You write to become immortal, or because the piano happens to be open, or you've looked into a pair of beautiful eyes.

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.

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

My whole life has been a twenty years struggle between poetry and prose, or, if you like to call it so, Music and Law.

Think it a vile habit to alter works of good composers, to omit parts of them, or to insert new-fashioned ornaments. This is the greatest insult you can offer to Art.

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

Without enthusiasm nothing great can be effected in art.