The Trouble With The Opera Is There's

I Am More And More Convinced That Music Is Not, In Essence, A Thing Which Can Be Cast Into A Traditional And Fixed Form. It Is Made Up Of Colors And Rhythms.

Anyone Who Calls My Music "impressionist" Is An Imbecile.

Do Not Allow The Accents In The Brass To Produce Space Between The Notes.

Extreme Complication Is Contrary To Art.

The Colour Of My Soul Is Iron-grey And Sad Bats Wheel About The Steeple Of My Dreams.