Treasures are no longer to be got by instrumental art.
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.
I cannot be so bad when everybody is so fond of me.
If I have known much trouble in my youth, I have also known much joy.
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 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?