If I weren't the way I am, I shouldn't write my symphonies.

I am hitting my head against the walls, but the walls are giving way.

With the coming of spring, I am calm again.

I am thrice homeless, as a native of Bohemia in Austria, as an Austrian among Germans, and as a Jew throughout the world. Everywhere an intruder, never welcomed.

I write what I see; I paint what I am.

I write lustily and humorously. It isn't calculated; it's the way I think. I've invented a writing style that expresses who I am.