Home Again, Home Again
I'm just now back at my apartment from the West Coast; I should have a meaningful thing or two to describe from the past week at some point (after about 15 hours of sleep, I think, since I took up my redeye flights home by alternately napping fitfully and reading Steven Pinker) but for now I want to note that I feel a little unnecessary, in that the blog seems to have been slightly more hilarious and Shostakovich-centered without me contributing than with.
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Yes, but note that we've been writing about Shostakovich because you lent me a book about Shostakovich, and because you and Pete were talking about Shostakovich. Thus you've been rather central even in absentia to our Shostakovich-centricity.
I do want you to tell me if you've read anything else about Lebedinsky's account of the Twelfth Symphony.
Welcome home, anyway.
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