I Am Composing Like A God, As

Above All Things, I Must Not Get Angry. If I Do Get Angry I Knock All The Teeth Out Of The Mouth Of The Poor Wretch Who Has Angered Me.

I Am In The World Only For The Purpose Of Composing.

Why Should The Composer Be More Guilty Than The Poet Who Warms To Fantasy By A Strange Flame, Making An Idea That Inspires Him The Subject Of His Own Very Different Treatment?

Every Night When I Go To Bed, I Hope That I May Never Wake Again, And Every Morning Renews My Grief.

No One Understands Another's Grief, No One Understands Another's Joy... My Music Is The Product Of My Talent And My Misery. And That Which I Have Written In My Greatest Distress Is What The World Seems To Like Best.