You know creators, composers, need a palette for life, a color for life.

The war years were the most difficult time of my life. There was real famine in Moscow. The water froze inside the houses. There was no heat.

In 1948 the first severe crash occurred in my life when Stalin put out his decree on 'formalism.' There was a bulletin board in the Moscow Conservatory. They posted the decree, which said Shostakovich's compositions and Prokofiev's were no longer to be played.

If I make a speech, I need a translator. But music does not need a translation. People understand me through the sound. That I think is very important. This is just one planet, like one family.

It is my aim, my destination in life to make the cello as beloved an instrument as the violin and piano.

Explain to me, please, why in our literature and art so often people absolutely incompetent in this field have the final word.