Minor artists borrow, great ones steal.
Perfection is no more a requisite to art than to heroes. Frigidaires are perfect. Beauty limps. My frigidaire has had to be replaced.
Love is a mystery which, when solved, evaporates. The same holds for music.
Intelligence is silence, truth is being invisible. But what a racket I make in declaring this.
Quarrels in France strengthen a love affair, in America they end it.
If music could be translated into human speech, it would no longer need to exist.