Goodness Is Nothing In The Furnace Of

What Was Evident Was That Mozart Was Simply Transcribing Music Completely Finished In His Head. And Finished As Most Music Is Never Finished. Displace One Note And There Would Be Diminishment. Displace One Phrase And Structure Would Fall. I Was Staring Through The Cage Of Those Meticulous Ink Strokes At Absolute Beauty.

Rehearsing A Play Is Making The Word Flesh. Publishing A Play Is Reversing The Process.

Passion, You See, Can Be Destroyed By A Doctor. It Cannot Be Created.

I Made, Over The Years In Cambridge, Several Very Good American Friends, And America Appeared To Me, A Land Of Promise In Every Sense Of That Word, A Land Of Freedom From The Inhibitions And Restrictions That I Felt In England.

Worship Isn't Destructive, Martin. I Know That. I Don't. I Only Know It's The Core Of His Life. What Else Has He Got? He Can Hardly Read. He Knows No Physics Or Engineering To Make To World Real For Him. No Paintings To Show Him How Others Have Enjoyed It. No Music Except Television Jingles. No History Except Tales From A Desperate Mother. No Friends. Not One Kid To Give Him A Joke, Or Make Him Know Himself More Moderately. He's A Modern Citizen For Whom Society Doesn't Exist.