I discovered that I loved silence. I found that I didn’t need anything to entertain myself. I wasn’t distracted by conversation, flirtation, or expectations.

I miss it enormously. I miss the buzz. I miss the adrenalin and I miss shouting into the microphone. I miss the atmosphere, I miss the camaraderie. But I don't miss it as much as I might have done, because I haven't had a total withdrawal.

I’m a huge fan of not overemphasizing music. Sometimes you can get a sense of music underlining things the audience already understands. And, as you say, silence is great. The more silence there is, the more chance you have to underline a newer moment with more refreshment.

Well, it was healthy to miss once in a while. It kept self-confidence balanced at a point safely short of arrogance.

I couldn’t wait to pursue my love of singing again. Music helped me through a lot in the hospital, and it seemed like I was far away from my troubles when I was singing or listening to music.

In other words, I heard life going on, and it was a comfort.

It felt right not to talk. It felt good just to be. Sometimes there was no need to fill the air with words.”

It was such a relief to program in user mode for a change. Not having to care about the small stuff is wonderful.

All of a sudden it didn't bother me not being modern.

I didn't miss much because I was having wonderful new experiences. I didn’t get home much because we went by boat back then. I found that I could fit in very well wherever I was.

I was so thankful to just be alive. Things that bothered me before... nothing, I have become much more peaceful and less worried about anything.

Happiness is there when you remove the sense of something missing in your life.

It was amazing how quickly the silence fell on the crowd. It went from being so loud that you could barely hear the guys 20 feet away on the on-deck circle, to hearing my own footsteps loud and clear as I rounded the bases…that's never happened to me before.

I always wished a little that the church was not a church, set off as it was behind its barriers of doctrine and creed, so that all the people of the town and neighborhood might two or three times a week freely have come there and sat down together - though I knew perfectly well that, in the actual world, any gathering would exclude some, and some would not consent to be gathered, and some (like me) would be outside even when inside.

I liked the naturally occurring silences - the one, for instance, just before the service began and the other, the briefest imaginable, just after the last Amen. Occasionally a preacher would come who had a little bias toward silence, and then my attendance would become purposeful. At a certain point in the service the preacher would ask that we observe a moment of silence . . . And then the quiet that was almost the quiet of the empty church would come over us and unite us as we were not united even in singing, and the little sounds (maybe a bird's song) from the world outside would come in to us, and we would completely hear it.

But always too soon the preacher would become abashed (after all, he was being paid to talk) and start a prayer, and the beautiful moment would end. I would think again how I would like for us all just to go there from time to time and sit in silence. Maybe I am a Quaker of sorts, but I am told that the Quakers sometimes speak at their meetings. I would've preferred no talk, no noise at all.