It's Not That Music Is

These, Too, Seem To Me So Ambiguous, So Vague, So Easily Misunderstood In Comparison To Genuine Music, Which Fills The Soul With A Thousand Things Better Than Words.

Never Mind, Put Any Book On The Piano, And Someone Can Turn From Time To Time, So I Need Not Look As Though I Played By Heart.

I Dislike Nothing More Than Finding Fault With A Man's Nature Or Talent; It Only Depresses And Worries And Does No Good; One Cannot Add A Cubit To One's Stature, All Striving And Struggling Are Useless There, So One Has To Be Silent About It, And Let The Responsibility Rest With God.

It's Not That Music Is Too Imprecise For Words, But Too Precise.

No One Can Bar Me From Joyfully Proceeding On What The Great Masters Have Left Us; After All, To Rediscover Everything Again, Should Be Understood To Be Unfounded. But One Should However Proceed On Merit, And Not Simply Repeat Wat Was. All Genius, Sincere, Deserves His Place, Even Though Maybe Later In Life.