The Swedish He Knew Was Mostly From

He Believed That Life, True Life, Was Something That Was Stored In Music. True Life Was Kept Safe In The Lines Of Tchaikovsky's Eugene Onegin While You Went Out In The World And Met The Obligations Required Of You. Certainly He Knew (though Did Not Completely Understand) That Opera Wasn't For Everyone, But For Everyone He Hoped There Was Something. The Records He Cherished, The Rare Opportunities To See A Live Performance, Those Were The Marks By Which He Gauged His Ability To Love.

Why Is It That We Understand Playing The Cello Will Require Work, But We Attribute Writing To The Magic Of Inspiration?

Sometimes Love Does Not Have The Most Honorable Beginnings, And The Endings, The Endings Will Break You In Half. It's Everything In Between We Live For.

Our Friendship Was Like Our Writing In Some Ways. It Was The Only Thing That Was Interesting About Our Otherwise Dull Lives. We Were Better Off When We Were Together. Together We Were A Small Society Of Ambition And High Ideals. We Were Tender And Patient And Kind. We Were Not Like The World At All.

Thank God Roxane Coss Had Not Fallen In Love With One Of The Russians. She Doubted They Could Make It Up The Stairs Without Stopping For A Cigarette And Telling At Least One Loud Story That No One Could Understand.