Art Stands On The Shoulders Of Craft,

He Believed That Life, True Life, Was Something That Was Stored In Music. True Life Was Kept Safe In The Lines Of Tchaikovsky's Eugene Onegin While You Went Out In The World And Met The Obligations Required Of You. Certainly He Knew (though Did Not Completely Understand) That Opera Wasn't For Everyone, But For Everyone He Hoped There Was Something. The Records He Cherished, The Rare Opportunities To See A Live Performance, Those Were The Marks By Which He Gauged His Ability To Love.

I Am Not Mature Enough As A Reader To Enjoy A Book In Which I Hate All The People.

Never Be So Focused On What You're Looking For That You Overlook The Thing You Actually Find.

Hope Is A Horrible Thing, You Know. I Don't Know Who Decided To Package Hope As A Virtue Because It's Not. It's A Plague. Hope Is Like Walking Around With A Fishhook In Your Mouth And Somebody Just Keeps Pulling It And Pulling It.

Praise And Criticism Seem To Me To Operate Exactly On The Same Level. If You Get A Great Review, It's Really Thrilling For About Ten Minutes. If You Get A Bad Review, It's Really Crushing For Ten Minutes. Either Way, You Go On.