Carnegie Hall Quotes

And then Adam Wilde shows up at Carnegie Hall on the biggest night of my career, and it felt like more than a coincidence. It felt like a gift. From them. For my first recital ever, they gave me a cello. And for this one, they gave me you.

Practice does not make perfect. Practice makes permanent. Repeat the same mistakes over and over, and you don't get any closer to Carnegie Hall.

Write poorly. Suck. Write Awful. Terribly. Frightfully. Don’t care. Turn off the inner editor. Let yourself write. Let it flow. Let yourself fail. Do something crazy. Write 50,000 words in the month of November. I did it. It was fun. It was insane. It was 1,667 words per day. It was possible, but you have to turn off the inner critic off completely. Just write. Quickly. In bursts. With joy. If you can’t write, run away. Come back. Write again. Writing is like anything else. You won’t get good at it immediately. It’s a craft. You have to keep getting better. You don’t get to Juilliard unless you practice. You want to get to Carnegie Hall? Practice. Practice. Practice ..or give them a lot of money. Like anything else it takes 10,000 hours to get to mastery. Just like Malcolm Gladwell says. So write. Fail. Get your thoughts down. Let it rest. Let is marinate. Then edit, but don’t edit as you type. That just slows the brain down. Find a daily practice. For me it’s blogging. It’s fun. The more you write the easier it gets. The more it is a flow, the less a worry. It’s not for school, it’s not for a grade, it’s just to get your thoughts out there. You know they want to come out. So keep at it. Make it a practice. Write poorly. Write awfully. Write with abandon and it may end up being really really good.

entonces Adam Wilde aparece en Carnegie Hall en la noche más grande de mi carrera, y se sintió como más que una coincidencia. Se sintió como un regalo. De ellos. Para mi primer recital, me dieron un violonchelo. Y para éste, me dieron tu presencia. -Mia

Don’t I have a choice in this?” But when she looks behind her, the answer is clear. There are two guards waiting to make sure that she has no choice at all. And as they lead her away, she thinks of Mr. Durkin. With a bitter laugh, Risa realizes that he may get his wish after all. Someday he may see her hands playing in Carnegie Hall. Unfortunately, the rest of Risa won’t be there.

Everywhere in the world, music enhances a hall, with one exception: Carnegie Hall enhances the music.

The respectable family that supports worthless relatives or covers up their crimes in order to "protect the family name"(as if the moral stature of one man could be damaged by the actions of another) -the bum who boasts that his great-grandfather was an empire-builder, or the small-town spinster who boasts that her maternal great-uncle was a state senator and her third cousin gave a concert at carnegie hall (as if the achievement of one man could rub off on the mediocrity of another) -the parents who search geneological trees in order to evaluate their prospective son-in-law. -the celebrity who starts his autobiography with a detailed account of his family history -All these are samples of racism.

I’m on a side of a road somewhere, stuck in the middle of a very deep hole, with no way of getting out. Never mind how I got in there, it’s not relevant to the story. I’ll invent a back-story… I was walking to get pizza and a chasm opened up in the earth and I fell in, and now I’m at the bottom of this hole, screaming for help. And along comes you. Now, maybe you just keep walking. You know, there’s a strange guy screaming from the center of the Earth. It’s perhaps best to just ignore him. But let’s say that you don’t. Let’s say that you stop. The sensible thing to do in this situation is to call down to me and say “I’m going to look for a ladder. I will be right back.” But you don’t do that. Instead you sit down at the edge of this abyss, and then you push yourself forward, and jump. And when you land at the bottom of the hole and dust yourself off, I’m like “What the hell are you doing?! Now there are two of us in this hole!” And you look at me and say, “Well yeah, but now I’m highly motivated to get you out.” This is what I love about novels, both reading them and writing them. They jump into the abyss to be with you where you are

They were poor and living in the farthest corners of the Bronx. How did they afford tickets? "Mary got a quarter," Friedman says. "There was a Mary who was a ticket taker, and if you gave Mary a quarter, she would let you stand in the second balcony, without a ticket." ... and what you learn in that world is that through your own powers of persuasion and initiative, you can take your kids to Carnegie Hall. There is no better lesson for a budding lawyer than that. The garment industry was boot camp for the professionals.

Alas, my “fiddle playing” will not get me to Carnegie Hall — or even to a high school recital. Berkshire, on your behalf and mine, will send the Treasury $3.3 billion for tax on its 2003 income, a sum equaling 2½% of the total income tax paid by all U.S. corporations in fiscal 2003.

