An evil fate has deprived me of the full use of my right hand, so that I am not able to play my compositions as I feel them. The trouble with my hand is that certain fingers have become so weak, probably through writing and playing too much at one time, that I can hardly use them.

Thus it is ever in life. The aims we once pursued no longer satisfy us; we aim, we strive, we aspire, until sight fails, and mind and body find rest in the grave.

You write to become immortal, or because the piano happens to be open, or you've looked into a pair of beautiful eyes.

For me Wagner is impossible... he talks without ever stopping. One can't just talk all the time.

It was an unforgettable picture to see Chopin sitting at the piano like a clairvoyant, lost in his dreams; to see how his vision communicated itself through his playing, and how, at the end of each piece, he had the sad habit of running one finger over the length of the plaintive keyboard, as though to tear himself forcibly away from his dream.

For me, music is always the language which permits one to converse with the Beyond.

Send light to the dark hearts of men, that is the duty the artist.