I Don't Have Hobbies. I Have Passions.

I Used To Think That Eighty Was A Very Old Age. Now I Am Ninety. I Do Not Think This Any More. As Long As You Are Able To Admire And To Love, You Are Young.

Of Course, I Continue To Play And To Practice. I Think I Would Do So If I Lived For Another Hundred Years.

I Was At Mount Tamalpais Near San Francisco Hiking When A Boulder Came Hurling Down The Mountainside And Smashed My Left Hand. When I Looked At My Mangled Bloody Fingers, I Had A Strange Reaction. 'thank God I Will Never Have To Play Again,' I Said. The Fact Is That Dedication To One's Art Does Involve A Sort Of Enslavement.

The Art Of Not Playing In Tempo--one Has To Learn It. And The Art Of Not Playing What Is Written On The Printed Paper.

I Have Always Regarded Manual Labour As Creative And Looked With Respect-and, Yes, Wonder-at People Who Work With Their Hands. It Seems To Me That Their Creativity Is No Less Than That Of A Violinist Or Painter.