Neither A Lofty Degree Of Intelligence Nor

I Have Never Written The Music That Was In My Heart To Write; Perhaps I Never Shall With This Brain And These Fingers, But I Know That Hereafter It Will Be Written; When Instead Of These Few Inlets Of The Senses Through Which We Now Secure Impressions From Without, There Shall Be A Flood Of Impressions From All Sides; And Instead Of These Few Tones Of Our Little Octave, There Shall Be An Infinite Scale Of Harmonies - For I Feel It - I Am Sure Of It. This World Of Music, Whose Borders Even Now I Have Scarcely Entered, Is A Reality, Is Immortal.

Music Must Never Offend The Ear, But Must Please The Listener, Or, In Other Words, Must Never Cease To Be Music.

To My Eyes And Ears The Organ Will Ever Be The King Of Instruments.

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.

When I Am At Peace With Myself . . . Then Thoughts Flow Into Me Most Easily And At Their Best. Where They Come From And How - That I Cannot Say . . . I'd Be Willing To Work Forever And Forever If I Were Permitted To Write Only Such Music As I Want To Write And Can Write - Which I Myself Think Good.