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Yes, many’s the night I attended a recital in one of these hallowed musical morgues and each time I walked out I thought not of the music I had heard but of one of my foundlings, one of the bleeding cosmococcic crew I had hired or fired that day and the memory of whom neither Haydn, Bach, Scarlatti, Beethoven, Beelzebub, Schubert, Paganini or any of the wind, string, horn of cymblal clan of musikers could dispel. I could see him, poor devil, leaving the office with his messenger suit wrapped in  brown parcel, heading for the elevated line at the Brooklyn Bridge, where he would board a train for Fresh Pond Road or Pitkin Avenue , or maybe Kosciusko Street, there to descend into the swarm, grab a sour pickle, dodge a kick in the ass, peel the potatoes, clean the lice out of the beddng and say a prayer for his great grandfather who had died at the hand of a drunken Pole because the sigh of a beard floating in the wind was anathema to him. I could also see myelf walking Pitkin Avenue, or Kosciusko Street, searching for a certain hovel, or was it a kennel, and thinking to myself how lucky to be born a Gentile an speak English so well. (Is this still Brooklyn? Where am I?)
—Henry Miller, from Nexus (Paris, Obelisk Press: 1960)

Brooklyn-native Kenny Wisdom stacks sandbags in front of his Michelangeli albums

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