I shall create a new world for myself.
Even in winter it shall be green in my heart.
I tell my piano the things I used to tell you.
All the same it is being said everywhere that I played too softly, or rather, too delicately for people used to the piano-pounding of the artists here.
Oh, how hard it must be to die anywhere but in ones birthplace.
The Official Bulletin declared that the Poles should be as proud of me as the Germans are of Mozart; obvious nonsense.
If I were still stupider than I am, I should think myself at the apex of my career; yet I know how much I still lack, to reach perfection; I see it the more clearly now that I live only among first-rank artists and know what each one of them lacks.
Vienna is a handsome, lively city, and pleases me exceedingly.
Among the numerous pleasures of Vienna the hotel evenings are famous. During supper Strauss or Lanner play waltzes...After every waltz they get huge applause; and if they play a Quodlibet, or jumble of opera, song and dance, the hearers are so overjoyed that they don't know what to do with themselves. It shows the corrupt taste of the Viennese public.
If the newspapers cut me up so much that I shall not venture before the world again, I have resolved to become a house painter; that would be as easy as anything else, and I should, at any rate, still be an artist!
One needs only to study a certain positioning of the hand in relation to the keys to obtain with ease the most beautiful sounds, to know how to play long notes and short notes and to achieve certain unlimited dexterity. A well formed technique, it seems to me, can control and vary a beautiful sound quality.
Sometimes I can only groan, and suffer, and pour out my despair at the piano.
England is a country of pianos, they are everywhere.
My piano has not yet arrived. How did you send it? By Marseilles or by Perpignan? I dream music but I cannot make any because here there are not any pianos ... in this respect this is a savage country.
I'm a revolutionary, money means nothing to me.
Nothing is more beautiful than a guitar, except, possibly two.
It's a huge Carthusian monastery, stuck down between rocks and sea, where you may imagine me, without white gloves or hair curling, as pale as ever, in a cell with such doors as Paris never had for gates. The cell is the shape of a tall coffin, with an enormous dusty vaulting, a small window... Bach, my scrawls and waste paper -- silence -- you could scream -- there would still be silence. Indeed, I write to you from a strange place.
The last thing is simplicity. After having gone through all the difficulties, having played an endless number of notes, it is simplicity that matters, with all its charm. It is the final seal on Art. Anyone who strives for this to begin with will be disappointed. You cannot begin at the end.
Put all your soul into it, play the way you feel!
I haven't heard anything so great for a long time; Beethoven snaps his fingers at the whole world.