I Write [music] As A Sow Piddles.

I Must Give You A Piece Of Intelligence That You Perhaps Already Know, Namely That The Ungodly Arch-villain Voltaire Has Died Miserably Like A Dog, Just Like A Brute. That Is His Reward!

Write To Me And Don't Be So Lazy. Otherwise I Shall Have To Give You A Thrashing. What Fun! I'll Break Your Head.

When I Am At Peace With Myself . . . Then Thoughts Flow Into Me Most Easily And At Their Best. Where They Come From And How - That I Cannot Say . . . I'd Be Willing To Work Forever And Forever If I Were Permitted To Write Only Such Music As I Want To Write And Can Write - Which I Myself Think Good.

As Death, When We Come To Consider It Closely, Is The True Goal Of Our Existence . . .

The Taste Of Death Is Upon My Lips. I Feel Something That Is Not Of This Earth.