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.

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

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

Time is the best of critics; and patience the best of teachers.

I haven't heard anything so great for a long time; Beethoven snaps his fingers at the whole world.

One needs only to study a certain positioning of the hand in relation to the keys to obtain with ease the most beautiful sounds, to know how to play long notes and short notes and to achieve certain unlimited dexterity. A well formed technique, it seems to me, can control and vary a beautiful sound quality.

I really don't know whether any place contains more pianists than Paris, or whether you can find more asses and virtuosos anywhere.