Holmes, too, continued to embrace an exalted image of herself. In her acceptance speech at Glamour magazine’s Women of the Year Awards at Carnegie Hall, she held herself up as a role model for young women. “Do everything you can to be the best in science and math and engineering,” she urged them. “It’s that that our little girls will see when they start to think about who do they want to be when they grow up.

I wasn’t ever going to play Carnegie Hall, or arenas with the E Street Band, but I did still play—plenty—and had work I liked and was good at. If a man or woman wants more, I often told myself, that man or woman is tempting the gods.

Write poorly. Suck Write awful Terribly Frightfully Don't care Turn off the inner editor Let yourself write Let it flow Let yourself fail Do something crazy Write fifty thousand words in the month of November. I did it. It was fun , it was insane , it was one thousand six hundred and sixty-seven words a day. It was possible. But you have to turn off your inner critic. Off completely. Just write. Quickly. In bursts. With joy. If you can't write, run away for a few. Come back. Write again. Writing is like anything else. You won't get good at it immediately. It's a craft, you have to keep getting better. You don't get to Juilliard unless you practice. If you want to get to Carnegie Hall, practice, practice, practice. ...Or give them a lot of money. Like anything else, it takes ten thousand hours to master. Just like Malcolm Gladwell says. So write. Fail. Get your thoughts down. Let it rest. Let it marinate. Then edit. But don't edit as you type, that just slows the brain down. Find a daily practice, for me it's blogging every day. And it's fun. The more you write, the easier it gets. The more it is a flow, the less a worry. It's not for school, it's not for a grade, it's just to get your thoughts out there. You know they want to come out. So keep at it. Make it a practice. And write poorly, write awfully, write with abandon and it may end up being really really good.

This is what I love about novels, both reading them and writing them. They jump into the abyss, to be with you

Escrito pobremente. Apestoso Escrito horroroso Terriblemente Espantosamente No importa Apaga el editor interno Déjate escribir Déjate fluir Déjate fallar Haz algo loco Escribe cincuenta mil palabras en el mes de noviembre. Yo lo hice Fue divertido, fue una locura, fueron mil sesenta y siete palabras por día. Fue imposible. Pero, tienes que apagar tu crítico interno. Apagar completamente. Sólo escribe. Rápidamente. En ráfagas.  Con alegría Si no puede escribir, huya por un rato. Regrese. Escriba de nuevo La escritura es como cualquier otra cosa. Tú no serás bueno en eso inmediatamente. Es un arte que tienes que seguir mejorando. No consigues ir a Julliard, a menos que practiques. Si quieres llegar a Carnegie Hall, practica, practica, practica. ... O dales un montón de dinero. Como cualquier otra cosa, toma diez mil horas conseguir la maestría. Tal y como Malcolm Gladwell dice. Así que escribe. Falla. Consigue volcar tus pensamientos. Déjate reposar. Déjate marinar. Y luego, edita. Pero no modifiques mientras escribas, que eso sólo desacelera al cerebro. Encuentra una práctica diaria, para mí está blogueando todos los días. Y es divertido. Cuanto más escribas, más fácil será. Cuánto más se trata de fluir, menos de la preocupación. No es para la escuela, no es para un grado, es sólo para conseguir sacar tus pensamientos.  Tú sabes que quieren salir. Así que déjalos. Que sea una práctica. Y escribe pobremente, escribe terriblemente, escribe con abandono y puede llegar a ser Realmente Realmente Bueno.

One of the lessons I have learned in trying to live with history is that for every repression, we have found a suitable form of resistance. Our history is the chronicle of our vitality, our passion, our cunning, and at many times, our integrity. We must now work out a way by which we can honor both the old and the new. We must look for connections rather than judgments...In these days of Lesbian performers (or, as they call themselves, women performers) singing at Carnegie Hall, the wooing of us by national political parties, of big-budgeted gay civil rights organizations, remember that our battle is to be accepted in the fullness of our difference and not because we promise to be like everybody else.

How do you get to Carnegie Hall?” “I-95.

