Music makes me forget myself, my true condition, it carries me off into another state of being, one that isn't my own.

People of limited intelligence are fond of talking about "these days," imagining that they have discovered and appraised the peculiarities of "these days" and that human nature changes with the times.

Smiling with pleasure, they went through their memories, not sad, old people's memories, but poetic, youthful ones, those impressions from the very distant past where dream merges with reality, and they laughed softly, rejoicing at something.

To sin is a human business, to justify sins is a devilish business.

Art should cause violence to be set aside and it is only art that can accomplish this.

From the child of five to myself is but a step. But from the newborn baby to the child of five is an appalling distance.

Am I mad, to see what others do not see, or are they mad who are responsible for all that I am seeing?