When I wished to sing of love, it turned to sorrow. And when I wished to sing of sorrow, it was transformed for me into love.

Anyone who loves music can never be quite unhappy.

I am in the world only for the purpose of composing.

My compositions spring from my sorrows. Those that give the world the greatest delight were born of my deepest griefs.

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

You believe happiness to be derived from the place in which once you have been happy, but in truth it is centered in ourselves.

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?