The sound of the sea, the curve of a horizon, wind in leaves, the cry of a bird leave manifold impression in us. And suddenly, without our wishing it at all, one of these memories spills from us and finds expression in musical language...I want to sing my interior landscape with the simple artlessness of a child.

Beauty seems to strike some people as a personal affront.

Music is the space between the notes.

The trouble with the opera is there's always to much singing.

Music is the arithmetic of sounds as optics is the geometry of light.

Listen to no one's advice except that of the wind in the trees. That can recount the whole history of mankind.

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.