Oh, How Miserable It Is To Have

I Tell My Piano The Things I Used To Tell You

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

As Long As I Have Health And Strength, I Will Gladly Work All My Days.

The Three Most Celebrated Doctors On The Island Have Been To See Me. One Sniffed At What I Spat, The Second Tapped Where I Spat From, And The Third Sounded Me And Listened As I Spat. The First Said I Was Dead, The Second That I Was Dying And The Third That I'm Going To Die.

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.