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

-Frederic Chopin

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I Really Don't Know

Frederic Chopin

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

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More From Frederic Chopin

Here, Whatever Is Not Boring Is Not English.

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.

If The Newspapers Cut Me Up So Much That I Shall Not Venture Before The World Again, I Have Resolved To Become A House Painter; That Would Be As Easy As Anything Else, And I Should, At Any Rate, Still Be An Artist!

It Is Dreadful When Something Weighs On Your Mind, Not To Have A Soul To Unburden Yourself To. You Know What I Mean. I Tell My Piano The Things I Used To Tell You.

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.

Nothing Is More Odious Than Music Without Hidden Meaning.

One Needs Only To Study A Certain Positioning Of The Hand In Relation To The Keys To Obtain With Ease The Most Beautiful Sounds, To Know How To Play Long Notes And Short Notes And To Achieve Certain Unlimited Dexterity. A Well Formed Technique, It Seems To Me, Can Control And Vary A Beautiful Sound Quality.

To Be A Great Composer Requires Immense Experience... One Acquires This By Listening Not Only To Other Men's Work, But Above All To One's Own!

Simplicity Is The Highest Goal, Achievable When You Have Overcome All Difficulties.

I Am Not Fitted To Give Concerts. The Audience Intimidates Me, I Feel Choked By Its Breath, Paralyzed By Its Curious Glances, Struck Dumb By All Those Strange Faces.

The Last Thing Is Simplicity. After Having Gone Through All The Difficulties, Having Played An Endless Number Of Notes, It Is Simplicity That Matters, With All Its Charm. It Is The Final Seal On Art. Anyone Who Strives For This To Begin With Will Be Disappointed. You Cannot Begin At The End.

Play Mozart In Memory Of Me - And I Will Hear You.

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.

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.

Man Is Never Always Happy, And Very Often Only A Brief Period Of Happiness Is Granted Him In This World; So Why Escape From This Dream Which Cannot Last Long?

Put All Your Soul Into It, Play The Way You Feel!

Concerts Are Never Real Music, You Have To Give Up The Idea Of Hearing In Them All The Most Beautiful Things Of Art.

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

The Earth Is Suffocating... Swear To Make Them Cut Me Open, So That I Won't Be Buried Alive.

Here, Waltzes Are Called Works! And Strauss And Lanner, Who Play Them For Dancing, Are Called Kapellmeistern. This Does Not Mean That Everyone Thinks Like That; Indeed, Nearly Everyone Laughs About It; But Only Waltzes Get Printed.

I Have Met A Great Celebrity, Madame Dudevant, Known As George Sand... Her Appearance Is Not To My Liking. Indeed There Is Something About Her Which Positively Repels Me... What An Unattractive Person La Sand Is... Is She Really A Woman? I'm Inclined To Doubt It.

I Tell My Piano The Things I Used To Tell You

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

You Already Know When I'm Writing, So Don't Be Surprised If It's Short And Dry, Because I'm Too Hungry To Write Anything Fat

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

Health And Strength

Chopin Was The First Piano Composer Who Knew Exactly How To Make Piano Sound Reach Fullness, Radiance And Grandness. What To Regard And What, By All Means, To Avoid. Chopin Was Keenly Aware Of The Overtones And He Did Take Care Of Them So Artfully.

I Wish I Could Throw Off The Thoughts Which Poison My Happiness, But I Take A Kind Of Pleasure In Indulging Them.

Simplicity Is The Final Achievement. After One Has Played A Vast Quantity Of Notes And More Notes, It Is Simplicity That Emerges As The Crowning Reward Of Art.

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.

We Fell Silent And All Joking Ceased. We Gazed Mutely Into Each Other's Eyes And An Intense Longing For The Fullest Avowal Of The Truth Forced Us To A Confession, Requiring No Words Whatever, Or The Incommensurable Misfortune That Weighed Upon Us. With Tears And Sobs We Sealed A Vow To Belong To Each Other Alone.

Every Difficulty Slurred Over Will Be A Ghost To Disturb Your Repose Later On.

Bach Is Like An Astronomer Who, With The Help Of Ciphers, Finds The Most Wonderful Stars . . . Beethoven Embraced The Universe With The Power Of His Spirit . . . I Do Not Climb So High. A Long Time Ago I Decided That My Universe Will Be The Soul And Heart Of Man.

