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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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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She found upon arriving that only ten or twelve of her fellow ticket-holders had proven equally indefatigable. And to her great surprise, she and her dauntless colleagues were admitted to the nearly-empty hall, and greeted there personally by Schnabel, who played for them alone.
End of conversation
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