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

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?

The manager is to be blamed who distributes parts to his players which they are unable to act.

No one understands another's grief, no one understands another's joy... My music is the product of my talent and my misery. And that which I have written in my greatest distress is what the world seems to like best.

There is no such thing as happy music.

No one feels another's grief.

What a picture of a better world you have given us, Mozart!