Tradition Is The Spreading Of

But It's Peculiar, As Soon As I Am In The Midst Of Nature And By Myself, Everything That Is Base And Trivial Vanishes Without Trace. On Such Days Nothing Scares Me; And This Helps Me Again And Again.

Destiny Smiles Upon Me But Without Making Me The Least Bit Happier.

To Write A Symphony Is, For Me, To Construct A World.

A True Personality . . . Is Like A Robust Organism That, With Unconscious Sureness, Seeks Out And Digests The Nourishment Appropriate To It And Vigorously Rejects That Which Is Unsuitable.

The Call Of Love Sounds Very Hollow Among These Immobile Rocks.