Schubert's story is a tragedy for me. He died at 31 - ill, broke, mostly ignored except for a circle of friends who were in awe of his genius. After his death they found over 1,500 pieces, now considered among the greatest music ever composed. He spent his days training to be a teacher. At night, he quietly wrote music. No acclaim or public recognition. Just a divine compulsion to create, even as his body failed. True genius is rare, but listening to him, you can feel it. The man was gifted.

Das ist mein Lieblingslied von Schubert. Er beginnt in einer Dur-Tonart, was Helligkeit, Entschlossenheit und Glück suggeriert. Aber am Ende bricht er die Erwartung der Freude und endet in einer beunruhigenden Moll-Tonart. 🎵

Wenn ich spazieren gehe und nachdenken möchte, höre ich oft diese Aufnahme von Brigitte Engerer, die alle Impromptus von Schubert spielt. Es sind etwa 30 Minuten und sie war der Hintergrund für viele meiner Lebensüberlegungen. 🎹

Schubert was also profoundly lonely: - “No one feels another's grief, no one understands another's joy. People imagine that they can reach one another. In reality they only pass each other by.” - “Every night when I go to bed, I hope that I may never wake again, and every morning renews my grief.” - “My music is the product of my talent and my misery. And that which I have written in my greatest distress is what the world seems to like best.” He didn't feel loved by the world while alive, but he still wrote as if someone, someday, might care. And now we do.