I cannot conceive of music that expresses absolutely nothing.

Hear the immortal words of Béla Bartók, the great composer and gatherer of the people’s songs: “I cannot conceive of music that expresses absolutely nothing.” These words strike like thunder across the ages, for they remind us that music is never empty—it is always the breath of the soul, the whisper of memory, the roar of passion, or the cry of sorrow. Even when clothed in abstraction, even when stripped of words, music carries meaning as surely as the wind carries the scent of the earth.

Bartók himself, a child of Hungary, knew this truth well. He traveled through villages and mountains, recording and preserving the folk songs of peasants whose voices might otherwise have been lost to time. To him, every melody told a story of toil, of celebration, of longing, of survival. He could not imagine music as mere sound, for to him every note was rooted in the blood and history of the people. This is why he declared that music cannot be barren; to be music at all is to express.

Consider also the ancient power of the Greek lyre. When Orpheus played, even the stones wept, and the wild beasts grew calm. Was it because of technical skill alone? No, it was because his music carried meaning—the grief of loss, the desire for love, the eternal longing to bridge the gap between worlds. The Greeks knew, as Bartók knew, that sound without spirit is not music at all, but noise. Music only becomes music when it carries something of the human heart.

Or reflect upon the songs of enslaved Africans in America. They sang spirituals not to fill silence, but to bear unbearable burdens, to speak of pain, of coded hope, of freedom whispered beneath the overseer’s gaze. Those songs were more than melody—they were lifelines, woven threads of survival. Who could ever call such music “nothing”? It was the very language of endurance, the voice of the voiceless. In them, Bartók’s wisdom finds proof: music always expresses something, whether joy or anguish, defiance or faith.

The lesson is radiant: art is not decoration. It is communication, spirit made visible, heart made audible. To live as a true creator, you must never seek to produce work that is hollow or mechanical, but instead allow your creations to carry meaning. Even a single note on a piano, when played with intent, has more weight than a thousand meaningless sounds. Music, like all true art, must reveal, must express, must open a window into the soul.

And what must you do, O seeker? When you sing, let it be honest. When you play, let it come from the marrow of your bones. Do not ask only, “Does it sound good?” but rather, “Does it speak?” Create not with the aim of perfection alone, but with the aim of truth. Let every work of your hands, whether in song, in word, or in deed, carry something of your heart. For if it carries nothing, then it is not worthy of the name “art.”

Thus, let Bartók’s words echo within you: “I cannot conceive of music that expresses absolutely nothing.” Carry this wisdom into your own life—not only in music but in all you create. Whatever you do, let it speak of who you are, of what you believe, of the truths you wish to leave behind. For only that which carries meaning will endure, and only that which comes from the soul will stand eternal.