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.
Why does God endow us with compassion?
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.
What a picture of a better world you have given us, Mozart!
Above all things, I must not get angry. If I do get angry I knock all the teeth out of the mouth of the poor wretch who has angered me.