I Pay No Attention Whatever To Anybody's

The Whole, Though It Be Long, Stands Almost Complete And Finished In My Mind So That I Can Survey It At A Glance. Nor Do I Hear In My Imagination The Parts Successively, But I Hear Them, As It Were, All At Once. What Delight This Is I Cannot Tell!

Neither A Lofty Degree Of Intelligence Nor Imagination Nor Both Together Go To The Making Of Genius. Love, Love, Love, That Is The Soul Of Genius.

When I Feel Well And In A Good Humour, Or When I Am Taking A Drive Or Walking After A Good Meal, Or In The Night When I Cannot Sleep, Thoughts Crowd Into My Mind As Easily As My Mind Might Wish.

I Have Never Written The Music That Was In My Heart To Write; Perhaps I Never Shall With This Brain And These Fingers, But I Know That Hereafter It Will Be Written; When Instead Of These Few Inlets Of The Senses Through Which We Now Secure Impressions From Without, There Shall Be A Flood Of Impressions From All Sides; And Instead Of These Few Tones Of Our Little Octave, There Shall Be An Infinite Scale Of Harmonies - For I Feel It - I Am Sure Of It. This World Of Music, Whose Borders Even Now I Have Scarcely Entered, Is A Reality, Is Immortal.

Patience And Tranquility Of Mind Contribute More To Cure Our Distempers As The Whole Art Of Medicine