Only a world without love strikes me as instantly and decisively more terrible than one without music.

We should be wrong to demand that a critic must stay on the point all the time; it is enough if he remains in orbit around it.

More always means worse.

I'll pour you the first one and after that, if you don't have one, it's your own f****** fault. You know where it is.

The ideal of brotherhood of man, the building of the Just City, is one that cannot be discarded without lifelong feelings of disappointment and loss. But, if we are to live in the real world, discard it we must.

When that ineffable compound of depression, sadness (these two are not the same), anxiety, self-hatred, sense of failure and fear for the future begins to steal over you, start telling yourself that what you have is a hangover. You are not sickening for anything, you have not suffered a minor brain lesion, you are not all that bad at your job, your family and friends are not leagued in a conspiracy of barely maintained silence about what a s**t you are, you have not come at last to see life as it really is and there is no use crying over spilt milk.

Doing what you wanted to do was the only training, and the only preliminary, needed for doing more of what you wanted to do.