I Foster A Sorrowful Conception Of Affection.

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.

My Piano Is To Me What A Ship Is To The Sailor, What A Steed Is To The Arab. It Is The Intimate Personal Depository Of Everything That Stirred Wildly In My Brain During The Most Impassioned Days Of My Youth. It Was There That All My Wishes, All My Dreams, All My Joys, And All My Sorrows Lay.

I Did Not Compose My Work As One Might Put On A Church Vestment... Rather It Sprung From The Truly Fervent Faith Of My Heart, Such As I Have Felt It Since My Childhood.

I Conclude That The Wagnerian Operas Which Are Already In The Repertoire, And Other Masterworks As Well, Stand In No Further Need Of My Services.

The Day Will Come When All Nations Amidst Which The Jews Are Dwelling Will Have To Raise The Question Of Their Wholesale Expulsion, A Question Which Will Be One Of Life Or Death, Good Health Or Chronic Disease, Peaceful Existence Or Perpetual Social Fever.