“For beings of imagination, music without words– symphony or waltz, sonata or fanfare of horns– is the great and artificial manufacturer of dreams. The chance chords make one feel beautiful, rich, glorious, loved. One hears a deep rumbling within himself, like armed vehicles filled with rhymes, sonorous poems; or perhaps one suffers, one groans, one grows emotional, one weeps, one feels his soul get lost in the overly thick shadows or under the decidedly distant stars; and at the back of oneʼs skull, like penitent phantoms, strophes exit and slide in cadence; or maybe itʼs a flight, an orgiastic whirlwind, kisses that one steals and cups one breaks, while the diverse timbres of the orchestra respond, striking chords like the feet of ballerinas on an elastic parquet.”

Emile Gondeau, 1888