If Men Of Genius Only Knew What

To Render My Works Properly Requires A Combination Of Extreme Precision And Irresistible Verve, A Regulated Vehemence, A Dreamy Tenderness, And An Almost Morbid Melancholy.

At Least I Have The Modesty To Admit That Lack Of Modesty Is One Of My Failings.

It Is Difficult To Put Into Words What I Suffered-the Longing That Seemed To Be Tearing My Heart Out By The Roots, The Dreadful Sense Of Being Alone In An Empty Universe, The Agonies That Thrilled Through Me As If The Blood Were Running Ice-cold Through My Veins, The Disgust With Living, The Impossibility Of Dying. Shakespeare Himself Never Described This Torture; But He Counts It, In Hamlet, Among The Terrible Of All The Evils Of Existence. I Had Stopped Composing; My Mind Seemed To Become Feebler As My Feelings Grew More Intense. I Did Nothing. One Power Was Left To Me-to Suffer.

Bach Is Bach Just As God Is God.

Heine Commenting On The Music Of Louis Hector Berlioz: He Is An Immense Nightingale, A Lark As Great As An Eagle. . . . The Music Causes Me To Dream Of Fabulous Empires, Filled With Fabulous Sins.