How lucky is the man who, like Mozart and others, goes to the tavern of an evening and writes some fresh music. For he lives while he is creating.

What would become of all historical biography if it was written only with consideration for other peoples' feelings?

Straight-away the ideas flow in upon me, directly from God, and not only do I see distinct themes in my mind's eye, but they are clothed in the right forms, harmonies, and orchestration.

It is not hard to compose, but what is fabulously hard is to leave the superfluous notes under the table.

We cling nervously to the melody, but we don't handle it freely, we don't really make anything new out of it, we merely overload it.

If there is anyone here whom I have not insulted, I beg his pardon.

Those who enjoy their own emotionally bad health and who habitually fill their own minds with the rank poisons of suspicion, jealousy and hatred, as a rule take umbrage at those who refuse to do likewise, and they find a perverted relief in trying to denigrate them.