Thus it is ever in life. The aims we once pursued no longer satisfy us; we aim, we strive, we aspire, until sight fails, and mind and body find rest in the grave.

Send light to the dark hearts of men, that is the duty the artist.

"We liked it" or "I didn't like it" people say. As if it were nothing higher than to please the people!

Only when the form grows clear to you, will the spirit become so too.

Does it not seem as if Mozart's works become fresher and fresher the oftener we hear them?

An evil fate has deprived me of the full use of my right hand, so that I am not able to play my compositions as I feel them. The trouble with my hand is that certain fingers have become so weak, probably through writing and playing too much at one time, that I can hardly use them.

Music owes as much to Bach as religion to its founder.