“If only your pure and clean mind could touch me, dear Haydn, nobody has a greater reverence for you than I have.”
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Every night when I go to bed, I hope that I may never wake again, and every morning renews my grief.
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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?
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Nobody understands another's sorrow, and nobody another's joy.
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