Today I thought to myself: “I’ll listen to some Chopin while I work.” What I meant, of course, is the music of Chopin. It’s melodramatic to say that Chopin is his music — if, perhaps, also accurate.
Consider: to what degree is a man that which he produces? To what degree ought he be? Should we consider a man’s life “successful” if his work is, in some sense, a manifestation of his true self? Or is it totally beside the point?