Consider how many times you’ve seen either a crashed plane or a crashed car. It’s entirely possible you’ve seen roughly as many of each—yet many of those cars were on the road next to you, whereas the planes were probably on another continent, transmitted to you via the Internet or television. In the United States, for instance, the total number of people who have lost their lives in commercial plane crashes since the year 2000 would not be enough to fill Carnegie Hall even half full. In contrast, the number of people in the United States killed in car accidents over that same time is greater than the entire population of Wyoming. Simply

Lately, because computer technology has made self-publishing an easier and less expensive venture, I'm getting a lot of review copies of amateur books by writers who would be better advised to hone their craft before committing it to print. The best thing you can do as a beginning writer is to write, write, write - and read, read, read. Concentrating on publication prematurely is a mistake. You don't pick up a violin and expect to play Carnegie Hall within the year - yet somehow people forget that writing also requires technical skills that need to be learned, practiced, honed. If I had a dollar for every person I've met who thought, with no prior experience, they could sit down and write a novel and instantly win awards and make their living as a writer, I'd be a rich woman today. It's unrealistic, and it's also mildly insulting to professional writers who have worked hard to perfect their craft. Of course, then you hear stories about people like J.K. Rowling, who did sit down with no prior experience and write a worldwide best-seller...but such people are as rare as hen's teeth. Every day I work with talented, accomplished writers who have many novels in print and awards to their name and who are ‘still’ struggling to make a living. The thing I often find myself wanting to say to new writers is: Write because you love writing, learn your craft, be patient, and be realistic. Anais Nin said about writing, "It should be a necessity, as the sea needs to heave, and I call it breathing."

If you could design a new structure for Camp Half-Blood what would it be? Annabeth: I’m glad you asked. We seriously need a temple. Here we are, children of the Greek gods, and we don’t even have a monument to our parents. I’d put it on the hill just south of Half-Blood Hill, and I’d design it so that every morning the rising sun would shine through its windows and make a different god’s emblem on the floor: like one day an eagle, the next an owl. It would have statues for all the gods, of course, and golden braziers for burnt offerings. I’d design it with perfect acoustics, like Carnegie Hall, so we could have lyre and reed pipe concerts there. I could go on and on, but you probably get the idea. Chiron says we’d have to sell four million truckloads of strawberries to pay for a project like that, but I think it would be worth it. Aside from your mom, who do you think is the wisest god or goddess on the Olympian Council? Annabeth: Wow, let me think . . . um. The thing is, the Olympians aren’t exactly known for wisdom, and I mean that with the greatest possible respect. Zeus is wise in his own way. I mean he’s kept the family together for four thousand years, and that’s not easy. Hermes is clever. He even fooled Apollo once by stealing his cattle, and Apollo is no slouch. I’ve always admired Artemis, too. She doesn’t compromise her beliefs. She just does her own thing and doesn’t spend a lot of time arguing with the other gods on the council. She spends more time in the mortal world than most gods, too, so she understands what’s going on. She doesn’t understand guys, though. I guess nobody’s perfect. Of all your Camp Half-Blood friends, who would you most like to have with you in battle? Annabeth: Oh, Percy. No contest. I mean, sure he can be annoying, but he’s dependable. He’s brave and he’s a good fighter. Normally, as long as I’m telling him what to do, he wins in a fight. You’ve been known to call Percy “Seaweed Brain” from time to time. What’s his most annoying quality? Annabeth: Well, I don’t call him that because he’s so bright, do I? I mean he’s not dumb. He’s actually pretty intelligent, but he acts so dumb sometimes. I wonder if he does it just to annoy me. The guy has a lot going for him. He’s courageous. He’s got a sense of humor. He’s good-looking, but don’t you dare tell him I said that. Where was I? Oh yeah, so he’s got a lot going for him, but he’s so . . . obtuse. That’s the word. I mean he doesn’t see really obvious stuff, like the way people feel, even when you’re giving him hints, and being totally blatant. What? No, I’m not talking about anyone or anything in particular! I’m just making a general statement. Why does everyone always think . . . agh! Forget it. Interview with GROVER UNDERWOOD, Satyr What’s your favorite song to play on the reed pipes?

If a person of any age picked up the cello for the first time and said, “I’ll be playing in Carnegie Hall next month!” you would pity their delusion, yet beginning fiction writers all across the country polish up their best efforts and send them off to The New Yorker.

It's the supression of the word that gives it the power, the violence, the viciousness.

