The world resembles a stage on which every man is playing a part.

O Mozart, immortal Mozart, how many, how infinitely many inspiring suggestions of a finer, better life you have left in our souls!

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 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.

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

I am composing like a god, as if it simply had to be done as it has been done.

Approval or blame will follow in the world to come.