We all make mistakes, but everyone makes different mistakes.
If I contemplate myself as part of the Universe: what am I?
Don’t regard yourself as too divine to improve, occasionally, your own works.
To play a wrong note is insignificant; to play without passion is inexcusable.
The true artist is not proud, he unfortunately sees that art has no limits; he feels darkly how far he is from the goal; and though he may be admired by others, he is sad not to have reached that point to which his better genius only appears as a distant, guiding sun. I would, perhaps, rather come to you and your people, than to many rich folk who display inward poverty.
I despise a world which does not feel that music is a higher revelation than all wisdom and philosophy.
From the glow of enthusiasm I let the melody escape. I pursue it. Breathless I catch up with it. It flies again; it disappears; it plunges into a chaos of diverse emotions. I catch it again; I seize it; I embrace it with delight.
You will not find a treatise that is too learned for me; without laying claim to any genuine learning, I yet accustomed myself from childhood onwards to grasp the spirit of the best and wisest in every age. Shame on the artist who does not consider it his duty to achieve at least so much.
I only live in my music, and I have scarcely begun one thing when I start on another. As I am now working, I am often engaged on three or four things at the same time.
Is it not beautiful?
The true artist has no pride. He sees unfortunately that art has no limits; he has a vague awareness of how far he is from reaching his goal; and while others may perhaps admire him, he laments the fact that he has not yet reached the point whither his better genius only lights the way for him like a distant sun.
I joyfully hasten to meet death. If it come before I have had opportunity to develop all my artistic faculties, it will come, my hard fate notwithstanding, too soon, and I should probably wish it later – yet even then I shall be happy, for will it not deliver me from a state of endless suffering?
Thousands of people cultivate music; but few have the revelation of this great art.
Such incidents brought me to the verge of despair, but little more and I would have put an end to my life – only art it was that withheld me, and it seemed impossible to leave the world until I had produced all that I felt called upon me to produce, and so I endured this wretched existence.
There ought to be an artistic depot where the artist need only hand in his artwork in order to receive what he asks for. As things are, one must be half a business man, and how can one understand – good heavens! – that’s what I really call troublesome.
Music from my fourth year began to be the first of my youthful occupations. Thus early acquainted with the gracious muse who tuned my soul to pure harmonies, I became fond of her, and, as it often seemed to me, she of me.
Whoever has created An abiding friendship, Or has won A true and loving wife, All who can call at least one soul theirs, Join in our song of praise; But any who cannot must creep tearfully Away from our circle.
The only sign of “superiority” I acknowledge in Man is goodness.
I’m sorry I can’t hear you.
Everything that is called life should be sacrificed to the sublime and be a sanctuary of art.
Sacrifice once and for all the trivialities of social life to your art.