An artist is like a pig snouting truffles.
Mediocrity borrows, genius steals.
I never understood the need for a "live" audience. My music, because of its extreme quietude, would be happiest with a dead one.
Hurry? I have no time to hurry.
Money may kindle, but it cannot by itself, and for very long, burn.
I had another dream the other day about music critics. They were small and rodent-like with padlocked ears, as if they had stepped out of a painting by Goya.