"..and suddenly he brought down his bow, ripping away from the gentle caressing music of Chopin into the strong full melodies of Bartók’s Concerto for Violin, playing both orchestra lines and the violin lines in a torrent of wild, dissonant agonized notes. He saw nothing suddenly, though he knew the crowd had thickened and no music answered him from the keyboard of Sybelle. But this was his heart, his song now, as he plunged deeper and deeper into the Bartók, his tempo speeding up, becoming almost inhuman, as on and on he went. His soul sang with the music. It became his own melodies and glissandi as his thoughts sang with it. But soon his words were lost, he was no longer thinking in words or syllables but only in the music, only in the throbbing notes. He was swaying wildly as he played. He no longer cared whether or not he looked or sounded human, and deep in his heart he was aware that if he were to die now, he would not revolt against it, not with any molecule of his being, because the death sentence would come upon him by his own hand and for what he truly was. This music was what he truly was. Silence."

Antoine in "Prince Lestat", Anne Rice 

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