My destiny is solitude, and my life is work.
Many's the man/ who thought himself wise/ but what he needed/ he did not know.
Whatever I thought right, to others seemed wrong; what I held to be bad, others approved of.
It is impossible to communicate with Schumann. The man is hopeless; he doesn't talk at all.
Never look at the trombones, it only encourages them.
Human dignity begins to assert itself only at the point where man is distinguishable from the beast by pity for it.