The World Resembles A Stage On Which

There Are Two Contrary Impulses Which Govern This Man's Brain-the One Sane, And The Other Eccentric. They Alternate At Regular Intervals.

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?

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.

Approval Or Blame Will Follow In The World To Come.

O Mozart, Immortal Mozart, How Many, How Infinitely Many Inspiring Suggestions Of A Finer, Better Life You Have Left In Our Souls!