No one understands another's grief, no one understands another's joy... My music is the product of my talent and my misery. And that which I have written in my greatest distress is what the world seems to like best.
Happy is the man who finds a true friend, and far happier is he who finds that true friend in his wife.
Anyone who loves music can never be quite unhappy.
When all hopes of recognition or honor have faded into distant memory, when purity of heart meets sorrow of mind, when all the world seems to walk in blindness and yet a man works without wearying for that which he loves...only in this moment is passion truly understood
Every night when I go to bed, I hope that I may never wake again, and every morning renews my grief.
No one feels another's grief, no one understands another's joy. People imagine they can reach one another. In reality they only pass each other by.
You believe happiness to be derived from the place in which once you have been happy, but in truth it is centered in ourselves.
When I wished to sing of love, it turned to sorrow. And when I wished to sing of sorrow, it was transformed for me into love.
My compositions spring from my sorrows. Those that give the world the greatest delight were born of my deepest griefs.
There is no such thing as happy music.
O Mozart, immortal Mozart, how many, how infinitely many inspiring suggestions of a finer, better life you have left in our souls!
The greatest misfortune of the wise man and the greatest unhappiness of the fool are based upon convention.
Easy mind, light heart. A mind that is too easy hides a heart that is too heavy.
Why does God endow us with compassion?
I am in the world only for the purpose of composing.
It sometimes seems to me as if I do not belong to this world at all. I deplore music that engenders in people not love but madness: which rouses them to scornful laughter instead of lifting their thoughts to God.
I am composing like a god, as if it simply had to be done as it has been done.
The manager is to be blamed who distributes parts to his players which they are unable to act.
Above all things, I must not get angry. If I do get angry I knock all the teeth out of the mouth of the poor wretch who has angered me.
There are two contrary impulses which govern this man's brain-the one sane, and the other eccentric. They alternate at regular intervals.
I want you for always...days, years, eternities.
A man endures misfortune without complaint.
No one really understands the grief or joy of another.
One bites into the brass mouthpiece of his wooden cudgel, and the other blows his cheeks out on a French horn. Do you call that Art?
The world resembles a stage on which every man is playing a part.
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