Force without judgement falls on its own weight.
the colour of my soul is iron-grey and sad bats wheel about the steeple of my dreams.
Art is the most beautiful deception of all. And although people try to incorporate the everyday events of life in it, we must hope that it will remain a deception lest it become a utilitarian thing, sad as a factory.
People don't very much like things that are beautiful. . they are so far from their nasty little minds.
Composers aren't daring enough. They're afraid of that sacred idol called 'common sense', which is the most dreadful thing I know - after all, it's no more than a religion founded to excuse the ubiquity of imbeciles!
I wish to sing of my interior visions with the naive candour of a child.
Beauty seems to strike some people as a personal affront.
My skills are still my skills.
Because we need Christmas we had better understand what it is and what it isn't. Gifts, holly, mistletoe, and red-nosed reindeer are fun as traditions, but they are not what Christmas is really all about. Christmas pertains to that glorious moment when the Son of our Father joined his divinity to our imperfect humanity.
I would rather create a precedent than find one.
I can write about prayer, you can read about prayer. . . but sooner or later you have to fall to your knees and just plain pray. Then, and only then, will you begin to operate in the vein of God's miracle-working ways.