Some thirty winters years back, new, in isolation struggling, behind the then ill kept Moscow hospital where Dostoyevsky’s father had worked, having been able to hear on the radio or at the conservatory this movement of music, allowed me to console my self as little else did.
And when the snow was already deep enough, ot falling fast and full, I could voice it sounds quite loud as I paced alone on the path and lane, back and forth…
Stephen Lapeyrouse . . . Notes Dropped Along the Way 