The Official Bulletin Declared That The Poles

My Manuscripts Sleep, While I Cannot, For I Am Covered With Poultices.

All The Same It Is Being Said Everywhere That I Played Too Softly, Or Rather, Too Delicately For People Used To The Piano-pounding Of The Artists Here.

Having Nothing To Do, I Am Correcting The Paris Edition Of Bach; Not Only The Engraver's Mistakes, But Also The Mistakes Hallowed By Those Who Are Supposed To Understand Bach (i Have No Pretensions To Understand Better, But I Do Think That Sometimes I Can Guess).

A Strange Adventure Befell Me While I Was Playing My Sonata In B Flat Minor Before Some English Friends. I Had Played The Allegro And The Scherzo More Or Less Correctly. I Was About To Attack The March When Suddenly I Saw Arising From The Body Of My Piano Those Cursed Creatures Which Had Appeared To Me One Lugubrious Night At The Chartreuse. I Had To Leave For One Instant To Pull Myself Together After Which I Continued Without Saying Anything.

My Piano Has Not Yet Arrived. How Did You Send It? By Marseilles Or By Perpignan? I Dream Music But I Cannot Make Any Because Here There Are Not Any Pianos . . . In This Respect This Is A Savage Country.