I Wish To Sing Of My Interior

Anyone Who Calls My Music "impressionist" Is An Imbecile.

The Sound Of The Sea, The Curve Of A Horizon, Wind In Leaves, The Cry Of A Bird Leave Manifold Impression In Us. And Suddenly, Without Our Wishing It At All, One Of These Memories Spills From Us And Finds Expression In Musical Language...i Want To Sing My Interior Landscape With The Simple Artlessness Of A Child.

The Attraction Of The Virtuoso For The Public Is Very Like That Of The Circus For The Crowd. There Is Always The Hope That Something Dangerous May Happen.

Beauty Seems To Strike Some People As A Personal Affront.

There Is No Theory. You Merely Have To Listen. Pleasure Is The Law.