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.

I cannot be so bad when everybody is so fond of me.

The tea is ice-cold, the room grows colder and colder, but I grow warmer and warmer.

I will yield to popular demands only insofar as they do not betray my own convictions.

My health may be better preserved if I exert myself less, but in the end doesn't each person give his life for his calling?

My imagination can picture no fairer happiness than to continue living for art.

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