This morning before my heart fell into despair, I was going to plug a well-structured collection I play every couple of summers or so:
It’s weird, rather melodramatic at times. I like it. But then again I had the image of Carl Ruggles as a crusty eccentric with many famous friends, as he was presented in his Times obit. Then just today I discovered he was a fascistic bigot, which means I may end up playing this as often as I read T.S. Eliot — almost never again.
P.S.: His paintings are P.U.