When I was five years old, my parents gave me a magic chest. I learned to cast spells, although of a childish kind, before I had learned to read and write.

The riddle of Mozart is precisely that "the man" refuses to be a key for solving it. In death, as in life, he conceals himself behind his work.

When I was five years old, my parents gave me a magic chest. I learned to cast spells, although of a childish kind, before I had learned to read and write.

The revolutionary Mozart is the Mozart of his last eight years.

Everything that happens is at least one dimension smaller than you've imagined it to be.

In the view of the fact that nature is dying, political developments are of secondary importance.

How can such a disproportionately large number of people have a definite, and unusually positive relationship to Mozart?