On Rachmaninoff's Birthday →
It is your 86th birthday and I am sitting crying at the corner of Ninth Street and Avenue A one swallow doesn’t make a summer this coffee is terribly tepid sometimes the 2nd symphony sounds like Purcell sometimes it sounds like Wozzeck’s last act where is J.F. Donnelly and his Russian wolfhounds? where is his wife, Helen? where is the cigar-smell and the hootings in the studio while I...