Best 9 quotes in «brahms quotes» category

The second number goes off like a top - so fast indeed that when suddenly the music ceases and the lights go up some are stuck in their seats like carrots, their jaws working convulsively, and if you suddenly shouted in their ear Brahms, Beethoven, Mendeleev, Herzegovina, they would answer without thinking - 4, 967, 289.

Brahms' Variations are better than mine, but mine were written before his.

Brahms believed that there was no need to publish absolutely everything that Schubert ever wrote.

Even if you're playing Brahms or a Beethoven concerto, you've got to have a different vantage point, slightly, each time.

The real Brahms is nothing more than a sentimental voluptuary. rather tiresomely addicted to dressing himself up as Handel or Beethoven and making a prolonged and intolerable noise.

Listening to my regular favourites - Mozart, Beethoven, Brahms and so on - I always feel, quite misguidedly, that nothing can be too bad if such beauty and brilliance exists in the world.

What elevates one and not another to the level of genius is not only talent and ambition and luck, but a gift for turning everything to the purpose. ... Perhaps that is a common element in the story of genius: beyond talent and ambition and luck, in some degree you have to be forcibly booted out of everyday life and everyday goals. In any case, it was like that with Brahms. The fulfillment of love was denied him so that other things might take wing.

The three greatest composers are Bach, Beethoven, and Brahms. All the others are cretins.

He considered for a moment, then started to play a piece that was very familiar to Ruth, although she had no idea what it was. It was lilting and wistful, and she could have sung the melody if she had wished. 'Alright?' He raised his eyebrows inquiringly. 'Yes. Exactly.' It was effortless and perfect, and he played it through to the end, closing with the softest and most delicate chords, which hung and faded in the quiet hall like the grains of dust raining through the evening light. Ruth was touched. It was all she had wanted. He did not move until there was complete silence again, then he closed the lid without saying anything, and stood up, shoving back the chair. ... 'What was that piece?' 'A Brahms waltz.' 'Hasn't it got a name?' she wanted it to remember. 'Number fifteen. Opus thirty-nine.' It hadn't sounded like numbers to Ruth.