No One Really Understands The Grief Or

One Bites Into The Brass Mouthpiece Of His Wooden Cudgel, And The Other Blows His Cheeks Out On A French Horn. Do You Call That Art?

Nobody Understands Another's Sorrow, And Nobody Another's Joy.

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 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.

O Mozart, Immortal Mozart, How Many, How Infinitely Many Inspiring Suggestions Of A Finer, Better Life You Have Left In Our Souls!