When I am traveling in a carriage, or walking after a good meal, or during the night when I cannot sleep; it is on such occasions that ideas flow best and most abundantly.

The taste of death is upon my lips. I feel something that is not of this earth.

Nor do I hear in my imagination the parts successively, but I hear them, as it were, all at once (gleich dies zusammen). What a delight this is I cannot tell ! All this inventing, this producing, takes place in a pleasing lively dream.

I never lie down at night without reflecting that, young as I am, I may not live to see another day.

Melody is the essence of music. I compare a good melodist to a fine racer, and counterpoints to hack post-horses.

What's even worse than a flute? - Two flutes!

As death, when we come to consider it closely, is the true goal of our existence . . .