Time Is A Great Teacher, But Unfortunately

At Least I Have The Modesty To Admit That Lack Of Modesty Is One Of My Failings.

It Is So Rare...to Find A Complete Person, With A Soul, A Heart And An Imagination; So Rare For Characters As Ardent And Restless As Ours To Meet And To Be Matched Together, That I Hardly Know How To Tell You What Happiness It Gives Me To Know You.

Love Cannot Express The Idea Of Music, While Music May Give An Idea Of Love

In My Opinion, The Trombone Is The True Head Of The Family Of Wind Instruments, Which I Have Named The 'epic' One. It Possesses Nobility And Grandeur To The Highest Degree; It Has All The Serious And Powerful Tones Of Sublime Musical Poetry, From Religious, Calm And Imposing Accents To Savage, Orgiastic Outburst. Directed By The Will Of The Master, The Trombones Can Chant Like A Choir Of Priests, Threaten, Utter Gloomy Sighs, A Mournful Lament, Or A Bright Hymn Of Glory; They Can Break Forth Into Awe-inspiring Cries And Awaken The Dead Or Doom The Living With Their Fearful Voices.

It Is Difficult To Put Into Words What I Suffered-the Longing That Seemed To Be Tearing My Heart Out By The Roots, The Dreadful Sense Of Being Alone In An Empty Universe, The Agonies That Thrilled Through Me As If The Blood Were Running Ice-cold Through My Veins, The Disgust With Living, The Impossibility Of Dying. Shakespeare Himself Never Described This Torture; But He Counts It, In Hamlet, Among The Terrible Of All The Evils Of Existence. I Had Stopped Composing; My Mind Seemed To Become Feebler As My Feelings Grew More Intense. I Did Nothing. One Power Was Left To Me-to Suffer.