The World Resembles A Stage

You Believe Happiness To Be Derived From The Place In Which Once You Have Been Happy, But In Truth It Is Centered In Ourselves.

The Manager Is To Be Blamed Who Distributes Parts To His Players Which They Are Unable To Act.

When I Wished To Sing Of Love, It Turned To Sorrow. And When I Wished To Sing Of Sorrow, It Was Transformed For Me Into Love.

No One Really Understands The Grief Or Joy Of Another. We Always Imagine That We Are Approaching Some Other, But Our Lines Of Travel Are Actually Parallel.

Who Can Do Anything After Beethoven?