Life is something like a trumpet. If you don’t put anything in, you won’t get anything out.

My big ears indicated a talent for music. This thrilled me.

Nature was my kindergarten.

The name of my ailment was longing, and it was not cured till I finally went to the department store and counted out the money in small coins before the dismayed clerk. When I came to the house, I held up the instrument before the eyes of the astonished household.

I knew the whistle of each of the river boats on the Tennessee.

Life is something like a trumpet. If you don’t put anything in, you won’t get anything out.

Saving was slow and painful.

The blues – the sound of a sinner on revival day.

I think America concedes that true American music has sprung from the Negro.

You’ve got to appreciate the things that come from the art of the Negro and from the heart of the man farthest down.

Life is like a trumpet – if you don’t put anything into it, you don’t get anything out of it.

With a guitar I would be able to express the things I felt in sounds.

Whenever I heard the song of a bird and the answering call of its mate, I could visualize the notes in scale, all built up within my consciousness as a natural symphony.

Setting my mind on a musical instrument was like falling in love. All the world seemed bright and changed.