There Is No Such Thing As Happy

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?

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?

Happy Is The Man Who Finds A True Friend, And Far Happier Is He Who Finds That True Friend In His Wife.

When I Wished To Sing Of Love, It Turned To Sorrow. And When I Wished To Sing Of Sorrow, It Was Transformed For Me Into Love.

The Manager Is To Be Blamed Who Distributes Parts To His Players Which They Are Unable To Act.