For almost thirty years I repeatedly saw one and the same dream: I would arrive in Vienna at long last. I would feel really happy, for I was returning to my serene childhood.

I attempt to compose symphonies, although it is clear to me that logically it is pointless.

I set down a beautiful chord on paper—and suddenly it rusts.

I am not (yet) facing the problem of emigration. I want my music to be acknowledged here first of all, in this country: after that, we shall see - perhaps the question will then become urgent.

I would wake up in Moscow or somewhere else, my heart beating fast, feeling bitter and helpless.

For a solo work I need a definite idea. For the present I have none.

Do you know that my very first experience as a composer was a 'Concerto for Accordion?