I liked your opera. I think I will set it to music.
If I contemplate myself as part of the Universe: what am I?
Tones sound, and roar and storm about me until I have set them down in notes.
Beethoven can write music, thank God, but he can do nothing else on earth.
How glad I am to be able to roam in the wood and thicket, among trees and flowers and rocks ... in the country, every tree seems to speak to me, saying, "Holy! Holy", in the woods, there is enchantment which expresses all things.
I carry my thoughts about me for a long time, often a very long time, before I write them down; meanwhile my memory is so faithful that I am sure never to forget, not even in years, a theme that has once occurred to me.