An Astonishing Number Of Kisses Are Flying

True Perfection In All Things Is No Longer Known Or Prized - You Must Write Music That Is Either So Simple A Coachman Could Sing It, Or So Unintelligble That Audiences Like It Simply Because No Sane Person Could Understand It.

I Have Never Written The Music That Was In My Heart To Write; Perhaps I Never Shall With This Brain And These Fingers, But I Know That Hereafter It Will Be Written; When Instead Of These Few Inlets Of The Senses Through Which We Now Secure Impressions From Without, There Shall Be A Flood Of Impressions From All Sides; And Instead Of These Few Tones Of Our Little Octave, There Shall Be An Infinite Scale Of Harmonies - For I Feel It - I Am Sure Of It. This World Of Music, Whose Borders Even Now I Have Scarcely Entered, Is A Reality, Is Immortal.

Music, In Even The Most Terrible Situations, Must Never Offend The Ear But Always Remain A Source Of Pleasure.

A Bachelor, In My Opinion, Is Only Half Alive.

The Whole, Though It Be Long, Stands Almost Complete And Finished In My Mind So That I Can Survey It At A Glance. Nor Do I Hear In My Imagination The Parts Successively, But I Hear Them, As It Were, All At Once. What Delight This Is I Cannot Tell!