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.

But music, don't you know, is a dream from which the veils have been lifted. It's not even the expression of a feeling, it's the feeling itself.

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

If I am not making music, I have no reason for existing.

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

Anyone who calls my music "impressionist" is an imbecile.

Extreme complication is contrary to art.