New York has all the answers. People go to the YMHA, the English-Speaking Union, Carnegie Hall, the New School for Social Research, and find all the answers. The city lives by slogans, isms, and fast sure answers. New York is saying to me right now: you, Jean Louise Finch, are not reacting according to our doctrines regarding your kind, therefore you do not exist.

for Jared Lyman (March 28, 1975-February 3, 2012) A man who knew how to love people. For his son's twenty-fifth birthday (sixteen years from now) he wrote: No Unlesses I love you and I'm proud of you You might be watching this from prison If so - I love you and I'm proud of you If you're watching this from backstage at Carnegie Hall - I love you and I'm proud of you. It doesn't really matter where you are or what you're doing... I will always be proud of you and I will always love you. I think that's what I'd say. I almost said “Unless...” But I couldn't think of an “Unless” Nope No “unlesses

Even when children _are_ taught music, the usual problem often arises: too much emphasis is placed on how they perform, and too little on what they experience. Parents who push their children to excel at the violin are generally not interested in whether the children are actually enjoying the playing; they want the child to perform well enough to attract attention, to win prizes, to end up on the stage of Carnegie Hall. By doing so, they succeed in perverting music into the opposite of what it was designed to be: they turn it into a source of psychic disorder. Parental expectations for musical _behavior_ often create great stress, and sometimes a complete breakdown.

He was not only playing now, but playing everything before now, that miracle of a concert at Esterhazy, the way they'd sung at Carnegie Hall the first time. Time rolled out through his arm in hot waves. And though he was still playing, he looked around (no longer bound by time, anyway.) Jana, wide-eyed and angular, only her parted lips betraying the glass-like fragility he loved in her. Brit, round-faced, still freckled, more freckled after all these years, not looking at him, giving him his space, which he appreciated. And Daniel, glancing at him with no expression at first and the subtlest of understanding, continuing to play his own rock-solid part, even leading a little extra, picking up whatever Henry had left behind.

A week before the election Roosevelt had sufficiently recovered to deliver his final speech of the campaign at Carnegie Hall. In contrast to the caustic tone toward opponents that had marked his campaign, he now focused solely on the principles for which the Progressive Party stood. He believed, he told his spellbound audience, that “perhaps once in a generation” the time comes for the people to enter the battle for social justice. If the continuing problems created by the Industrial Age were not addressed, he warned, the country would eventually be “sundered by those dreadful lines of division” that set “the haves” and the “have-nots” against one another. “Win or lose I am glad beyond measure that I am one of the many who in this fight have stood ready to spend and be spent.

Martha Gellhorn joined Hemingway in Madrid one month later. After six weeks in Spain, Ernest left, picked up the manuscript of his novel in Paris, and went to Bimini to revise it. There he was reunited with his children and Pauline. A few weeks later he came to New York again to deliver a speech before the Second American Writers’ Congress at Carnegie Hall. Martha sat by his side during the speeches that preceded his. Her influence perhaps explained a new political tone that his speech displayed. “Really good writers are always rewarded under almost any existing system of government that they can tolerate,” he said before the writers’ congress. “There is only one form of government that cannot produce good writers, and that system is fascism. For fascism is a lie told by bullies. A writer who will not lie cannot live and work under fascism.” While

