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

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.

Why does God endow us with compassion?

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.

No one feels another's grief, no one understands another's joy. People imagine they can reach one another. In reality they only pass each other by.

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

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