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

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.

Talent works, genius creates.

Perhaps only a Genius can truly understand Genius.

I feel so entirely in my element with a full orchestra; even if my mortal enemies were marshalled before me, I could lead them, master them, surround them, or repulse them.

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

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