As I became older, I was given many masks to wear. I could be a laborer laying railroad tracks across the continent, with long hair in a queue to be pulled by pranksters; a gardener trimming the shrubs while secretly planting a bomb; a saboteur before the day of infamy at Pearl Harbor, signaling the Imperial Fleet; a kamikaze pilot donning his headband somberly, screaming 'Banzai' on my way to my death; a peasant with a broad-brimmed straw hat in a rice paddy on the other side of the world, stooped over to toil in the water; an obedient servant in the parlor, a houseboy too dignified for my own good; a washerman in the basement laundry, removing stains using an ancient secret; a tyrant intent on imposing my despotism on the democratic world, opposed by the free and the brave; a party cadre alongside many others, all of us clad in coordinated Mao jackets; a sniper camouflaged in the trees of the jungle, training my gunsights on G.I. Joe; a child running with a body burning from napalm, captured in an unforgettable photo; an enemy shot in the head or slaughtered by the villageful; one of the grooms in a mass wedding of couples, having met my mate the day before through our cult leader; an orphan in the last airlift out of a collapsed capital, ready to be adopted into the good life; a black belt martial artist breaking cinderblocks with his head, in an advertisement for Ginsu brand knives with the slogan 'but wait--there's more' as the commercial segued to show another free gift; a chef serving up dog stew, a trick on the unsuspecting diner; a bad driver swerving into the next lane, exactly as could be expected; a horny exchange student here for a year, eager to date the blonde cheerleader; a tourist visiting, clicking away with his camera, posing my family in front of the monuments and statues; a ping pong champion, wearing white tube socks pulled up too high and batting the ball with a wicked spin; a violin prodigy impressing the audience at Carnegie Hall, before taking a polite bow; a teen computer scientist, ready to make millions on an initial public offering before the company stock crashes; a gangster in sunglasses and a tight suit, embroiled in a turf war with the Sicilian mob; an urban greengrocer selling lunch by the pound, rudely returning change over the counter to the black patrons; a businessman with a briefcase of cash bribing a congressman, a corrupting influence on the electoral process; a salaryman on my way to work, crammed into the commuter train and loyal to the company; a shady doctor, trained in a foreign tradition with anatomical diagrams of the human body mapping the flow of life energy through a multitude of colored points; a calculus graduate student with thick glasses and a bad haircut, serving as a teaching assistant with an incomprehensible accent, scribbling on the chalkboard; an automobile enthusiast who customizes an imported car with a supercharged engine and Japanese decals in the rear window, cruising the boulevard looking for a drag race; a illegal alien crowded into the cargo hold of a smuggler's ship, defying death only to crowd into a New York City tenement and work as a slave in a sweatshop. My mother and my girl cousins were Madame Butterfly from the mail order bride catalog, dying in their service to the masculinity of the West, and the dragon lady in a kimono, taking vengeance for her sisters. They became the television newscaster, look-alikes with their flawlessly permed hair. Through these indelible images, I grew up. But when I looked in the mirror, I could not believe my own reflection because it was not like what I saw around me. Over the years, the world opened up. It has become a dizzying kaleidoscope of cultural fragments, arranged and rearranged without plan or order.

Gay men were at the forefront of that community of misfits, happy to have found in Garland a performer whose tragedy and resilience (like their own) went hand in hand. Those “boys in the tight trousers,” her “ever-present little bluebirds” 10 as Time magazine euphemistically referred to them at the time (William Goldman was not so kind, outright talking about the “flutter of fags” 11 that filled up Garland’s closing night at The Palace in 1967), were drawn to Garland precisely because she spoke their language. As queer theorist David M. Halperin notes in his cheekily titled book How to Be Gay, this had little to do with a synchronous identification: Garland “wasn’t a gay man,” he writes, “but in certain respects she could express gay desire, what gay men want, better than a gay man could. That is, she could actually convey something even gayer than gay identity itself.” 12

Mary Lincoln was already in the audience. Before leaving the house that morning she had vigorously brushed Lincoln's coat, had laid out a fresh collar and carefully ironed his best tie. She was anxious to have him appear to advantage. But the day was hot, and Lincoln knew the air in the hall would be oppressive. So he strode onto the platform without a coat, without a vest, without a collar, without a tie. His long, brown, skinny neck rose out of the shirt that hung loosely on his gaunt frame. His hair was disordered, his boots rusty and unkempt. One single knitted "gallis" held up his short, ill-fitting trousers. At the first sight of him, Mary Lincoln flushed with anger and embarrassment. She could have wept in her disappointment and despair. No one dreamed of it at the time, but we know now that this homely man, whose wife was ashamed of him, was starting out that hot October afternoon on a career that was to give him a place among the immortals.

