How often have I actually discovered in myself that enthusiasm raises the artist above himself, how in an ordinary mood one would not have been able to accomplish many of the things for which enthusiasm lends one everything, energy, fire.

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?

Why hurry over beautiful things? Why not linger and enjoy them?

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

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

I do not want horses or diamonds - I am happy in possessing you.

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?