If music could be translated into human speech, it would no longer need to exist.

If asked to list my ten favorite American fiction writers, Gail Godwin would be among them. In this, her latest . . . she evokes in a short book the long married life of two artists. Evenings at Five is a strong tale of love-after-death.

The same piece of music alters at each hearing. But oh, the need to repeat and repeat and repeat unchanged the sexual experience.

Intelligence is silence, truth is being invisible. But what a racket I make in declaring this.

If a composer could state in words what being a composer means, he would no longer need to be a composer.

Anyone can be gay - it's no accomplishment - but only I can be me.

Music is the sole art which evokes nostalgia for the future.