Then as he sang it was no longer sounds only that made the music: he spoke, and as no tree listens I listened, and language came into my roots out of the earth, into my bark out of the air, into the pores of my greenest shoots gently as dew and there was no word he sang but I knew its meaning.

I was the first to see him, for I grew out on the pasture slope, beyond the forest. He was a man, it seemed. . .

He told of journeys, of where sun and moon go while we stand in dark, of an earth-journey he dreamed he would take some day deeper than roots ... He told of th…

I love them for finding what I can't find, and for loving me for the line I wrote, and for forgetting it so that a thousand times, till death finds them, they …

'The most likely reason for the adoption of a relatively small number of discrete intervals as the tonal material for music is that discretization or categoriz…

Tout silence n'est fait que de paroles qu'on n'a pas dites. C'est pour cela peut-etre que je devins un musicien. Il fallait quelqu'un pour exprimer ce silence,…

To leave the open fields and enter the forest, that was the rite. Knowing there was mystery, they could go. Go back now! And he receded among the multitude of …