The sound of the sea, the curve of a horizon, wind in leaves, the cry of a bird leave manifold impression in us. And suddenly, without our wishing it at all, one of these memories spills from us and finds expression in musical language. . . I want to sing my interior landscape with the simple artlessness of a child.
I'm not a "conservative" because I see precious little left in this world worth conserving. Playing defense, it seems to me, can only forestall an inevitable slide into tyranny.