You can sit there, tense and worried, freezing the creative energies, or you can start writing something. It doesn't matter what. In five or ten minutes, the imagination will heat, the tightness will fade, and a certain spirit and rhythm will take over.

It is hard to think of another composer who so perfectly marries form and passion.

I've been all over the world and I've never seen a statue of a critic.

Music, of all the arts, stands in a special region, unlit by any star but its own, and utterly without meaning ... except its own.

Our most emotionally active life is lived in our dreams, and our cells renew themselves most industriously in sleep. We reach highest in meditation, and farthest in prayer. In stillness every human being is great; he is free from the experience of hostility; he is a poet, and most like an angel.

Einstein said that "the most beautiful experience we can have is the mysterious." So why do so many of us try to explain the beauty of music, thus depriving it of its mystery?

I'm no longer quite sure what the question is, but I do know that the answer is Yes.