All my Calvaries were rosy crucifixions, pseudo-tragedies to keep the fires of hell burning brightly for the real sinners who are in danger of being forgotten.

Music is the can-opener of the soul.

The worst sin that can be committed against the artist is to take him at his word, to see in his work a fulfillment instead of an horizon.

All my good reading, you might say, was done in the toilet.

What are our conductors giving us year after year? Only fresh corpses. Over these beautifully embalmed sonatas, toccatas, symphonies and operas the public dance the jitterbug. Night and day without let the radio drowns us in a hog-wash of the most nauseating, sentimental ditties. From the churches comes the melancholy dirge of the dead Christ, a music which is no more sacred than a rotten turnip.

Every day the choice is presented to us, to live up to the spirit that is in us, or deny it.

I want to undress you, vulgarize you a bit.