When one is an artist, what else can he be?

There have been a few moments when I have known complete satisfaction, but only a few. I have rarely been free from the disturbing realization that my playing might have been better.

Times change, people change, thought and feeling take new shapes, put on fresh garments, sons bow their heads unwillingly to that which enraptured their fathers.

I established a certain standard of behavior, that, during my playing, there must be no talking.

Intellectual isolation always follows commercial isolation.

If I miss one day of practice, I notice it. If I miss two days, the critics notice it. If I miss three days, the audience notices it.

Chopin was an invalid, as you know, but his music was volcanic.