Hector Berlioz is his name.

To an untrained ear, his music sounds like much of the music of the Romantic Era. To a seasoned ear, he is in a class all unto himself.

I am especially fond of Berlioz’s romantic sensibilities. He writes in his memoirs about a visit to the Paris opera. During a particularly moving aria, Berlioz overheard a conversation between two men behind him:

“Good Lord, sir, calm down! Control yourself!”
“I can’t! It’s too beautiful!”
“You silly ass, don’t let the music affect you so!”
“Just leave me alone!”
“It’s only music, you fool. Get over it! Here, have a piece of this orange, it will make you feel better.”
“It’s wonderful!”
“It’s fresh and imported from Spain!”
“I was talking about the music, you nincompoop!”
“Oh, yes, the music – it’s alright.”

Soon after this, Berlioz himself begins to weep at the overwhelming beauty of the music. At the end of the aria, he is lifted from his seat by the man behind him, who is overjoyed to have found someone who was equally moved. They embrace and share a moment together, and never see each other again.