Everyone goes to the forest; some go for a walk to be inspired, and others go to cut down the trees.

Perfection itself is imperfection.

There are three kinds of pianists: Jewish pianists, homosexual pianists, and bad pianists.

False notes [on the piano] are human. Why does everything have to be perfect? You know, perfection itself is imperfection.

Your mind must control, but you must have heart . . . . Give your feeling free.

Played percussively, the piano is a bore. If I go to a concert and someone plays like that I have two choices: go home or go to sleep. The goal is to make the piano sing, sing, sing.

I have no style, because I change each time . . . each day I play differently. Today I play differently than yesterday.

The piano is an orchestra with 88...... things, you know

My future is in my past and my past is my present. I must now make the present my future.

If you want me to play only the notes without any specific dynamics, I will never make one mistake.

My face is my passport.

But water doesn't care for human sorrows. It flows without slowing or quickening its pace in the darkness of the earth, where only stones will hear.

When we aren't honest with ourselves about who we are and what we want, we allow other people and circumstance to determine our life course.

What I'm after is not living to 1, 000. I'm after letting people avoid death for as long as they want to.

Being a father, being a friend, those are the things that make me feel successful.

You put a group of people in that come from a variety of backgrounds and who are out there in the world with different opinions and different ways of expressing themselves online. It's hard to say.

The horizon is out there somewhere and you keep chasing it, looking for it and working for it.

I've always felt that there's a point where a piece seems to be alive, that is, living. And that's the point where I know the composition is finished.

The same soil is good for men and for trees. A man's health requires as many acres of meadow to his prospect as his farm does loads of muck.

My father had osteomyelitis-his left arm was withered between his elbow and his shoulder ... . But the amputation of a Stone Age man called Leaf, a stoneworker, does not relate to my father at all.

There are words to paint the misery of love, but none to paint its happiness.