I cannot give a single concert at which I do not play one piece after the other in an agony of terror because my memory threatens to fail me. This fear torments me for days beforehand.

There is nothing greater than the joy of composing something oneself and then listening to it.

I wish to lead a life free from care, and I see that I shall be unhappy if I cannot always work at my art.

Is an artist much more than a beggar?

Treasures are no longer to be got by instrumental art.

I once believed that I possessed creative talent, but I have given up this idea; a woman must not desire to compose — there has never yet been one able to do it. Should I expect to be the one?

If I have known much trouble in my youth, I have also known much joy.