No One Really Understands The Grief Or

The World Resembles A Stage On Which Every Man Is Playing A Part.

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?

No One Feels Another's Grief, No One Understands Another's Joy. People Imagine They Can Reach One Another. In Reality They Only Pass Each Other By.

My Compositions Spring From My Sorrows. Those That Give The World The Greatest Delight Were Born Of My Deepest Griefs.

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