Sins cannot be undone, only forgiven.

Is it not by love alone that we succeed in penetrating to the very essence of being?

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.

There is music wherever there is rhythm, as there is life wherever there beats a pulse.

Lesser artists borrow, great artists steal.

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.

Mediocrity borrows, genius steals.