“All the time he is shouting and muttering. The one profession, the one decent profession, I mean, for a woman—except the stage— is teaching, and there we trample on one another. She was practicing with them on that very day, and displaced a rather mediocre boy violinist who claimed “to be better at the viola anyway” as first chair. “John,” she said, “I can spare you that question. Lucy loved orchestras, the bittersweet tinge of rosin dust that hung in the air, the way that the sun shone through filthy windows illuminating the marimbas with a storybook light. Her words, as she said them, seemed to her to mean nothing, and there was so much that struggled for expression.
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