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.

If only your pure and clean mind could touch me, dear Haydn, nobody has a greater reverence for you than I have.

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.

Nobody understands another's sorrow, and nobody another's joy.

The manager is to be blamed who distributes parts to his players which they are unable to act.

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?