Perhaps all music, even the newest, is not so much something discovered as something that re-emerges from where it lay buried in the memory, inaudible as a melody cut in a disc of flesh. A composer lets me hear a song that has always been shut up silent within me.

There is a close relationship between flowers and convicts. The fragility and delicacy of the former are of the same nature as the brutal insensitivity of the latter.

Violence is a calm that disturbs you.

What we need is hatred. From it our ideas are born.

One can hear all that's going on in the street. Which means that from the street one can hear what's going on in this house.

First of all, don't mix your hairpins up with mine! You .... Oh! All right, mix your muck with mine. Mix it! Mix your rags with my tatters! Mix it all up.

Would Hamlet have felt the delicious fascination of suicide if he hadn't had an audience, and lines to speak?