Nothing More Than Nothing Can Be Said.

What Is The Purpose Of Writing Music? One Is, Of Course, Not Dealing With Purposes But Dealing With Sounds. Or The Answer Must Take The Form Of A Paradox: A Purposeful Purposeless Or A Purposeless Play. This Play, However, Is An Affirmation Of Life--not An Attempt To Bring Order Out Of Chaos Nor To Suggest Improvements In Creation, But Simply A Way Of Waking Up To The Very Life We’re Living, Which Is So Excellent Once One Gets One’s Mind And One’s Desires Out Of Its Way And Lets It Act Of Its Own Accord.

People Paying Attention To Vibratory Activity, Not In Reaction To A Fixed Ideal Performance, But Each Time Attentively To How It Happens To Be This Time, Not Necessarily Two Times The Same. A Music That Transports The Listener To The Moment Where He Is.

I Never Had A Hat, Never Wore One, But Recently Was Given A Brown Suede Duck-hunting Hat. The Moment I Put It On I Realized I Was Starved For A Hat. I Kept It Warm By Putting It On My Head. I Made Plans To Wear It Especially When I Was Going To Do Any Thinking. Somewhere In Virginia, I Lost My Hat.

It Is Not Futile To Do What We Do. We Wake Up With Energy And We Do Something. And We Make, Of Course, Failures And We Make Mistakes, But We Sometimes Get Glimpses Of What We Might Do Next.

A Sound Does Not View Itself As Thought, As Ought, As Needing Another Sound For Its Elucidation, As Etc.; It Has Not Time For Any Consideration--it Is Occupied With The Performance Of Its Characteristics: Before It Has Died Away It Must Have Made Perfectly Exact Its Frequency, Its Loudness, Its Length, Its Overtone Structure, The Precise Morphology Of These And Of Itself.