I am shaken by tears at the first strains of Glenn Gould’s Goldberg Variations, which I bought earlier today on a compact disk. The last time I bought the very same recording, albeit on a magnetic tape, was about twenty-five years ago. Bach’s masterpiece stayed with me all this time, though. Buried in my bones, as it were. It is as though I used to play piano when I was much younger. No, it is as though I wrote the damned variations about two-hundred and fifty years ago.