Nobody understands another's sorrow, and nobody another's joy.

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.

The greatest misfortune of the wise man and the greatest unhappiness of the fool are based upon convention.

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?

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.

When all hopes of recognition or honor have faded into distant memory, when purity of heart meets sorrow of mind, when all the world seems to walk in blindness and yet a man works without wearying for that which he loves...only in this moment is passion truly understood

I am composing like a god, as if it simply had to be done as it has been done.