For I Assure You, Without Travel, At

The Taste Of Death Is Upon My Lips. I Feel Something That Is Not Of This Earth.

When I Feel Well And In A Good Humour, Or When I Am Taking A Drive Or Walking After A Good Meal, Or In The Night When I Cannot Sleep, Thoughts Crowd Into My Mind As Easily As My Mind Might Wish.

I Will Gladly Give Lessons As A Favor, Particularly When I See That My Student Has Talent, Inclination, And Anxiety To Learn; But To Be Obliged To Go To A House At A Certain Hour, Or To Have To Wait At Home For A Pupil, Is What I Cannot Do, No Matter How Much Money It May Bring Me In. . . I Am A Composer And Was Born To Be A Kapellmeister. I Neither Can Nor Ought To Bury The Talent For Composition With Which God In His Goodness Has So Richly Endowed Me. . .

Neither A Lofty Degree Of Intelligence Nor Imagination Nor Both Together Go To The Making Of Genius. Love, Love, Love, That Is The Soul Of Genius.

Nor Do I Hear In My Imagination The Parts Successively, But I Hear Them, As It Were, All At Once (gleich Dies Zusammen). What A Delight This Is I Cannot Tell ! All This Inventing, This Producing, Takes Place In A Pleasing Lively Dream.