Which led Schubert into the field of composing, for which he had a great gift -- he could write music the way other people could toss a salad -- but he didn't earn much money at it, he had to sponge off his friends, he lived in a series of dreadful apartments, he was short and fat and wore glasses and he was bipolar, and women didn't respond to his advances.
He went to a prostitute, caught syphilis, and died at the age of GK: I am. I'm short and fat and I'm not even a good pianst because I have short fat fingers, so I don't even have that going for me.
And I wear these weird little steel-rim glasses. Nobody wears these anymore. I look like a bumpkin. GK: They like my music. I want them to like me. As me. I want people to invite me over. I want people to say, "Boy, that Schubert -- he sure is a lot of fun. Knows so much about everything. And what a storyteller. Do they? Do they I am thirty-one years old now And I have a bad disease Everyone forgets that I write symphonies.
GK: No, I won't. You ever have music you can't get out of your head. It happens to composers. It's on the sheet music. Should I get different glasses? SS: Yours are fine. Snow is falling on Vienna, City lights against the sky. Other Viennese are stylish I am short and shy. And I have weird glasses I'm a lonely guy. GK: Oh boy. Not particularly bad. Now you tell me. I'm thirty-one and I have a life-threatening disease and now I find out I have bad breath.
But I'm thirty-one years old now My life is running out Beethoven my hero Knew what it was about He wrote for the moonlight And I write for the trout. TR: Publishers rejected much of his work -- beautiful things -- nobody would publish them, nobody would put on concerts of his work, but his friends stuck by him and bought him meals and put him up in their homes and Schubert kept spinning out songs and sonatas and anthems and masses. Every morning he started composing as soon as he was out of bed, wrote till two o'clock, had lunch, went for a walk, went back to work GK: I wish I were.
