Truth Is A Great Flirt.

As For Famous Men Who Were Not Artists, I Am Beginning To Be Tired Of Them. Those Poor Little Scoundrels Who Are Called Great Men Fill Me With Nothing But Overwhelming Horror.

Real Men Are Sadly Lacking In This World, For When They Are Put To The Test They Prove Worthless.

My Piano Is To Me What A Ship Is To The Sailor, What A Steed Is To The Arab. It Is The Intimate Personal Depository Of Everything That Stirred Wildly In My Brain During The Most Impassioned Days Of My Youth. It Was There That All My Wishes, All My Dreams, All My Joys, And All My Sorrows Lay.

I Find Little In The Works Of Beethoven, Berlioz, Wagner And Others When They Are Led By A Conductor Who Functions Like A Windmill.

Broad Paths Are Open To Every Endeavour, And A Sympathetic Recognition Is Assured To Every One Who Consecrates His Art To The Divine Services Of A Conviction Of A Consciousness.