Nothing Is As Eloquent As Nothing.

I'm Not A Great Deep Political Thinker.

How Vulgar, This Hankering After Immortality, How Vain, How False. Composers Are Merely Scribblers Of Cave Paintings. One Writes Music Because Winter Is Eternal And Because, If One Didn't, The Wolves And Blizzards Would Be At One's Throat All The Sooner.

Two People Who Are A Little Bit Deluded In Each Other's Favour. That's What Love Is, Isn't It?

The Mind Has A Mind Of Its Own. It Shows Us Pictures. Pictures Of The Past And The Might-one-day-be. This Mind's Mind Exerts Its Own Will, Too, And Has Its Own Voice.

This World, He Thinks, Contains Just One Masterpiece, And That Is Itself.