Se vieron el sábado siguiente y todos los demás sábados de otoño, con Ferguson desplazándose en autobús desde Nueva Jersey hasta la terminal de Port Authority y cogiendo luego la línea IRT del metro hasta la calle Setenta y dos Oeste, donde se apeaba para luego caminar tres manzanas en dirección norte y otras dos en dirección oeste hasta el piso de los Schneiderman en Riverside Drive esquina con la Setenta y cinco, apartamento 4B, que se había convertido en la dirección más importante de la ciudad de Nueva York. Salidas a diversos sitios, casi siempre los dos solos, de vez en cuando con amigos de Amy, cine extranjero en el Thalia de Broadway esquina con la calle Noventa y cinco, Godard, Kurosawa, Fellini, visitas al Met, al Frick, al Museo de Arte Moderno, los Knicks en el Garden, Bach en el Carnegie Hall, Beckett, Pinter y Ionesco en pequeños teatros del Village, todo muy cerca y a mano, y Amy siempre sabía adónde ir y qué hacer, la princesa guerrera de Manhattan le enseñaba cómo orientarse por la ciudad, que rápidamente llegó a convertirse en su ciudad también. No obstante, pese a todas las cosas que hacían y todo lo que veían, lo mejor de aquellos sábados era sentarse a charlar en las cafeterías, la primera serie de incesantes diálogos que continuarían durante años, conversaciones que a veces se convertían en feroces discusiones cuando sus puntos de vista diferían, la buena o mala película que acababan de ver, la acertada o desacertada idea política que uno de ellos acababa de expresar, pero a Ferguson no le importaba discutir con ella, no le interesaban las chicas facilonas, las pánfilas llenas de mohínes que sólo perseguían imaginarios ritos amorosos, eso era amor de verdad, complejo, hondo y lo bastante flexible para albergar la discordia apasionada, y cómo no podría amar a aquella chica, con su implacable y penetrante mirada y su risa inmensa, retumbante, la excitable e intrépida Amy Schneiderman, que un día iba a ser corresponsal de guerra, revolucionaria o doctora entregada a los pobres. Tenía dieciséis años, casi diecisiete. La pizarra vacía ya no lo estaba tanto, pero aún era lo bastante joven para saber que podía borrar las palabras ya escritas, suprimirlas y empezar de nuevo siempre que su espíritu la impulsara a ello.

The Framing Effect Context also shapes perception. In a social experiment, world-class violinist Joshua Bell decided to play a free impromptu concert in a Washington, DC subway station.[lxiv] Bell regularly sells out venues such as the Kennedy Center and Carnegie Hall for hundreds of dollars per ticket, but when placed in the context of the DC subway, his music fell upon deaf ears. Almost nobody knew they were walking past one of the most talented musicians in the world.

All the great cellists I revered played on this stage, including Casals, du Pré, Rostropovich, and, most of all, Mr. J. I was blown away by the thought of the impending concert. Like the old joke about Carnegie Hall, there is only one way to get to Avery Fisher and, that is, “practice, practice, practice.” Robert put

The sprinter unwisely indulges his arrogance against the marathon runner, and likewise, parents who encourage their children's narcissism do them no favours. It is best to accomplish something before becoming famous, because if the fame comes first, it often precludes accomplishment..."You don't build a career by playing Carnegie Hall. You build a career and then Carnegie Hall will invite you to play".

When I talk about “creative living” here, please understand that I am not necessarily talking about pursuing a life that is professionally or exclusively devoted to the arts. I’m not saying that you must become a poet who lives on a mountaintop in Greece, or that you must perform at Carnegie Hall, or that you must win the Palme d’Or at the Cannes Film Festival. (Though if you want to attempt any of these feats, by all means, have at it. I love watching people swing for the bleachers.) No, when I refer to “creative living,” I am speaking more broadly. I’m talking about living a life that is driven more strongly by curiosity than by fear.

Our first day’s run out of Pampatar was our best day’s run to date on the whole voyage from San Diego—171 miles. That’s over the twenty-four hours noon to noon. The second day’s run beat it—174 miles. On the evening of the third day out we were at anchor in Frederiksted, on the island of St. Croix. That’s 420 miles in sixty hours. That’s the crossing of the Caribbean Sea, from south to north, in two and a half days. That’s flying. Total fuel consumption—one pint of diesel oil to charge batteries. Breakages, nil; and that was a fully loaded trimaran—loaded to traditional, oceangoing monohull standards and more. There were, don’t forget, three months’ supplies of canned food for three men on board, plus the remaining dried and packaged food, say six weeks’ supply, plus eighty-two gallons of cheap diesel fuel and eighty-two gallons of fresh water, plus all our personal effects, the three of us, together with the ship’s equipment. That was a total payload of around four tons. I suggest that this is the most important statistic, besides the speed of the passage, in this account. I suggest that, together with the safety factors built into Outward Leg—the self-righting system, and the cool-tubes to prevent capsize—we realized at St. Croix that what we had under our feet was one of the fastest, and one of the safest, cruising vessels afloat under sail. Hitherto multihulls had been considered as either hair-shirt racing craft, for speed-drunk masochists with tiny appetites, or boxy floating sheds for short cruises and always downwind, because they were thought—and quite rightly in most instances—to have the windward ability of Carnegie Hall.

