Perfection Itself Is Imperfection.

Played Percussively, The Piano Is A Bore. If I Go To A Concert And Someone Plays Like That I Have Two Choices: Go Home Or Go To Sleep. The Goal Is To Make The Piano Sing, Sing, Sing.

Everyone Goes To The Forest; Some Go For A Walk To Be Inspired, And Others Go To Cut Down The Trees.

False Notes [on The Piano] Are Human. Why Does Everything Have To Be Perfect? You Know, Perfection Itself Is Imperfection.

Piano Playing Consists Of Common Sense, Heart And Technical Resources. All Three Should Be Equally Developed. Without Common Sense You Are A Fiasco, Without Technique An Amateur, Without Heart A Machine. The Profession Does Have Its Hazards.

My Face Is My Passport.