You Can't Spend Your Whole Life In

From My Table Inside I Watch The Glamorous Women Outside Who Are Lunching On Spa Cobb Salads Without Blue Cheese Or Dressing. The Man With The Bread Basket Wanders From Table To Table, Lonesome As A Cloud. When He Comes To Me His Basket Is Full And Perfectly Arranged. He Gives Me A Smile Of Sincere Pleasure When I Tell Him I Will Take Both The Sourdough Roll And The Cheese Stick.

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.

If Someone Loves You For What You Can Do Then It's Flattering, But Why Do You Love Them? If Someone Loves You For Who You Are Then They Have To Know You, Which Means You Have To Know Them.

Write Because You Love The Art And The Discipline, Not Because You're Looking To Sell Something.

Some People Are Born To Make Great Art And Others Are Born To Appreciate It. … It Is A Kind Of Talent In Itself, To Be An Audience, Whether You Are The Spectator In The Gallery Or You Are Listening To The Voice Of The World's Greatest Soprano. Not Everyone Can Be The Artist. There Have To Be Those Who Witness The Art, Who Love And Appreciate What They Have Been Privileged To See.