The celebration of Mozart’s bicentenary has brought out one of the chief traits by which his worship differs from other cults for writers and artists of the past, namely, the degree of personal love and devotion which attend it. The centenary celebrations of Beethoven, Schubert, Haydn, Brahms, Chopin, Bach, have fallen within the memory of most of us; great as was the burden of praise cast upon these distinguished figures, none called up such a tribute of affection. Twenty years ago, Eric Blom concluded his excellent work upon the composer with a declaration of love. It is this intimate relation between the man himself and his listener that makes our apprehension of his art so peculiar. This would be all the more astonishing if it were true, as Hyatt King as written in a recent volume of essays and as indeed many others said before him, that Mozart’s music is profoundly impersonal. It would be astonishing even if one modified this by substituting ‘impenetrable’ for ‘impersonal’. The ‘Mozart friend of long standing’, to whom Paul Hamburger refers in The Mozart Companion and for whom in fact this book has been written, feels that when W.A.M.’s music fills the room it is not only the art but the very presence of the Geliebte that he enjoys. Except for Chopin, I doubt whether this can be experienced so keenly with any other composer.