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

Composing gives me great pleasure... there is nothing that surpasses the joy of creation, if only because through it one wins hours of self-forgetfulness, when one lives in a world of sound.

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

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?

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

Is an artist much more than a beggar?