The hardest of all the arts to speak of is music, because music has no meaning to speak of

Perfection is no more a requisite to art than to heroes. Frigidaires are perfect. Beauty limps. My frigidaire has had to be replaced.

The beautiful are shyer than the ugly, for they move in a world that does not ask for beauty.

An artist doesn't necessarily have deeper feelings than other people, but he can express these feelings. He is like everyone else-only more so! He speaks with a Formal Sigh.

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

Why, after all, must everyone like music? That they are missing something is just the lover's opinion.

Quarrels in France strengthen a love affair, in America they end it.