I try to decorate my imagination as much as I can.

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

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.

Every night when I go to bed, I hope that I may never wake again, and every morning renews my grief.

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?

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

Easy mind, light heart. A mind that is too easy hides a heart that is too heavy.