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[Footnote 2: A further illustration may be found in the following discourse: “Von einigen Hindernissen des akademischen Fleisses. Eine Rede bey dem Anfange der öffentlichen Vorlesungen gehalten,” von J.
"It makes one wonder, doesn't it," she conjectured pleasantly, "to which type one belongs oneself?" In this welcome shifting from the abstract to the understandably personal, old Reinhardt saw his opportunity. "Ach, womens, beautifool and goot womens!" he cried in his thick, kindly voice. "Dey are abofe being types. To every good man, dey can be only wie eine blume, so hold and schön "
"Der Rosenkavalier," "Ariadne auf Naxos," "Joseph's Legende" and "Eine Alpensymphonie" are makeshift, slack, slovenly despite all technical virtuosity, all orchestral marvels.
'He has been of infinite value to me quite infinite value. You remember his definition of God? It is constantly in my mind. "Gott ist eine Trane der Liebe, in tiefster Verborgenheit vergossen uber das menschliche Elend." Profoundly touching! I know nothing to approach it. Suddenly he inquired: 'Do you see much of the Exeter clergy? 'I know only the Vicar of St. Ethelreda's, Mr. Lilywhite. 'Ha!
Beethoven's reward on these lines was great in proportion to his victory over himself. Ach, der menschliche Intellekt! Ach "Genie"! Es ist nicht so gar viel einen "Faust" eine Schopenhauerische Philosophie, eine Eroika gemacht zu haben. Friederich Nietzshe. The immediate fruit of this mental travail was a sudden growth or expansion of his creative powers.
There is something of Haydn at his best in this and in the fluty "Shadow Song," in "The Kiss in the Rain," and "A Sailor's Lassie," for they are as crystalline and direct as "Papa's" own immortal "Schäferlied." Constantin Sternberg. Wilson G. Smith, Op. 39. Smith has gone over to the great majority, the composers who have set "Du bist wie eine Blume;" but he has joined those at the top.
At last he extended a fore-finger and thumb and rubbed a five pound note between them, as though to convince himself of its reality, after which he began to gyrate round the table in a sort of war dance, never taking his eyes from the heap of influence in front of him. "Mein Gott!" he exclaimed, "Gnadiger Vater! Ach Himmel! Was fur eine Schatze!
But Russia was soon to be changed; the ice of the Neva was softening under the sun of civilisation; the new ideas, 'wie eine feine Violine, were audible among the big empty drum notes of Imperial diplomacy; and he looked to see a great revival, though with a somewhat indistinct and childish hope. We had a father and son who made a pair of Jacks-of-all-trades.
And in Scriabine, that new intensity of sensation attained something near to heroic supernatural stature. What was beautiful and sick in his age entered into his art. Through it, we learn, not a little, how we feel. His music was a thing created in the flesh of a man, out of his agony. "Eine Entwicklung ist ein Schicksal," Thomas Mann once wrote.
It is to me finer than Henselt's perfect "Liebeslied," possibly because the ravishing sweetness of the woman's voice answering the sombre plea of the man gives it a double claim on the heart. The setting of "Du bist wie eine Blume," however, hardly does justice either to Heine's poem, or to Nevin's art.
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