I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope/ For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,/ For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith/ But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
[T.S. Eliot]

“At times of unhappiness, when my uselessness has become brutally apparent to me, and all musical language seems to be reduced to the result of patient experiment without anything behind the notes justifying all the effort, what then can one do but seek one’s true, forgotten face, somewhere in the forest, in the mountains, on the beach, in the midst of the birds? … The birds are the real artists. They are the true originators of my pieces.”