Stravinsky’s last works have a severe beauty that remains always haunting.

Alexander did not merely accept his diagnosis, he embraced the disease as a sequence of adventures and revelations.

We exist in this world, endlessly devouring and excreting data.

In writing, solitude and society are always joined.

No pitch has its own unique history or fate. There is only the simultaneous and evolving multiplicity.

Silence is now, for the moment anyhow, pervasive. It is a presence itself.