Eight Years Ago Today; and Yesterday, Arguably a Surprise

From the annals of Arguably Overthinking Pop Lyrics:
Is “Ain’t it a shame” REALLY all a friend can say of someone living on reds, vitamin C and cocaine?
This is a “friend?!” I cannot be the first to consider this, can I?
I probably shan’t, but some composer with a penchant for dance might could, write the Cthulhu Toodle-oo.
Porridger’s Almanack (Breakfast of Ganglions)

I always attempted to produce something conventional and it always, against my will, became something unusual.

— Arnold Schoenberg (at the U. of Chicago, 1946)

I wrote about composing Oxygen Footprint for Ensemble Aubade here. And later that month, eight years ago today, I finished it:
Whatever else this day may bring, it dawns upon the completion of the world's newest trio for flute, viola and harp. There is not only the pleasure of having finished the score, and the feeling that it is musical work in which I can take pride; but also the artistic confidence that the instrumentalists for whom I wrote the piece will also find the piece engaging, even exciting. And in turn, they will play the piece in November, and some in the audience may be puzzled, some in the audience may be enchanted, and what composer could ask for more?

And, thanks to Ensemble Aubade’s consistent and superb embassage for the piece, Oxygen Footprint is one of my pieces to have reached the widest audience. Meanwhile, yesterday:

My initial title for the Opus 192 was impossibly sentimental. I'm not averse to sentiment, but for this title, no. I decided that the best solution was to turn to Whitman, so the title is O singer, bashful and tender, I hear your notes. And that afternoon, instead of sleeping after PT, I drew up a string fugato.

Karl Henning · Op138a Oxygen Footprint

6 June 2005 Review

“Darning his socks in the night when there’s nobody there” ... what, he’s supposed to darn his socks when he has guests over for tea?!

– Postcards From Red Squirrel Trail

“You won’t get away from Batman that easy!”
—”Easily: Good grammar is essential, Robin.”

