I Hate You, Richard Wagner . .

When The Thunder Rumbles, Now The Age Of Gold Is Dead. When The Dreams We've Clung To Trying To Stay Young, Have Left Us Parched And Old Instead. When My Courage Crumbles, When I Feel Confused And Frail, When My Spirit Falters On Decaying Altars And My Illusions Fail -- I Go On Right Then. I Go On Again. I Go On To Say I Will Celebrate Another Day. I Go On. If Tomorrow Tumbles And Everything I Love Is Gone, I Will Face Regret All My Days, And Yet I Will Still Go On.

Mozart's Music Is Constantly Escaping From Its Frame, Because It Cannot Be Contained In It.

Music, Because Of Its Specific And Far-reaching Metaphorical Powers, Can Name The Unnamable And Communicate The Unknowable.

I Believe That From That Earth Emerges A Musical Poetry, Which Is By The Nature Of Its Sources Tonal. I Believe That These Sources Cause To Exist A Phonology Of Music, Which Evolves From The Universal Known As The Harmonic Series.

This Must Be The Mission Of Every Man Of Goodwill: To Insist, Unflaggingly, At Risk Of Becoming A Repetitive Bore, But To Insist On The Achievement Of A World In Which The Mind Will Have Triumphed Over Violence.