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.

Oh, How Hard It Must Be To Die Anywhere But In Ones Birthplace.

England Is A Country Of Pianos, They Are Everywhere.

Liszt Commenting On The Music Of Frédéric Chopin: He Confided . . . Those Inexpressible Sorrows To Which The Pious Give Vent In Their Communication With Their Maker. What They Never Say Except Upon Their Knees, He Said In His Palpitating Compositions.

They Want Me To Give Another Concert But I Have No Desire To Do So. You Cannot Imagine What A Torture The Three Days Before A Public Appearance Are To Me.

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).

England Is So Surrounded By The Boredom Of Conventionalities, That It Is All One To Them Whether Music Is Good Or Bad, Since They Have To Hear It From Morning Till Night. For Here They Have Flower-shows With Music, Dinners With Music, Sales With Music.

Mozart Encompasses The Entire Domain Of Musical Creation, But I've Got Only The Keyboard In My Poor Head.

Nothing Is More Beautiful Than The Sound Of The Guitar.

I'm A Revolutionary, Money Means Nothing To Me.

I Don't Know How It Is, But The Germans Are Amazed At Me And I Am Amazed At Them For Finding Anything To Be Amazed About.

When One Does A Thing, It Appears Good, Otherwise One Would Not Write It. Only Later Comes Reflection, And One Discards Or Accepts The Thing. Time Is The Best Censor, And Patience A Most Excellent Teacher.

Vienna Is A Handsome, Lively City, And Pleases Me Exceedingly.

If I Were Still Stupider Than I Am, I Should Think Myself At The Apex Of My Career; Yet I Know How Much I Still Lack, To Reach Perfection; I See It The More Clearly Now That I Live Only Among First-rank Artists And Know What Each One Of Them Lacks.

Time Is The Best Of Critics; And Patience The Best Of Teachers.

Even In Winter It Shall Be Green In My Heart.

There Are Certain Times When I Feel More Inspired, Filled With A Strong Power That Forces Me To Listen To My Inner Voice, And When I Feel More Need Than Ever For A Pleyel Piano.

The Official Bulletin Declared That The Poles Should Be As Proud Of Me As The Germans Are Of Mozart; Obvious Nonsense.

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

Sometimes I Can Only Groan, And Suffer, And Pour Out My Despair At The Piano.

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.

Yesterday's Concert Was A Success. I Hasten To Let You Know. I Inform Your Lordship That I Was Not A Bit Nervous And Played As I Play When I Am Alone. It Went Well... And I Had To Come Back And Bow Four Times.

Bach Is Like An Astronomer Who, With The Help Of Ciphers, Finds The Most Wonderful Stars.

Nothing Is More Beautiful Than A Guitar, Except, Possibly Two.

Oh, How Miserable It Is To Have No One To Share Your Sorrows And Joys, And, When Your Heart Is Heavy, To Have No Soul To Whom You Can Pour Out Your Woes.

I Haven't Heard Anything So Great For A Long Time; Beethoven Snaps His Fingers At The Whole World.

Simplicity Is The Final Achievement.

Among The Numerous Pleasures Of Vienna The Hotel Evenings Are Famous. During Supper Strauss Or Lanner Play Waltzes...after Every Waltz They Get Huge Applause; And If They Play A Quodlibet, Or Jumble Of Opera, Song And Dance, The Hearers Are So Overjoyed That They Don't Know What To Do With Themselves. It Shows The Corrupt Taste Of The Viennese Public.

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

Hats Off, Gentlemen - A Genius! If The Mighty Autocrat Of The North Knew What A Dangerous Enemy Threatened Him In Chopin's Works In The Simple Tunes Of His Mazurkas, He Would Forbid This Music. Chopin's Works Are Canons Buried In Flowers.

As Something Has Involuntarily Crept Into My Head Through My Eyes,i Love To Indulge It, Even Though It May Be All Wrong.

Through My Eyes

I Feel Like A Novice, Just As I Felt Before I Knew Anything Of The Keyboard. It Is Far Too Original, And I Shall End Up Not Being Able To Learn It Myself.

A Long Time Ago I Decided That My Universe Will Be The Soul And Heart Of Man.

After A Rest In Edinburgh, Where, Passing A Music-shop, I Heard Some Blind Man Playing A Mazurka Of Mine.

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