Passage One Most people want to know how things are made. They frankly admit, however, that they feel completely at sea when it comes to understanding how a piece of music is made. Where a composer begins, how he manages to keep going—in fact, how and where he learns his trade—all are shrouded in impenetrable darkness. The composer, in short, is a man of mystery, and the composer’s workshop an unapproachable ivory tower. One of the first things the layman wants to hear about is the part inspiration plays in composing. He finds it difficult to believe that composers are not much preoccupied with that question, that composing is as natural for the composer as eating or sleeping. Composing is something that the composer happens to have been born to do; and because of that, it loses the character of a special virtue in the composer’s eyes. The composer, therefore, does not say to himself: “Do I feel inspired?” He says to himself: “Do I feel like composing today?” and if he feels like composing, he does. It is more or less like saying to himself: “Do I feel sleepy?” If you feel sleepy, you go to sleep. If you don’t feel sleepy, you stay up. If the composer doesn’t feel like composing, he doesn’t compose. It is as simple as that.