Why does God endow us with compassion?
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?
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?
There are eight girls in the house in which I am living, and practically all of them are good looking. You can realize that I am kept busy.
A man endures misfortune without complaint.
The world resembles a stage on which every man is playing a part.
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.
Approval or blame will follow in the world to come.
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.
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.
Every night when I go to bed, I hope that I may never wake again, and every morning renews my grief.
Our castle is not imposing, but is well built, and surrounded by a very fine garden. I live in the bailiff's house.
There are two contrary impulses which govern this man's brain-the one sane, and the other eccentric. They alternate at regular intervals.
I am composing like a god, as if it simply had to be done as it has been done.
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.