But Lortat, I'm not in the habit of attracting crowds. - Gabriel Fauré

Imagining is trying to formulate all one would wish to be better, all that surpasses reality.

It was not just in the Andante of the Second Quartet that I remembered having translated (almost involuntarily) the distant memory of bells which in the evening at Montgauzy — and this is some time ago — came to us from a village called Cadillac when the wind blew from the west. From this dull sound a vague dreaminess arose, which, like all vague dreams, is literally untranslatable. Only, does it not happen often that some exterior fact numbs us so that our thoughts become so imprecise that in reality they are not thoughts, and yet are nevertheless something in which we can take pleasure? The desire for things which do not exist perhaps, and this is indeed where music holds sway.

How many times have I asked myself what use music is? And what am I translating? What feelings? What ideas? How can I express something I do not understand myself?