I have to confess that I have so rarely experienced triumph that I cannot claim to know it well enough to judge, but it seems to be at best a momentary joy followed instantly by sadness, and, then, of necessity, by wariness.

Because there were all kinds of hell - some were black and dirty, and some were silvery and high.

He felt as if he were paying for the privilege of music with portions of his life and body. But it was well worth it.

He could say nothing. He had no right to be there, he had already been profoundly changed, he was no good at small talk, she was half naked, it was dawn and he loved her.

In daily life language is important, if not in itself, then as a symptom.

Justice can sleep for years and awaken when it is least expected. A miracle is nothing more than dormant justice from another time arriving to compensate those it has cruelly abandoned. Whoever knows this is willing to suffer, for he knows that nothing is in vain.

If it weren't for music, I would think that love is mortal.