Chopin
Chopin — one searches in vain for more delicate music than Chopin’s. And this is what unfailingly ceases to amaze me about Chopin: in another, his pervasive chromaticism would have sounded like agression and the pent-up rage of one dispossessed. Yet in Chopin, it seems required for his purpose — for his absence of direction. Here is a world removed entirely from concerns of progress, of forward motion. Yet it is also a world removed from the dull emotionality of Wagner and his sort.
I think likely Chopin must have had a temperment like Tristan Perich’s, though more artistic and less intellectual of course. This, I must admit, is a guess though — Chopin the man is invisible to me from Chopin the music — unlike Bach, Beethoven and Wagner. It is a different sort of hiddenness than Mozart’s though.