I can't get to sleep—too much accumulated tension—so instead I'm rereading John Canarina's excellent 2003 biography of Pierre Monteux, one of my favorite conductors. (I've no idea why, but I've always found it relaxing to read detail-crammed biographies of classical performers.)
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She retained her concert programs from each of these recitals, and these are among my most precious possessions. I marvel at the thought of my mother as a girl, sitting in the seventh row, while Rachmaninov performed the "Appassionata." Of course she never forgot the experience.
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Perhaps the most remarkable of all her concert-going experiences, though, was a certain Schnabel recital. It fell on a day when Seattle lay entombed beneath a mass of snow so thick that only by slogging through it for miles was my mother able, eventually, to reach the hall.
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Any relation to Ernő?
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