came as easily to him as his breath. At every friend's house there are some of them. They filled up moments of waiting, moments of silence, or uncomfortable moments, bringing every one together again in wonder at the swiftness of their creation, and laughter at their endless fun. -pg 38
Then there were quiet times when Edward and Morris were alone and communed with each other in their own world of imagination. About this world which never failed him Edward once said, "Of course imagining doesn't end with my work: I go on always in that strange land that is more true than real." --pg116
When shall we learn to read a picture as we do a poem, to find some story from it, some little atom of human interest that may feed our hearts withal, lest the outer influences of the day crush them from good thoughts? When will men look for these things and the artist satisfy them? ... An artist should be no faint echo of other men's thoughts, but a voice concurrent or prophetical, full of meaning. pg 124