I am quite alone. I am neither happy nor unhappy; I lie suspended like a hair or a feather in the cloudy mixtures of memory.

Music was invented to confirm human loneliness.

A critic is a lug-worm in the liver of literature.

Of women, the most we can say, not being Frenchmen, is that they are burrowing animals.

For us artists there waits the joyous compromise through art with all that wounded or defeated us in daily life; in this way, not to evade destiny, as the ordinary people try to do, but to fulfil it in its true potential - the imagination.

They flower spontaneously out of the demands of our natures - and the best of them lead us not only outward in space, but inward as well.

Music is only love looking for words.