The pairing on this disc is remarkably fortuitous. These are the last two of a series of ballets Prokofiev wrote for Diaghilev’s Russian Seasons, written within just a couple of years of one another, in the late 1920s; they both met with success on the Paris stage, and (ironically) were both works which Prokofiev couldn’t really “carry” into the Soviet Union when he re-patriated to Russia. Yet the two works are still more intriguing in their differences. Prokofiev wrote Le pas d’acier at a time when the style mécanique was tout ce qu’il y a du chic in Paris; and it is a ballet whose scenario expresses some of the fascination which the Communist experiment exercised on Western intellectuals in the 20s (this was before the West much reckoned the cumulative human cost of this radical experiment). On the surface, it seems a ballet which ought to have pleased the music bureaucrats in Moscow; but there can be no pleasing some people. L’enfant prodigue is of course a stage adaptation of the Biblical parable; in terms of Prokofiev’s subsequent return to Russia, this piece was as leaden a balloon as one might attempt to fly, in an atheistic Communist state. In 1925 Diaghilev (whose company had produced The Buffoon in 1921) approached Prokofiev for (in the composer’s words), “a subject from contemporary life; this is to put it delicately. Crudely translated, it means that I have to write a Bolshevik ballet”. There is something a bit brash, impersonal, Mayakovskyan in the overall tone; the focus of far the greater part of the action is on the People, the Collective, a general bustle of activity. Even the principals are designated by trade: the Sailor (who will become a Worker) and the Working Girl have one tender duet, immediately before the Scene Change; it is a beautiful number, the more poignant for being the only personal moment in the ballet. Prokofiev labored assiduously on his scores, even when on tour; a busy schedule notwithstanding, he orchestrated 60 pages of Le pas d’acier while in America. Often freely spoken, he once replied to an American reporter’s query about the American music scene: “You all ride in automobiles, yet you lag behind in music. I would prefer you rode in horse-drawn carriages but were more up-to-date in music”. Neither the French Le pas d’acier nor the English The Steel Step really captures the sense of the noun in the Russian title, which is more like The Steel Leap. Le pas d’acier is Prokofiev’s Opus 41; his Opus 40 was the enormous and inexorable Symphony No. 2. Even though motoric rhythm is an element characteristic of Prokofiev from the start (cf. the Opus 11 Toccata for piano), and though his music would always be ready for bursts of vigorous energy, there is an earthy right-ness to the proximity of this “iron and steel” Symphony, and this ballet. Yet they are strikingly distinct, as well; the Symphony almost constantly revels in crunchy harmonies, and is a riot of apparently chaotic textures spanning broad stretches of time; the ballet has a consistent “C-majorish-ness” (domazhornost) to it, sings a succession of melodies, quite a few of which return from time to time, and, of course, the whole consists of a number of relatively compact dance numbers. The first scene opens with a tutti unison, which will return as one element in the ebullient polyphony of the Finale. There is something a little tongue-in-cheek, perhaps, in Prokofiev depicting the Commissars with quietly dignified bassoons; but then a cheerful 3/4 tune from the second number (Train with Baggage-Laden Peasants) returns, and against this the Commissar theme is set in firm (and possibly bureaucratic) counterpoint. All the crowd scenes of the ballet are an energetic bustle, with well-shaped melodies; inviting some comparison to (without resting in the shadow of) Petrushka. The Factory is especially effective musical illustration, a chromatic ostinato in bassoons, violas and piano serving as the undercurrent hum of the machinery, while the oboes and English horn play a steady, understated, purposeful melody. There is a seeming dissonance between alterations associated with L’enfant prodigue. Although the parable from the Gospel according to St Luke is universally known as the Prodigal Son, the title substitutes for fils the more general enfant. Yet the ballet’s scenario fleshes out (so to speak) the episode of the Prodigal’s dissipation, with a very specific (and stageworthy) Seductress, who is absent from Luke’s narrative. We merely remark in passing that these two changes do not seem quite harmonious: changing the title to L’enfant ‘un-sexes’ the title character, which cannot really be said for the Seductress. Where Le pas d’acier is a full-throated Song of the Collective, L’enfant prodigue is, in sharp contrast, a tender drama in the life of one very human family. That it is a ballet Prokofiev wrote for Diaghilev, is one of music’s supreme ironies. The Saisons russes in Paris were always about spectacle, brilliance, surface and wit (and, to be sure, bringing glorious Russian artistic talent to the Western audience). The sentimentality of the 19th century was forbidden. But such is the power of the reconciliation scene with which Prokofiev closes L’enfant prodigue, that many at the première shed tears. Said Balanchine, “It was Lifar [Serge Lifar, who created the title role], on his knees, that made the ballet.” Diaghilev widely praised the score as a masterpiece: “At this moment when we are experiencing such a shortage of real feelings, it seems simply incredible that Prokofiev could have found such musical expressiveness”. The opening scene (The Departure) is an archetype of Prokofiev’s economy of writing, and of the succinct power of his musical characterization. The vigorous, and unsentimental (‘unfeeling’) opening which depicts the son’s determination to leave; the tender entreaties of his sisters that he stay (solo clarinet in two statements, then solo oboe); these alternate in a brilliantly paced dialogue, yielding to a long-breathed, calm aria senza voce for the father’s appeal to his son. But the son’s mind is made up. Prokofiev’s gift for writing for the stage displays itself here in music which practically choreographs itself. Having left his family, the son is now free to have a great time with his friends (who will remain his friends as long as he is flush with his inheritance). The second scene opens with a brute, coarse energy which is a cousin to the Knights' Dance in Romeo & Juliet; if it is somewhat thick-skulled music, it serves a fine-gauged dramaturgical purpose, and contrasts perfectly with the music of those who truly love the son. The entire ballet is a masterful fusion of story with expertly turned music. A particular delight is the agile clarinet trio (two soprano, one bass) of the Burglary scene. The Prodigal awakes from his excesses, and remorse steals upon him with artful variations on the father’s first-scene ‘aria’, and music of his sisters’ pleading. The emotional crest, though, is of course the Return of the Prodigal (in Prokofiev’s scenario, undisturbed by the displeasure of the older son of the Gospel parable), a miraculous achievement of tender understatement, combined with quiet strength, a scene which seems only briefly to raise its voice above a whisper. Mikhail Jurowski and the WDR Symphony give these ballets impeccably phrased, vibrant readings here. Thanks to their witness, the world may well wonder why these pieces have lain neglected for so long. Although Diaghilev had let The Buffoon drop out of his company’s repertory, Le pas d’acier played for three seasons running. L’enfant prodigue premiered in May of 1929; but Diaghilev’s health failed rapidly, and he died that August, at age 57. The Russian Seasons would after re-organize and continue in name. But without Diaghilev, who had felt a paternal interest in fostering Prokofiev (“my second son,” he called Sergei Sergeyevich, after his “first,” Stravinsky); and because Prokofiev’s at times difficult personality had alienated some key people in the company (notably Balanchine), there was no one after Diaghilev to keep either Le pas d’acier or L’enfant going. After December of 1935, when Prokofiev returned to take up permanent residence in Moscow, there was little in his power to keep the ballets in circulation there, either.

