If you were music, I would listen to you ceaselessly, and my low spirits would brighten up.
There is nothing more to be said or to be done tonight, so hand me over my violin and let us try to forget for half an hour the miserable weather and the still more miserable ways of our fellowmen.
If I had my life to live over again, I would have made a rule to read some poetry and listen to some music at least once every week.
It seems to me that if you place music (and books, probably, and films, and plays, and anything that makes you feel) at the centre of your being, then you can’t afford to sort out your love life, start to think of it as the finished product.
She used to play – oh, she’d loved to play, loved music, the way music could break and heal and make everything seem possible and heroic.
There is no feeling, except the extremes of fear and grief, that does not find relief in music.
What came first – the music or the misery? Did I listen to music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to music? Do all those records turn you into a melancholy person?
Without music, life would be a blank to me.
After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music.
Life is for the living. Death is for the dead. Let life be like music. And death a note unsaid.
Some people have lives; some people have music.
If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it; that surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die.