In memory everything seems to happen to music.

Things have a way of turning out so badly.

Nobody knew my rose of the world but me... I had too much glory. They don't want glory like that in nobody's heart

Success and failure are equally disastrous.

In all these years, you never believed I loved you. And I did. I did so much. I did love you. I even loved your hate and your hardness.

The cities swept about me like dead leaves, leaves that were brightly colored but torn away from the branches. I would have stopped, but I was pursued by something. It always came upon me unawares, taking me altogether by surprise. Perhaps it was a familiar bit of music. Perhaps it was only a piece of transparent glass.

It is, perhaps more than anything else, the arrest of time which has taken place in a completed work of art that gives certain plays their feeling of depth and significance.