Artists strive for perfection. But what they often fail to see is that the beauty, the humanity, lies within the flaws.
My faith gives me the ability to say, whatever is next, I’m ready. If it is Hillary or Trump I am ready because they might sit on the desk but they do not sit on the throne.
Music embodies feeling without forcing it to contend and combine with thought, as it is forced in most arts and especially in the art of words.
I have an idea that the only thing which makes it possible to regard this world we live in without disgust is the beauty which now and then men create out of the chaos. The pictures they paint, the music they compose, the books they write, and the lives they lead. Of all these the richest in beauty is the beautiful life. That is the perfect work of art.
Most people die with their music still locked up inside them.
How does one say in the jargon of musicology that my sould was pulled out of me and thrown up in the air, to be tossed about by the music. How does one say that I breathed, that I existed, in harmony with the ups and downs of those notes. What kind of notes both elevate and cast down, exalt and crush?
The smoke detectors began to ring; for they were battery-powered and thus still functioned, just as a record can still be played after the death of every member of the orchestra.
When energy turns in-what Buddha calls paravritti, the coming back of your energy to the source-suddenly clarity is attained. Then you can see clouds a thousand miles away, and then you can hear ancient music in the pines.
What would life be like without Music and Art? Dull, quiet, and sad.
Inside, upstairs, where the planes are met, the spaces are long and low and lined in tasteful felt gray like that cocky stewardess’s cap and filled with the kind of music you become aware of only when the elevator stops or when the dentist stops drilling. Plucked strings, no vocals, music that’s used to being ignored, a kind of carpet in the air, to cover up a silence that might remind you of death.