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Paris, 12 August, 1912.
Early this morning, in bed, this aphorism occurred to me: "Because they ran in front of them, those who were left behind only saw their backs and, therefore, thought they had no faces." …An excerpt from a letter to his wife.

…A composer is like a gardener to whom a small portion of a large piece of ground has been allotted for cultivation; it falls to him/her to gather what grows on his soil, to arrange it, to make a bouquet of it; and if he is very ambitious, to develop it as a garden. It devolves on this gardener to collect and form that which is in reach of his eyes, his arms — his powers of differentiation. In the same way a mighty one, an anointed one, a Bach, a Mozart, can only survey, manipulate and reveal a portion of the whole flora of the earth; a tiny fragment of that kingdom of blossoms which covers our planet, and of which an enormous surface, partly too distant, partly undiscovered, withdraws from the reach of the individual, even if he is a giant. And yet this comparison is weak because the flora only covers the earth, while music, invisible and unheard permeates the whole universe.
Even to the greatest giant, the circle in which his activity unfolds must remain a limited one. However much he may grasp, in relation to the infinity out of which he creates it, is bound to be a tiny particle; just as the highest ascent takes us no nearer to the sun. Inside this radius, ruled by one person and restricted for him in time and place by the chances of his birth, the individual mind feels especially drawn through a natural sympathy to particular points and cultures, while his nature is placed in closer relationship with certain details, owing to similar distinctive qualities. The creative artist favors these point so much that he gladly and frequently returns to them in his works, and to such a degree that we others learn to recognize him in them. In the same way we formulate the idea of love from the chance meeting with a few women or men (in fact pre-ordained) and we never conceive anything beyond these meetings; but love in the mutual attraction of mankind and things through endlessness and eternity. It is through the medium of a few composers familiar to us that we believe we have penetrated into the essence of music. What we really perceive of it are bits and formulas which, moreover, the lesser composers take over from the greater; until a new greater one perceives a hitherto hidden turning and this is the next step forward. This new one passes as a genius, In reality he owes his or her importance to the place and moment of his birth. .. An excerpt from the last thing Busoni wrote; actually taken down from him during his final illness and typed out for him.