An "Ain't" Addendum

No one teases the bejeezus out of "Bringing in the Sheaves," like Chas Ives
Every night, Barry fights to keep it in.
From the Bureau of Sentimental Claptrap: “We don’t have tomorrow, but we had yesterday.”
Il n’y a personne ici, sauf nous les poulets.
Porridger’s Almanack (Breakfast of Ganglions)

Schoenberg remains; those who cannot understand him come and go.

— Chas Wuorinen

Something I meant to say as a reflection upon our first rehearsal for the November concert at King’s Chapel: Even as I know that I should not make the reading of this blog at all tedious for you, the Reader, and must not therefore keep sounding a sour note, I’ve struggled to remain optimistic as a composer trying to make a name for himself. The paucity of performances in whose organization I am not directly involved. The considerable body of music which (although eminently likeable) sits unperformed. All the scores I submit to calls which result only in the latest rejection. If I had perhaps begun to feel that I was something of a failure, I’m deeply grateful to my colleagues for Monday’s session made me feel again that I really am a composer. To this quixotic end I decided to write another chamber orchestra piece, 15 minutes in duration. I’ll reserve my provisional title as I suspect it’s really off-puttingly sentimental and I strongly suspect a change even before I get to notes. I set up the file in Sibelius (Opus 192) but—as just suggested—there are as yet no notes. I felt like shaking up my process a bit, just for a change-up. It’s a long time since I’ve done this, but I’m graphing the piece out and shall work in from the abstract. This work, I have begun.

The picture is Michelangelo’s David bricked up for protection during the throes of the Second World War.

Inaugurating "Ain't"

Name for a night club: The Purple Gerbil
Breakfast at Chimpanzee’s
Just heard someone ask “What flavor is this?” in CVS; and I barely stopped myself from piping in with “It’s bleeding seabird flavor, innit?”

– Postcards From Red Squirrel Trail

One of life’s great dilemmas is, you can’t get a job if you have no experience, and you can’t get experience without a job. God creates things like that, I think, to build our character and teach us frustration.

— Lewis Grizzard, If I Ever Get Back to Georgia, I’m Gonna Nail My Feet to the Ground

We got together and read Nostalgia Ain’t What It Used to Be for the first time:

Review of 12 May 2005

I’m watching “In Search of Beethoven,” which is quite good, of course, though perhaps the marvel is, that anyone lost him.
Who’s panic buying accordions?
And today, in “things which adults have sung”...
Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk, I’m a woman’s man: no time for talk....
Porridger’s Almanack (Breakfast of Ganglions)

Sorry, honey, but I haven’t worn a nightgown in years.

