After a rest in Edinburgh, where, passing a music-shop, I heard some blind man playing a mazurka of mine.

There are certain times when I feel more inspired, filled with a strong power that forces me to listen to my inner voice, and when I feel more need than ever for a Pleyel piano.

Nothing is more odious than music without hidden meaning.

I am gay on the outside, especially among my own folk (I count Poles my own); but inside something gnaws at me; some presentiment, anxiety, dreams - or sleeplessness - melancholy, indifference - desire for life, and the next instant, desire for death; some kind of sweet peace, some kind of numbness, absent-mindedness.

My manuscripts sleep, while I cannot, for I am covered with poultices.

Bach is like an astronomer who, with the help of ciphers, finds the most wonderful stars.

Oh, how hard it must be to die anywhere but in ones birthplace.