Our castle is not imposing, but is well built, and surrounded by a very fine garden. I live in the bailiff's house.

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?

No one really understands the grief or joy of another. We always imagine that we are approaching some other, but our lines of travel are actually parallel.

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

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

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

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.