Arguably, no artist grows up: If he sheds the perceptions of childhood, he ceases being an artist.
There are no fascinating people, only their works are fascinating.
If music could be translated into human speech, it would no longer need to exist.
Nothing is a waste that makes a memory.
Intelligence is silence, truth is being invisible. But what a racket I make in declaring this.
The same piece of music alters at each hearing. But oh, the need to repeat and repeat and repeat unchanged the sexual experience.