I have always thought that in some ways music is the most dangerous of the arts. At the sound of a nocturne by Chopin, a lady friend of mine once transformed into Night, her face turned white like the moon, she wrapped herself in veils, and found herself sitting in the air and swollen with melancholy, above a city who slept beneath her with all the shutters closed. (Private Concert, p. 195)
— ALBERTO SAVINIO