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

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

Minor artists borrow, great ones steal.

Love is a mystery which, when solved, evaporates. The same holds for music.

The Great don't innovate, they fertilize seeds planted by lackeys, they leave to others the inhaling of the flowers whose roots they've manured. A deceptive memory may be the key to their originality.

Sooner or later you've heard all your best friends have to say. Then comes the tolerance of real love.

Inspiration could be called inhaling the memory of an act never experienced.