Charles Mingus at Carnegie Hall

Just because he played his stupid violin at Carnegie Hall when he was twelve does not make him hot.

Krystian Zimerman, an accomplished Polish pianist is known for traveling with his own Steinway grand piano. He was headed to play at Carnegie Hall shortly after 9/11, but his piano was confiscated at JFK Airport by customs officials because the glue smelled “funny”. They destroyed the instrument.

Everywhere in the world, music enhances a hall, with one exception: Carnegie Hall enhances the music." -Isaac Stern

By 1914, having tapped into the average American’s desire to have more self-confidence, Carnegie was earning around five hundred dollars every week. By 1916, he was able to rent the Carnegie Hall in order to lecture to a packed house.

As queer theorist David Caron notes in his essay in the edited collection Gay Shame, Garland’s own “dissolution of the boundary between the private and the public, the personal and the non personal” 7 spoke to gay men because it was rooted in an acknowledgment of shame. Of childhood shame, moreover. The Broadway Melody scene exists at the intersection of queerness and fandom because it depicts a childhood scene of shame that Garland herself would continue to enact and perform throughout her career, a career that in its turn engendered many a childhood scene of shame.

Dear Ms. Garland, I am writing this to you And I’m hoping you can read this from up above Your passing made me sadder Cause your singing made me gladder And I thought I’d write this to tell you so Judy you made me love you I didn’t want to do it I didn’t want to do it Judy you made me love you And I wish you knew it I really want you to see this I know that you’ve ascended to heaven up above And when I get there too I can tell you you’re the one I love Judy, you know you’ve made me love you. 13

Compared to all this, Ronstadt and Browne were still trying to graduate from the kids' table. Ronstadt had released her first album for Geffen, Don't Cry Now, in September 1973. Browne followed a few weeks later, in October, with his second album, For Everyman. Both albums sold respectably, but neither cracked the Top 40 on the Billboard album chart. And while Geffen had great expectations for both artists, in early 1974 each was still building an audience. Their tour itinerary reflected their transitional position. It brought them to big venues in Detroit, Boston, Philadelphia, and Washington, DC, but also took them far from the bright lights to small community theaters and college campuses in Oxnard, San Luis Obispo, New Haven, and Cortland, New York. At either end, there wasn't much glamour in the experience. They had moved up from the lowest rung on the touring ladder, when they had lugged their gear in and out of station wagons, but had progressed only to a Continental Trailways bus without beds that both bands crammed into for the late-night drives between shows. "The first thing that happened is we were driving all night, and the next morning we were exhausted," Browne remembered. "Like, no one slept a wink. We were sitting up all night on a bus."' "Touring was misery," Ronstadt said, looking back. "Touring is just hard. You don't get to meet anybody. You are always in a bubble . . . You saw the world outside the bus window, and you did the sound check every day."9 The performances were uneven, too. "While Browne is much more assured and confident on stage than he was a year or two ago, he's still very much like a smart kid with a grown-up gift for songwriting," sniffed Judith Sims of Rolling Stone. She treated Ronstadt even more dismissively, describing her as peddling "country schmaltz."' The young rock journalist Cameron Crowe, catching the tour a few days later in Berkeley, described Browne's set as "painfully mediocre."" But Ronstadt and Browne found their footing as they progressed, each alternating lead billing depending on who had sold more records in each market. By the time the cavalcade rolled into Carnegie Hall, the reception for Browne and Ronstadt was strong enough that the promoters added a second show. In February 1974, Jackson Browne and Linda Ronstadt were still at the edge of the stardom they would soon achieve.

Andrew Carnegie. Titan of industry. Richer than Rockefeller. More generous too . . . But, look, he’s an old man. What’s he got left? Another decade? Maybe a bit more? Yet every single piece of Carnegie steel in every railroad across this country will be there long after him. This hall, built with spare change, will be standing when he is six feet under the earth. That’s why he built it. So his name will live long into the future. This is what the rich do. Once they know they can survive comfortably and their children can survive comfortably they set about working on their legacy. Such a sadness to that word, don’t you think? Legacy. What a meaningless thing. All that work for a future in which they don’t appear. And what is legacy, Mr Hazard? What is legacy but the most empty and mediocre substitute for what we have. Steel and money and fancy concert halls don’t give you immortality.

