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.

When all hopes of recognition or honor have faded into distant memory, when purity of heart meets sorrow of mind, when all the world seems to walk in blindness and yet a man works without wearying for that which he loves...only in this moment is passion truly understood

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

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

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 is no such thing as happy music.