Here, Whatever Is Not Boring Is Not

All The Same It Is Being Said Everywhere That I Played Too Softly, Or Rather, Too Delicately For People Used To The Piano-pounding Of The Artists Here.

I Tell My Piano The Things I Used To Tell You

Every Difficulty Slurred Over Will Be A Ghost To Disturb Your Repose Later On.

It's A Huge Carthusian Monastery, Stuck Down Between Rocks And Sea, Where You May Imagine Me, Without White Gloves Or Hair Curling, As Pale As Ever, In A Cell With Such Doors As Paris Never Had For Gates. The Cell Is The Shape Of A Tall Coffin, With An Enormous Dusty Vaulting, A Small Window... Bach, My Scrawls And Waste Paper - Silence - You Could Scream - There Would Still Be Silence. Indeed, I Write To You From A Strange Place.

Here, Waltzes Are Called Works! And Strauss And Lanner, Who Play Them For Dancing, Are Called Kapellmeistern. This Does Not Mean That Everyone Thinks Like That; Indeed, Nearly Everyone Laughs About It; But Only Waltzes Get Printed.