I Foster A Sorrowful Conception Of Affection.

As For Famous Men Who Were Not Artists, I Am Beginning To Be Tired Of Them. Those Poor Little Scoundrels Who Are Called Great Men Fill Me With Nothing But Overwhelming Horror.

A Good Cuban Cigar Closes The Doors To The Vulgarities Of The World.

As The Mother Teaches Her Children How To Express Themselves In Their Language, So One Gypsy Musician Teaches The Other. They Have Never Shown Any Need For Notation.

My Mind And Fingers Have Worked Like The Damned. Homer, The Bible, Plato, Locke, Lamartine, Chateaubriand, Beethoven, Bach, Hummel, Mozart, Weber Are All Around Me. I Study Them. I Devour Them With Fury.

Companions, In Misery And Worse, That Is What We All Are, And To Try To Change This Substantially Avails Us Nothing.