— Gregory Peck to Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday

Prokofiev wrote with legendary facility and surety. Sergei Eisenstein wrote of the experience of working with the composer on the film, Alexander Nevsky: “We view a new piece of film at night. And in the morning, a new piece of music will be ready for it. Prokofiev works like a clock. The clock does not run fast, nor does it run slow.” Uncharacteristically, then, the piece which eventually became the Symphony-Concerto for cello and orchestra cost Prokofiev unusual time and labor. He composed the first sketches for a Cello Concerto № 1 in the summer of 1933, a summer he spent largely in Paris. The composer often worked on a number of projects in parallel; but in the case of the Cello Concerto, his Muse was unusually coy. He would complete a second Violin Concerto three years before the Cello Concerto’s première in Moscow on 26 November 1938. Of the ultimate piece, cellist Alexander Ivashkin notes in this CD booklet, “The Symphony-Concerto is indeed extremely difficult for the cello, but it is never impossible (as was the case with Cello Concerto No. 1).” The impossibility of the solo part did not overawe the young Mstislav Rostropovich, however, who played the concerto in December of 1947, in the Small Hall of the Moscow Conservatory; when the composer went backstage afterwards, he promised the cellist to rewrite the concerto for him. Slava spent some time at the Prokofiev dacha for four successive summers; at last, a piece so utterly re-worked, that Prokofiev dubbed it Cello Concerto № 2, received its première in Moscow on 18 February 1952, with Sviatoslav Richter conducting. In rehearsal, members of the orchestra ridiculed the solo part as unplayable and dissonant. With Rostropovich as consultant, Prokofiev probably did not commit to paper what he was not confident that the cellist could execute; but there are numerous quadruple-stops (the cellist playing all four strings at once), often in rapid succession; some passages of the formidable cadenzas are notated on two staves; and there are many rapid figurations high (for the cello) on the treble clef. Still, following this performance Prokofiev made considerable changes in the orchestration, recomposed the third movement, and then definitively re-titled the work Symphony-Concerto. In this final form, the piece would not be performed in public until after the composer’s passing, on 5 March 1953 (deeply ironically, the same day that Stalin died). The recomposition of the third movement is an amusing tale. In 1948, the (deservedly) unknown Soviet composer Vladimir Zakharov offered the opinion that Prokofiev had no melodic talent. When Prokofiev re-worked the third movement, he exchanged a series of variations on a Zakharov song, “Bud’te zdorovy, zhivite bogato (Be healthy, live richly)” for one of the interior episodes. The character and breadth of the piece itself, argue for the unusual title (which is Symphony-Concerto, and not Sinfonia concertante with its implications of Mozartean delicacy and classical restraint). In length (40 minutes), it is not much briefer than both the violin concerti put together. Considered as a Symphony, this is a piece which departs more freely from the ‘symphony mold’ than was quite approved by the Proletkult (in 1948, Prokofiev had been censured for his Symphony № 6, whose most obvious features are its three-movement cast, and insufficient cheerfulness). In contrast the Symphony № 7 fits neatly the classic four-movement model, and is beguilingly transparent — “But is not the music too simple?” he pressed his colleagues; yet the fact is that Prokofiev wrote convincingly, regardless of where any given piece registers on the density scale. Closer in spirit to his other concerti than to the later symphonies, the Symphony-Concerto is richly episodic; the overall design is clear enough, yet each succeeding passage has an air of novel discovery to it. Apart from its symphonic scope, the piece is a departure from the concerto tradition in overall plan; instead of the usual fast-slow-fast scheme, Prokofiev wrote a central Allegro giusto (at nearly 18 minutes, the dominant movement) flanked by two Andantes. The first movement opens with a fortissimo statement of a simple la-ti-do-mi ostinato (the same figure which, more hushed, accompanies “Juliet alone”, in № 47 of Romeo & Juliet). The first and second movements have extended passages in Prokofiev’s lyrical vein. The third movement begins with a curiously Mendelssohnian chord, and the soloist declaims Prokofiev’s theme, which then undergoes some rhythmic transformation; a brief developmental episode begins to introduce fragments of the Zakharov “Bud’te zdorovy” as a motivic outgrowth of Prokofiev’s tune. Its complete initial statement is entrusted to the bassoon; the tune is passed to the soloist in double-stops, then to a sextet of soli strings, in a charmingly archaic intrusion. Prokofiev’s theme returns in a modified recapitulation, and then there is a magical transformation of the theme, with eighth-notes sparkling in the celesta against the soloist. Paris in the early 1920s flirted with artistic implications of the Machine Age. Then it was that expatriate American George Antheil scored a Ballet mécanique