Oscar Hammerstein II

The definition of a producer: An idealist, a realist, a practical dreamer, a sophisticated gambler and a stage-struck child.

[about writing "It Might As Well Be Spring" with Richard Rodgers] I wrote it all out first, and it took me several weeks. Then I gave it to him, and two hours later he called me up and said, "I've got it". I could have thrown a brick through the phone. Show less «

Everyone speaks and writes words. Few can write music. It's creation is a mystery. There are mathematical principles to guide the construction, but no mere knowledge of these can produce the emotional eloquence some music attains. We are made sad or happy, romantic, thoughtful, disturbed or peaceful by someone else's singing heart. To me this is a most exciting and inexplicable phenomenon. I should hate to me a music critic with telling people what is good or bad in a musical composition or what are its component elements. One might as well try to explain to a group of children at the seaside the chemistry of salt water and sand, and the source of the sunlight or the breeze that romps with them along the shore. Show less «

I am not a trained musician. As a librettist, I use music as a tool that a kind composer has given me, but I have no idea where he got it. I do have some idea of how music can affect an audience in a theatre, and only within this limited area, do I consider qualified to discuss the work of Richard Rodgers. He is essentially a composer for plays. He writes music to depict story and character and is, therefore, himself a dramatist. He is not an abstractionist in any sense and, as far as I can see, he has no interest in the mere creation of sound, however unusual or ingenious. He composes in order to make words fly higher or cut deeper than they would without the aid of his music. His melodies are clean and well-defined. His scores are carefully built, logically allied to the stories and characters they describe. No overgrown forests or weed-clogged meadows of music here, but neat rows of tenderly grown flowers on well-kept lawns. Show less «

[on Lorenz Hart] He was always skipping and bouncing. In all the time I knew him, I never saw him walk slowly. I never saw his face in repose. I never heard him chuckle quietly. He laughed loudly and easily at other people's jokes, and at his own too. His large eyes danced and his head would wag. He was alert and dynamic. Show less «

[on the potential emergence of new and talented songwriters] Well, I've been around a long time now, and the only thing I can tell you is that it always looks this way - dark and depressing. But somewhere, somebody new always crops up. It may be in a new form, or he may write in a new way - you never can be sure exactly how - but sooner or later a new guy shows up and he comes through. Show less «

Any professional author will scoff at the implication that he spends his time hoping and waiting for a magic spark to start him off. There are few accidents of this kind in writing. A sudden beam of moonlight, or a thrush you have just heard, or a girl you have just kissed, or a beautiful view through your study window is seldom the source of an urge to put words on paper. Such pleasant experiences are likely to obstruct and delay a writer's work. Nobody waits to be inspired. Show less «

Aside from my shortcomings as a wit and rhymester - or perhaps, because of them - my inclinations lead me to a more primitive type of lyric.