Hector Berlioz Quotes
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The luck of having talent is not enough; one must also have a talent for luck.
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In my opinion, the trombone is the true head of the family of wind instruments, which I have named the epic one. It possesses nobility and grandeur to the highest degree; it has all the serious and powerful tones of sublime musical poetry, from religious, calm and imposing accents to savage, orgiastic outburst. Directed by the will of the master, the trombones can chant like a choir of priests, threaten, utter gloomy sighs, a mournful lament, or a bright hymn of glory; they can break forth into awe-inspiring cries and awaken the dead or doom the living with their fearful voices.
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A feeble mind, conscious of its own feebleness, grows feeble under that very consciousness. As soon as the power of fear becomes known to it, there follows the fear of fear, and, on the first perturbation, reason abandons it.
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At least I have the modesty to admit that lack of modesty is one of my failings.
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Love cannot express the idea of music, while music may give an idea of love...
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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.
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Time is a great teacher, but unfortunately it kills all its pupils.
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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.
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It is not enough that the artist should be well prepared for the public. The public must be well prepared for what it is going to hear.
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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.
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Time, time - that is our greatest master! Alas, like Ugolino, time devours its own children.
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Every composer knows the anguish and despair occasioned by forgetting ideas which one had no time to write down.
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Music and love are the wings of the soul.
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Bach is Bach just as God is God.
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If men of genius only knew what love their works inspire!
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It is difficult to put into words what I suffered-the longing that seemed to be tearing my heart out by the roots, the dreadful sense of being alone in an empty universe, the agonies that thrilled through me as if the blood were running ice-cold through my veins, the disgust with living, the impossibility of dying. Shakespeare himself never described this torture; but he counts it, in Hamlet, among the terrible of all the evils of existence. I had stopped composing; my mind seemed to become feebler as my feelings grew more intense. I did nothing. One power was left to me-to suffer.
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Only by pairing knowledge with inspiration will art evolve. Without these conditions any musician will remain a flawed artist, if one may speak of an artist at all.