People don't very much like things that are beautiful - they are so far from their nasty little minds.

The colour of my soul is iron-grey and sad bats wheel about the steeple of my dreams.

People don't very much like things that are beautiful - they are so far from their nasty little minds.

Composers aren't daring enough. They're afraid of that sacred idol called 'common sense', which is the most dreadful thing I know - after all, it's no more than a religion founded to excuse the ubiquity of imbeciles!

How much has to be explored and discarded before reaching the naked flesh of feeling.

I am more and more convinced that music is not, in essence, a thing which can be cast into a traditional and fixed form. It is made up of colors and rhythms.

On those who overanalyze his music: When you tear the wings off a butterfly, it is no longer a butterfly