Love Guards The Heart From The Abyss.

As Death, When We Come To Consider It Closely, Is The True Goal Of Our Existence . . .

The Music Is Not In The Notes, But In The Silence Between.

I Will Gladly Give Lessons As A Favor, Particularly When I See That My Student Has Talent, Inclination, And Anxiety To Learn; But To Be Obliged To Go To A House At A Certain Hour, Or To Have To Wait At Home For A Pupil, Is What I Cannot Do, No Matter How Much Money It May Bring Me In. . . I Am A Composer And Was Born To Be A Kapellmeister. I Neither Can Nor Ought To Bury The Talent For Composition With Which God In His Goodness Has So Richly Endowed Me. . .

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.

A Man Of Ordinary Talent Will Always Be Ordinary, Whether He Travels Or Not; But A Man Of Superior Talent (which I Cannot Deny Myself To Be Without Being Impious) Will Go To Pieces If He Remains Forever In The Same Place.