One of my timesaving habits is to save all of my magazines and junk mail for airplane trips. I walk on the plane with a very heavy bundle, but by the time the trip is over, it can all be thrown away.

Being steeped in the process of learning and exploring keeps me from becoming too nervous. Partly it's about not getting bored.

Perfection often creates such a flawless surface that there's no place for the audience to enter into a piece, while the idiosyncrasies of individual style are like windows into the singer's heart.

I haven't really been able to transfer into that extraordinarily other worldly creature, other than I hope on stage.

The more you put into it, the more you and the audience will get out of it.

I was constantly being pushed toward a European ideal of what it means to be a classical or opera singer, let's say in the Renata Tebaldi mode. I reject that.

In a way, being an opera singer is like being a very romantic sixteen-year-old who falls in love with great passion and conviction every month.