He was dying all his life.

Life when one first arrives is a continual mortification as one’s romantic illusions are successively shattered and the musical treasure-house of one’s imagination crumbles before the hopelessness of the reality. Every day fresh experiences bring fresh disappointments.

Time, time – that is our greatest master! Alas, like Ugolino, time devours its own children.

Love cannot express the idea of music, while music may give an idea of love.

Which of the two powers, Love or Music, can elevate man to the sublimest heights? ... It is a problem, and yet it seems to me that this is the answer: 'Love can give no idea of music; music can give an idea of love.' ... Why separate them? They are two wings of the soul.

Time is a great teacher, but unfortunately it kills all its pupils. (Le temps est un grand maître, dit-on; le malheur est qu'il soit un maître inhumain qui tue ses élèves.)

It is so rare...to find a complete person, with a soul, a heart and an imagination; so rare for characters as ardent and restless as ours to meet and to be matched together, that I hardly know how to tell you what happiness it gives me to know you.

Music and love are the wings of the soul.

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.

Time, time - that is our greatest master! Alas, like Ugolino, time devours its own children.