I can wait as an insect can wait. I am somebody who is waiting. All my life. This is very important. To wait and to know how to wait, and not be bored with waiting.
I was not meant to be an athlete. I was meant to be a composer, and will be I’m sure. I’ll ask you one more thing.—Don’t ask me to try to forget this thing and go play football.—Please—Sometimes I’ve been worrying about this so much that it makes me mad (not very).
It is the total artistic statement that is of paramount importance, not the working process; it is what the music truly is, not what it is not or would like to be, that is of genuine value.” With the passage of time, all that really counts is the final musical result. To the committed composer, all other matters are peripheral.
The fabric of existence weaves itself whole. You cannot set art off in the corner and hope for it to have vitality, reality, and substance. There can be nothing exclusive about a substantial art. It comes directly out of the heart of experience of life and thinking about life and living life.
Mon âme vers ton front où rêve, ô calme soeur, Un automne jonché de taches de rousseur, Et vers le ciel errant de ton oeil angélique, Monte, comme dans un jardin mélancolique, Fidèle, un blanc jet d’eau soupire vers l’Azur! - Vers l’Azur attendri d’octobre pâle et pur Qui mire aux grands bassins sa langueur infinie, Et laisse sur l’eau morte où la fauve agonie Des feuilles erre au vent et creuse un froid sillon, Se traîner le soleil jaune d’un long rayon.
