England Is A Country Of Pianos, They

Bach Is An Astronomer, Discovering The Most Marvellous Stars. Beethoven Challenges The Universe. I Only Try To Express The Soul And The Heart Of Man.

I Really Don't Know Whether Any Place Contains More Pianists Than Paris, Or Whether You Can Find More Asses And Virtuosos Anywhere.

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.

I Could Express My Feelings More Easily If They Could Be Put Into The Notes Of Music, But As The Very Best Concert Would Not Cover My Affection For You, Dear Daddy, I Must Use The Simple Words Of My Heart, To Lay Before You My Utmost Gratitude And Filial Affection

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.