Love Cannot Express The Idea

In My Opinion, The Trombone Is The True Head Of The Family Of Wind Instruments, Which I Have Named The 'epic' One. It Possesses Nobility And Grandeur To The Highest Degree; It Has All The Serious And Powerful Tones Of Sublime Musical Poetry, From Religious, Calm And Imposing Accents To Savage, Orgiastic Outburst. Directed By The Will Of The Master, The Trombones Can Chant Like A Choir Of Priests, Threaten, Utter Gloomy Sighs, A Mournful Lament, Or A Bright Hymn Of Glory; They Can Break Forth Into Awe-inspiring Cries And Awaken The Dead Or Doom The Living With Their Fearful Voices.

The Luck Of Having Talent Is Not Enough; One Must Also Have A Talent For Luck.

To Render My Works Properly Requires A Combination Of Extreme Precision And Irresistible Verve, A Regulated Vehemence, A Dreamy Tenderness, And An Almost Morbid Melancholy.

It Is Difficult To Put Into Words What I Suffered-the Longing That Seemed To Be Tearing My Heart Out By The Roots, The Dreadful Sense Of Being Alone In An Empty Universe, The Agonies That Thrilled Through Me As If The Blood Were Running Ice-cold Through My Veins, The Disgust With Living, The Impossibility Of Dying. Shakespeare Himself Never Described This Torture; But He Counts It, In Hamlet, Among The Terrible Of All The Evils Of Existence. I Had Stopped Composing; My Mind Seemed To Become Feebler As My Feelings Grew More Intense. I Did Nothing. One Power Was Left To Me-to Suffer.

Every Composer Knows The Anguish And Despair Occasioned By Forgetting Ideas Which One Had No Time To Write Down.