The taste of death is upon my lips. I feel something that is not of this earth.

The music is not in the notes, but in the silence between.

Creativity is the firing of my soul.

To my eyes and ears the organ will ever be the King of Instruments.

Our riches, being in our brains, die with us... Unless of course someone chops off our head, in which case, we won't need them anyway.

I must give you a piece of intelligence that you perhaps already know, namely that the ungodly arch-villain Voltaire has died miserably like a dog, just like a brute. That is his reward!

To win applause one must write stuff so simple that a coachman might sing it.