Music Begins Where Words Are Powerless To

He Was The Incomparable Painter Of Mystery, Silence, And The Infinite, Of The Passing Cloud, And The Sunlit Shimmer Of The Waves-subleties Which None Before Him Had Been Capable Of Suggesting.

I Am More And More Convinced That Music Is Not, In Essence, A Thing Which Can Be Cast Into A Traditional And Fixed Form. It Is Made Up Of Colors And Rhythms.

Music Is The Expression Of The Movement Of The Waters, The Play Of Curves Described By Changing Breezes.

If I Am Not Making Music, I Have No Reason For Existing.

I Wish To Sing Of My Interior Visions With The Naive Candour Of A Child.