Life resembles a novel more often than novels resemble life.Art is a demonstration of which nature is the proof.Immodest creature, you do not want a woman who will accept your faults, you want the one who pretends you are faultless – one who will caress the hand that strikes her and kiss the lips that lie to her.Masterpieces are only lucky attempts.Art is not a study of positive reality, it is the seeking for ideal truth.Which of us has not some sorrow to dull, or some yoke to cast off?Art for the sake of truth, for the sake of what is beautiful and good — that is the creed I seek.He made a single instrument speak a language of infinity. He could often sum up, in ten lines that a child could play, poems of a boundless exaltation, dramas of unequalled power.
Enwere m ebumnuche, ọrụ, ka anyị kwuo okwu ahụ, agụụ. Ọrụ nke ide ihe na-eme ihe ike na nke fọrọ nke nta ka ọ ghara ibibi ya.
Akwụkwọ ozi Jules Boucoiran, (4 Maachị 1831), nke e bipụtara na Georges Lubin (ed.) Nkwekọrịta (Paris: Garnier Freres, 1964-95) vol. 1, p. 817-18; Frederick Niecks Frederick Chopin: Dịka nwoke na onye egwu (London: Novello, 1890) vol. 1, p.334
Ọ bụghị oge mbụ m hụrụ ka okwu ike nwere karịa echiche, ọkachasị na France.
Indiana, pt. 1, nk. 2 (1832); Sylvia Raphael (trans.) Indiana (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000) p. 23