Life Is The Space Between Our Things.

On Those Who Overanalyze His Music: When You Tear The Wings Off A Butterfly, It Is No Longer A Butterfly

Is It Not Our Duty To Find The Symphonic Formula Which Fits Our Time, One Which Progress, Daring And Modern Victory Demand? The Century Of Airplanes Has A Right To Its Own Music.

The Colour Of My Soul Is Iron-grey And Sad Bats Wheel About The Steeple Of My Dreams.

Do Not Allow The Accents In The Brass To Produce Space Between The Notes.

I Have A Horror Of Sentimentality, And I Cannot Forget That Its Name Is Saint-saëns.