The screech and mechanical uproar of the big city turns the citified head, fills citified earsas the song of birds, wind in the trees, animal cries, or as the voices and songs of his loved ones once filled his heart. He is sidewalk- happy.
(Frank Lloyd Wright (1869-1959), U.S. architect. "Earth," pt. 1, The Living City (1958).)
When you see me, whispering to myself at dusk, playing saddening songs that tend to portray a menlacholic deportment to my telluric toils, seemingly a loner, fettered by my unwillingness to confide even in the most adorable of people, seeking the peripatetic life which inadvertently stampedes any lingering optimism at the treacherous disposition of the human heart, it is a reflection of my inurement to an easy sail in Life. Unwilling to be an accessory in the grieving of those before me, craving and yet, ignoring the fallible reciprocative outlook of life, and finally, bifurcating my Contrivances, to first, Live for those I call my family, and then, the fortunate many, fated to benefit from me in this Elapsing frame.
If you're going to write something - be it a poem, a song or a story, you have to close your eyes then give your whole heart, soul and mind into it... Then as you open your eyes, it will become a masterpiece.
When we speak, in gestures or signs, we fashion a real object in the world; the gesture is seen, the words and the song are heard. The arts are simply a kind of writing, which, in one way or another, fixes words or gestures, and gives body to the invisible.
(Alain [Emile-Auguste Chartier] (1868-1951), French philosopher. The Gods, introduction (1934, trans. 1988). . . .