The best technique is none at all.

The essential thing is to WANT to sing. This then is a song. I am singing.

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.

New York has a trip-hammer vitality which drives you insane with restlessness if you have no inner stabilizer.

Perhaps I have not lined his portrait too clearly. But if he exists, if only for the reason that I have imagined him to be. He came from the blue and returns to the blue. He has not perished, he is not lost. Neither will he be forgotten.

Art teaches nothing, except the significance of life.

Imagination is the voice of daring. If there is anything Godlike about God it is that. He dared to imagine everything.