Why does God endow us with compassion?

I am composing like a god, as if it simply had to be done as it has been done.

Why should the composer be more guilty than the poet who warms to fantasy by a strange flame, making an idea that inspires him the subject of his own very different treatment?

Approval or blame will follow in the world to come.

The manager is to be blamed who distributes parts to his players which they are unable to act.

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?