CARL MARIA VON WEBER

What love is to man, music is to the arts and to mankind.

The art of music, rather more daughter than imitator of nature, in her impressive and mysterious language minding and educating us, rouses directly our temper and rules us to the depths of our souls.

No fate holds more splendour for an artist, than the one which greets his effort with such enthousiasm!

What love is to man, music is to the arts and to mankind. Music is love itself - it is the purest, most ethereal language of passion, showing in a thousand ways all possible changes of color and feeling; and though true in only a single instance, it yet can be understood by thousands of men - who all feel differently.

Music is truly love itself, the purest, most ethereal language of the emotions, embodying all their changing colors in every variety of shading and nuance.

The hardest thing is to endure the applause of fools, and patiently suffer the booing, while with the bravissimo of the foolish one would rather strike them between the ears.

Delude not yourself with the notion that you may be untrue and uncertain in trifles and in important things the contrary. Trifles make up existence, and give the observer the measure by which to try us; and the fearful power of habit, after a time, suffers not the best will to ripen into action.

An artist's sphere of influence is the world.

What love is to man, music is to the arts and to mankind. Music is love itself - it is the purest, most ethereal language of passion, showing in a thousand ways all possible changes of color and feeling; and though true in only a single instance, it yet can be understood by thousands of men - who all feel differently.

An artist's sphere of influence is the world.

What love is to man, music is to the arts and to mankind.

Delude not yourself with the notion that you may be untrue and uncertain in trifles and in important things the contrary. Trifles make up existence, and give the observer the measure by which to try us; and the fearful power of habit, after a time, suffers not the best will to ripen into action.

Music is truly love itself, the purest, most ethereal language of the emotions, embodying all their changing colors in every variety of shading and nuance.

The art of music, rather more daughter than imitator of nature, in her impressive and mysterious language minding and educating us, rouses directly our temper and rules us to the depths of our souls.

No fate holds more splendour for an artist, than the one which greets his effort with such enthousiasm!

The hardest thing is to endure the applause of fools, and patiently suffer the booing, while with the bravissimo of the foolish one would rather strike them between the ears.