for eight pianos, pianola, four xylophones, two electric bells, two propellers, tam-tam, four bass drums and siren. Swiss composer Arthur Honegger enjoyed his greatest single success, perhaps, with his “allegory in speed,” Pacific 231, which used an orchestra of more traditional make-up to imitate a locomotive. In his first symphony, Prokofiev had nodded towards the august tradition of Haydn; and for his next, he wanted nothing to do with the ‘dead hand’ of Glazunov, as he rebuked his friend Myaskovsky for his latest symphonic work. Prokofiev found some fascination in the style mécanique, though he was not completely intoxicated by it; he coolly evaluated Honegger’s locomotive as “insignificant in content but very tough and brilliantly orchestrated.” Very tough and brilliantly orchestrated is a perfectly apt description for the Allegro ben articolato which is the first movement of the Symphony № 2. So dense is the scoring that, Prokofiev’s focused labors notwithstanding, the orchestration was not finished until two weeks before the premiere (6 June 1925). Given such a short time for Koussevitsky and the orchestra to try to subdue so unusual a score, it is no surprise that this first performance nonplussed the audience; and the reviews, ranging from tepid to scornful, stung Prokofiev. Walter Straram rehearsed the orchestra intensively for the second presentation of the symphony, on 26 May 1926 “If they haven’t learned to love it,” Prokofiev wrote Myaskovsky, "then at least now they are afraid of it.” The first challenging feature of the symphony is, it is in two movements, but lasts nearly forty minutes in total. (Strangely, the duration listed in the Boosey & Hawkes score is 25 minutes; with determined pacing, the second movement, alone, could be made to fit in at 25 minutes, but the entire symphony — impossible.) For its twelve minutes, the first movement is an unstoppable force of motoric rhythms, and seething melodic fragments. A bit surprisingly (considering its non-traditional surface), the movement is laid out as almost a routine sonata-design. Only, the theme groups are not melodies clearly exposed in a single recognizable line; the first theme group is a boiling polyphonic goulash which continues to puzzle many listeners even today. But the closing theme is marked by a relaxation in tempo, and draws to a clear cadence; the beginning of the development discloses itself honestly to the ear; the recapitulation is a clear event. Once the listener gets his bearings with these, the arrival of the second theme group in both exposition and recap becomes, well, obvious. The whole arc of the movement is a swirl of dense textures and unrelenting harmonic clashes, though supporting what is generally diatonic thematic material (in which, Prokofiev mastered the grammatical lessons from Stravinsky's Le sacre du printemps). Perhaps the problem in this piece’s reception then was, its breadth. (And subsequently, it is one of a number of major works which it would prove impractical for Prokofiev to bring forward in the Soviet Union.) But its architecture holds together; there is a sense in which the only ‘problem’ with Prokofiev’s piece is, that it came forty years ahead of the day when such sustained pitch density would become general practice. The Theme and Variations of the second movement is a fusion of the traditional form, with the fragmentary approach to melodic material employed in the first movement. In the classic theme and variations, the overall form of the theme is preserved in each variation, as a framework; but Prokofiev elects to do otherwise. His theme for the second movement, in abrupt contrast to the sustained blaze of activity of the first, is a quiet melody floating above an accompaniment of serene, shimmering calm — is in fact, the first long-breathed tuneful utterance of the piece. The variations take up the general principle of piecing the melody apart which characterized the first movement; each variation has its own shape, and the first through third variations form a big accelerando. Variation IV is a silken Larghetto. Subsequent variations gradually bring first the character, and then thematic material, from the first movement into juxtaposition with the varied theme; the result is a (loud) echo of the Allegro ben articolato, culminating in a full-throated passage like a huge hammer ... and then ... the theme returns, literally, without alteration save for the very last cadence. Was the violent storm only a dream? Or is this calm the dream? Valery Polyansky and the Russian State Symphony Orchestra are in admirable command of these two enormous, unwieldy scores; and Alexander Ivashkin’s performance of the Symphony-Concerto is nothing short of breathtaking. In the Symphony-Concerto, there are a two brief passages where a background contrapuntal figure is faint in the back of the mix; and three measures where the soloist and accompaniment lose their otherwise perfect synchrony. But these are trivial flaws, in comparison to a great achievement with these two still-underappreciated masterworks.
Label: Chandos
Sergei Prokofiev Symphony № 2 in d minor, Op. 40
Sinfonia Concertante for cello & orchestra in e minor, Op. 125
Alexander Ivashkin - cello
Russian State Symphony Orchestra Valery Polyansky

