In Him Converge All Previous

How Lucky Is The Man Who, Like Mozart And Others, Goes To The Tavern Of An Evening And Writes Some Fresh Music. For He Lives While He Is Creating.

Those Who Enjoy Their Own Emotionally Bad Health And Who Habitually Fill Their Own Minds With The Rank Poisons Of Suspicion, Jealousy And Hatred, As A Rule Take Umbrage At Those Who Refuse To Do Likewise, And They Find A Perverted Relief In Trying To Denigrate Them.

In Him Converge All Previous Streams Of Tendency, Not As Into A Pool, Stagnant, Passive, Motionless, But As A Noble River That Received Its Tributary Waters And Bearss Them Onward In Larger And Statelier Volume.

If We Cannot Write With The Beauty Of Mozart, Let Us At Least Try To Write With His Purity.

The Fact That Most People Do Not Understand And Respect The Very Best Things, Such As Mozart's Concertos, Is What Permits Men Like Us To Become Famous.