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

It sometimes seems to me as if I do not belong to this world at all. I deplore music that engenders in people not love but madness: which rouses them to scornful laughter instead of lifting their thoughts to God.

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

If only your pure and clean mind could touch me, dear Haydn, nobody has a greater reverence for you than I have.

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.

The world resembles a stage on which every man is playing a part.

Why does God endow us with compassion?