Quotes from Franz Schubert

Approval or blame will follow in the world to come.

The moment is supreme.

Every night when I go to bed, I hope that I may never wake again, and every morning renews my grief.

Anyone who loves music can never be quite unhappy.

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.

There is no such thing as happy music.

I am in the world only for the purpose of composing.

I am composing like a god, as if it simply had to be done as it has been done.

Why does God endow us with compassion?

Our castle is not imposing, but is well built, and surrounded by a very fine garden. I live in the bailiff's house.

I never force myself to be devout except when I feel so inspired, and never compose hymns of prayers unless I feel within me real and true devotion.

Above all things, I must not get angry. If I do get angry I knock all the teeth out of the mouth of the poor wretch who has angered me.

Happy is the man who finds a true friend, and far happier is he who finds that true friend in his wife.

No one really understands the grief or joy of another.

No one feels another's grief, no one understands another's joy. People imagine that they can reach one another. In reality they only pass each other by.

There is no such thing as happy music.

Happy is the man who finds a true friend, and far happier is he who finds that true friend in his wife.

My compositions spring from my sorrows. Those that give the world the greatest delight were born of my deepest griefs.

Those who are born of grief give greatest delight to the outside world.

I am in the world only for the purpose of composing.

For long years I felt torn between the greatest grief and the greatest love. . . . Whenever I attempted to sing of love, it turned to pain. And again, when I tried to sing of pain, it turned to love. Thus were love and pain divided in me.

With a heart filled with endless love for those who scorned me, I wandered far away. For many and many a year I sang songs. Whenever I tried to sing of love, it turned to pain. And again, when I tried to sing of pain, it turned to love.

No one understands another's grief, no one understands another's joy. . . . My music is the product of my talent and my misery. And that which I have written in my greatest distress is what the world seems to like best.

One bites into the brass mouthpiece of his wooden cudgel, and the other blows his cheeks out on a French horn. Do you call that Art?