I sometimes ponder on variation form and it seems to me it ought to be more restrained, purer.

Without craftsmanship, inspiration is a mere reed shaken in the wind.

To follow in Beethoven's footsteps transcends one's strength.

Those are miracles that no merely human brain can work. The artist is merely the sound conduct of a Force that dictates to him what he should do.

In him converge all previous streams of tendency, not as into a pool, stagnant, passive, motionless, but as a noble river that received its tributary waters and bearss them onward in larger and statelier volume.

If we cannot write with the beauty of Mozart, let us at least try to write with his purity.

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