In opera, there is always too much singing.
If I am not making music, I have no reason for existing.
Works of art make rules but rules do not make works of art.
The colour of my soul is iron-grey and sad bats wheel about the steeple of my dreams.
Do not allow the accents in the brass to produce space between the notes.
Music begins where words are powerless to express. Music is made for the inexpressible. I want music to seem to rise from the shadows and indeed sometimes to return to them.