Ever Thine, Ever Mine, Ever Ours

Music Is Like A Dream. One That I Cannot Hear.

Strange, I Feel As If Up To Now I Had Written No More Than A Few Notes.

I Have Always Reckoned Myself Among The Greatest Admirers Of Mozart, And Shall Do So Till The Day Of My Death.

The Real Artist Has No Pride. Unfortunately He Sees That His Art Has No Limits. He Feels Obscurely How Far He Is From The Goal. While He Is Perhaps Being Admired By Others, He Mourns The Fact That He Has Not Yet Reached The Point To Which His Better Genius, Like A Distant Sun, Ever Beckons To Him.

He That Divines The Secret Of My Music Is Freed From The Unhappiness That Haunts The Whole World Of Men.