What is Art? It is the response of man's creative soul to the call of the Real.

The first flower that blossomed on this earth was an invitation to an unborn song.

I have spent many days stringing and unstringing my instrument while the song I came to sing remains unsung.

I am restless. I am athirst for faraway things. My soul goes out in a longing to touch the skirt of the dim distance. O Great Beyond, O the keen call of thy flute! I forget, I ever forget, that I have no wings to fly, that I am bound in this spot evermore.

My Friend: Art thou abroad on this stormy night on thy journey of love, my friend? The sky groans like one in despair. I have no sleep tonight. Ever and again I open my door and look out on the darkness, my friend! I can see nothing before me. I wonder where lies thy path! By what dim shore of the ink-black river, by what far edge of the frowning forest, through what mazy depth of gloom art thou threading thy course to come to me, my friend?

Man is immortal; therefore he must die endlessly. For life is a creative idea; it can only find itself in changing forms

The music of the far-away summer flutters around the Autumn seeking its former nest.