I Really Don't Know Whether Any Place

Mozart Encompasses The Entire Domain Of Musical Creation, But I've Got Only The Keyboard In My Poor Head.

I Don't Know Where There Can Be So Many Pianists As In Paris, So Many Asses And So Many Virtuosi.

Oh, How Hard It Must Be To Die Anywhere But In Ones Birthplace.

I Am Gay On The Outside, Especially Among My Own Folk (i Count Poles My Own); But Inside Something Gnaws At Me; Some Presentiment, Anxiety, Dreams - Or Sleeplessness - Melancholy, Indifference - Desire For Life, And The Next Instant, Desire For Death; Some Kind Of Sweet Peace, Some Kind Of Numbness, Absent-mindedness.

If The Newspapers Cut Me Up So Much That I Shall Not Venture Before The World Again, I Have Resolved To Become A House Painter; That Would Be As Easy As Anything Else, And I Should, At Any Rate, Still Be An Artist!