Mozart has the classic purity of light and the blue ocean; Beethoven the romantic grandeur which belongs to the storms of air and sea, and while the soul of Mozart seems to dwell on the ethereal peaks of Olympus, that of Beethoven climbs shuddering the storm-beaten sides of a Sinai. Blessed be they both! Each represents a moment of the ideal life, each does us good. Our love is due to both.
Doing easily what others find is difficult is talent; doing what is impossible for talent is genius.
Cleverness is serviceable for everything, sufficient for nothing.
To know how to suggest is the art of teaching.
Analysis kills spontaneity. The grain once ground into flour springs and germinates no more.
To know how to grow old is the master-work of wisdom, and one of the most difficult chapters in the great art of living.
Doing easily what others find difficult is talent; doing what is impossible for talent is genius.
I'm not interested in age. People who tell me their age are silly. You're as old as you feel.
Our true history is scarcely ever deciphered by others. The chief part of the drama is a monologue, or rather an intimate debate between God, our conscience, and ourselves. Tears, grieves, depressions, disappointments, irritations, good and evil thoughts, decisions, uncertainties, deliberations --all these belong to our secret, and are almost all incommunicable and intransmissible, even when we try to speak of them, and even when we write them down.
Destiny has two ways of crushing us -- by refusing our wishes and by fulfilling them.
For purposes of action nothing is more useful than narrowness of thought combined with energy of will.
To know how to suggest is the great art of teaching. To attain it we must be able to guess what will interest; we must learn to read the childish soul as we might a piece of music. Then, by simply changing the key, we keep up the attraction and vary the song.
An error is the more dangerous in proportion to the degree of truth which it contains.
Melancholy is at the bottom of everything, just as at the end of all rivers is the sea. Can it be otherwise in a world where nothing lasts, where all that we have loved or shall love must die? Is death, then, the secret of life? The gloom of an eternal mourning enwraps, more or less closely, every serious and thoughtful soul, as night enwraps the universe.
Charm is the quality in others that makes us more satisfied with ourselves.