He had charm, attraction and a passionateness that was feverish rather than deep.

His melody was wavering and uncertain, oftentimes more a recitative than melody properly so called, and it was entirely his own.

It lacks structure and style.

Yet how can one resist when he hears Manon at the feet of Des Grieux in the sacristy of Saint-Sulpice, or help being stirred to the depths by such outpourings of love?
One cannot reflect or analyze when moved in this way.
After emotional art comes decadent art.

But that is of little consequence.