I am composing like a god, as if it simply had to be done as it has been done.
No one really understands the grief or joy of another. We always imagine that we are approaching some other, but our lines of travel are actually parallel.
I want you for always...days, years, eternities.
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.
The world resembles a stage on which every man is playing a part.
Our castle is not imposing, but is well built, and surrounded by a very fine garden. I live in the bailiff's house.
Nobody understands another's sorrow, and nobody another's joy.
Approval or blame will follow in the world to come.
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?
What a picture of a better world you have given us, Mozart!
Why should the composer be more guilty than the poet who warms to fantasy by a strange flame, making an idea that inspires him the subject of his own very different treatment?
I never force myself to be devout except when I feel so inspired, and never compose hymns of prayers unless I feel within me real and true devotion.
No one feels another’s grief...
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