September 2013 Review

Sooner or later, Love was gonna get him.
The cheapskate of Sheepsgate.
Shredded Memory Foam—Does it remember?

– Postcards From Red Squirrel Trail

Icing the Body Electric

— A commentator whose cadence could have been truer to both Ray Bradbury and Walt Whitman

Marina Frolova-Walker and Jonathan Walker (2012). MUSIC AND SOVIET POWER 1917–1932. Woodbridge, UK: The Boydell Press. 404 pp., $99.00. ISBN 978-84383-703-9 (hardcover). “I cannot forecast to you the action of Russia,” Churchill famously cautioned in a radio broadcast of October 1939. “It is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.” In the pell-mell era immediately following the October Revolution and ensuing Civil War, most Russians within the Soviet Union found themselves in the midst of no less puzzling a riddle. Pity, then, the Western musicologists who in our day seek to make sense of that political, social, and artistic foment. The Frolova-Walkers have done historians, musicologists, and Russophiles an exemplary service with a landmark volume of source documents, which step us year by year, from when the blank shot fired from the Aurora’s forecastle signaled the assault on the Winter Palace, to Prokofiev’s virtually permanent repatriation in November of 1932. The documents themselves range widely from reviews of stage events and philosophic discourses on the work of diverse composers, to Arseny Avraamov’s instructions (and argument) for his experimental Symphony of Sirens, to the text of the 1932 Resolution of the Central Committee On the Restructuring of Literary and Artistic Organizations. It is fascinating to read in voices of the time the various (and shifting) attitudes towards major musical figures, and it is at times chilling to review documents that, in hindsight, are emblematic of a steel curtain drawing down. For instance, it was possible for the State Cappella to program Rachmaninov’s All-Night Vigil (in the West, popularly miscalled Vespers) as late as February of 1926—but not without provoking scathing “previews” in print:
And what is the purpose of the State Cappella?
Today—to sing of the Revolution!
Tomorrow—the All-Night Vigil?
Somehow this two-faced nonsense does not sit well with a state institution, ideologically speaking. One position excludes the other. And the “historicity” of Rachmaninov’s Vigil is extremely dubious; no one is proposing to use it for educational purposes—there would be no reason to do so. It seems only right, then, to put a question to Rosfil the Russian Philharmonia]: Why did Rosfil make the secular State Cappella sing the “all-night vigil”? Or, if that’s not the case, then why has a sacred choir of church singers been named the “State Cappella”? (p. 171)
In the introductory section to each succeeding year, the authors of the present volume do an exemplary job of illuming the intellectual and political environment of the documents. The times were extraordinary, and the material does not lend itself readily to easy bullet-points. Not only are there many people (artists, officials, propagandists) and organizations (whose purpose did not necessarily remain consistent), but there is the truth illustrated by the quip, “In a room where you have four Communists, there are five opinions represented.” In spite of the thickets of the evolving situation, the Frolova-Walkers are lucid, helpful, and light of touch; they write with both a respect for accurate optics on the details, and with a sensitivity to the broader narrative. In 1927, for instance:
. . . a few months later, Prokofiev was able to read of Shostakovich’s great public success with his symphony To October (now usually known as the Symphony No. 2)—this was the commission which Prokofiev had summarily rejected, and which was then offered to Shostakovich, who took it up with alacrity. The 20-year-old composer, who had just become a celebrity among Leningrad concertgoers, thanks to his First Symphony, still lacked any funds to ensure the performance of his music, and the commission signaled the prospect of a change for the better, since it promised performance and publication shortly after completion. The commission was issued by Shulgin’s Agitational Department at Muzsector, and the only disadvantage was the stipulation that the work should include a setting of a rather clumsy political text by Alexander Bezïmensky. Shostakovich made no objection to this, and also followed Shulgin’s advice that a factory whistle would sit well within the kind of work they hoped to see. At first, his principal motivation was apparently the thought of the foreign trip the commission fee might possibly cover: “Every day I write four-score pages of ‘patriotic music’ while hearing the call: To Paris! To Paris!,” but in the end, he was proud of his new score. (p. 183)
The book capably serves a dual purpose. It is, of course, an anthology of period documents from which one might target a specific item or three; but its style and content are of an order which make the book an engaging cover-to-cover read. Nor does this reviewer feel that the reader need be a specialist in the period or in Russian music to approach Music and Soviet Power 1917–1932; but the reader who has more general musical or historic interests would likely find the book highly rewarding.
Karl Henning
Composer and Independent Scholar
Boston, MA

An Exercise Without Expectation

I dreamt I was at a gathering of many of my Boston musical friends,
and when I asked for the date of a certain concert, the answer came back,
“the fourth of Othello.”
“Did you just rechristen the month of October?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“It’ll KILL Desdemona.”
A number of friends cleared their throats in acknowledgement/protest of the pun.
I believe it’s the first I’ve heard the clearing of throats as a sound in my dreams.
Porridger’s Almanack (Breakfast of Ganglions)

Love is that condition in which the happiness of another person is essential to your own.

— Robt A. Heinlein

Seeing a call for unaccompanied violin pieces, I decided to adapt Thoreau in Concord Jail. If they do not accept it, then they do not. Fine.