The real composer thinks about his work the whole time; he is not always conscious of this, but he is aware of it later when he suddenly knows what he will do.

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.

The more constraints one imposes, the more one frees one's self. And the arbitrariness of the constraint serves only to obtain precision of execution.

Harpists spend 90 percent of their lives tuning their harps and 10 percent playing out of tune.

Silence, which will save from shame, will also deprive me of fame.

I never am sea sick, never. I am sea drunk!

Composers combine notes, that's all.