Someone asked a concert violinist in New York’s Carnegie Hall how she became so skilled. She said that it was by “planned neglect.” She planned to neglect everything that was not related to her goal.

When Viktor and Sofia sit down at the piano, do they play Mussorgsky, Mussorgsky, and Mussorgsky? No. They play Bach and Beethoven, Schubert and Brahms, while at Carnegie Hall the audience responds to Horowitz’s performance of Tchaikovsky with thunderous applause.

He liked bombastic requiems that built to a frenzy—German chanting and ominous timpani drums, anything that sounded like someone was being boiled alive at Carnegie Hall.

Slechts een paar malen heb ik hem zien opflakkeren: toen men herinneringen ophaalde uit het Rusland van zijn jeugd, vertelde hij haperend hoe zijn ouders in een pogrom waren afgeslacht door de dappere kozakken – die nu zo aandoenlijk kunnen zingen in Carnegie Hall, zei hij – en hoe men nagelaten had hem te doden omdat zijn moeder het wicht dat hij toen was onder haar lichaam had bedolven. Alsof het een academische vraag betrof, zei hij nadenkend: ‘Om mij te verstikken, of om mij te redden, wie zal het zeggen?’ Haar buik had men met een sabelhouw opengereten, en het zien van haar ingewanden op de aarden vloer van de hut van Prichov had de dienaars van de Tsar ontmoedigd in hun opzet om het jodengebroed van het dorp geheel uit te roeien. ‘En toch,’ zei Sam Cohn, ‘had ieder van die kozakken ook een moeder. Het is lastig om te begrijpen wat er in de wereld omgaat.’ De zeldzame malen dat hij zich in het gesprek mengde, uitte hij steeds bedenkingen die aantoonden dat hij aanhoudend op zoek was naar de diepere betekenis van de dingen en van de gebeurtenissen, en dat hij er zich op toelegde niet te haten maar begrijpen. Het was duidelijk dat hij alleen waarde hechtte aan de goedheid van de mens, en ontsteld was en verward wanneer hij boosheid ontdekte die niet door eigenbelang of hebzucht was ingegeven, en die door dergelijk gebrek aan motivering geheel onverklaarbaar werd. [ Marnix Gijsen – Kaddisj voor Sam Cohn ]

live recording of Charles Mingus at Carnegie Hall on the turntable, chosen for the twenty-four-minute version of “C Jam Blues” on side 1. The 1974 concert was up-tempo, high energy, and largely improvisational, and just what Bosch needed for wading through case reports. The concert, including Bosch favorite John Handy on tenor sax, helped put him into the proper groove.

Not being able to study the cream of the crop means the effects we see will probably be weak and sporadic. That means having to collect an enormous amount of data to gain confidence in the results. Fortunately there is also an advantage to studying ordinary people. If Joe Sixpack, our randomly picked “man off the street,” can show weak but positive results in the lab, then it indicates that the siddhis are part of a spectrum of abilities that are broadly distributed across the population. It is much easier to accept the reality of a claimed skill if it turns out to be a basic human potential rather than an extreme idiosyncrasy that only a handful of people in the world possess. I suspect that there are those among us who have high-functioning siddhis gained not through extensive meditation practice but through raw talent. Like Olympic athletes or Carnegie Hall musicians, these people are rare. Based on my experience in testing a wide range of participants in laboratory psi tests, I’d estimate that perhaps one in ten or a hundred thousand have exceptional skills comparable to the traditional siddhis.

How do you get to Carnegie Hall?" "I-95.

Child prodigies usually pursue conforming achievement, following the well-worn paths to Carnegie Hall, the science Olympics, and chess championships. They succeed by expertly following the rules rather than making their own. The

There is one good thing about New York City.” “What’s that?” “Carnegie Hall. Many people believe it has the greatest acoustics in the world. I can’t say for sure because I have never been there, but I do know it was designed by an architect named William Tuthill in 1890. He was an amateur cellist who had what many people called a golden ear, which meant that he could hear things other people couldn’t.” “Kind of like you.

William Tuthill met Andrew Carnegie. He’s the person who gave William Tuthill the money to build the hall, which is why it’s called Carnegie Hall.

she would let you stand in the second balcony, without a ticket. Carnegie Hall didn’t know about it. It was just between you and Mary. It was a bit of a journey, but we would go back once or twice a month.”* Friedman’s mother was a Russian immigrant. She barely spoke English. But she had gone to work as a seamstress at the