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Movie info - Several years after his childhood friend, a violin prodigy, disappears on the eve of his first solo concert, an Englishman travels throughout Europe to find him genres - Drama rating - 181 Vote Release Date - 2019 113 Min country - Hungary. 1 1 Posted by 15 days ago 1 comment 100% Upvoted Log in or sign up to leave a comment log in sign up Sort by level 1 Original Poster 1 point 15 days ago kijken naar The Song Of Names 2019 online Download Full movies download Watch - kijken naar The Song Of Names 2019 online Download Watch & stream movies High quality 1080p u/Delicious-Customer Karma 1 Cake day January 21, 2020 help Reddit App Reddit coins Reddit premium Reddit gifts Communities Top Posts Topics about careers press advertise blog Terms Content policy Privacy policy Mod policy Reddit Inc 2020. All rights reserved.
Bruv this does not look like it came out this year. Watch & stream movies Hent The Song Of Names 2019 film gratis Watch, Download and Stream movies Full movies download Download - Hent The Song Of Names 2019 film gratis. 1 1 Posted by 12 days ago comment 100% Upvoted Log in or sign up to leave a comment log in sign up Sort by View discussions in 1 other community no comments yet Be the first to share what you think! More posts from the CHICAGOSUNauto community Continue browsing in r/CHICAGOSUNauto r/CHICAGOSUNauto Chicago Sun-Times News Automated Feed No Censorship, Just News. 98 Members 20 Online Created Oct 28, 2016 Restricted help Reddit App Reddit coins Reddit premium Reddit gifts Communities Top Posts Topics about careers press advertise blog Terms Content policy Privacy policy Mod policy Reddit Inc 2020. All rights reserved.
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• • Posted by 1 hour ago Intro and Ending Thanks. 1 comment 100% Upvoted Log in or sign up to leave a comment log in sign up Sort by level 1 Level 3 Candidate 1 point 42 minutes ago I like the quant ones More posts from the CFA community Continue browsing in r/CFA r/CFA A place for discussion and study tips for the Chartered Financial Analyst (CFA) program. 42. 2k Members 215 Online Created Aug 3, 2010 help Reddit App Reddit coins Reddit premium Reddit gifts Communities Top Posts Topics about careers press advertise blog Terms Content policy Privacy policy Mod policy Reddit Inc 2020. All rights reserved.
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Yes, this is a wonderful and memorable film. The director, Francois Girard, and, I suspect, the same Canadian production company were involved in the 1998 RED VIOLIN. Like that film it takes place over multiple time periods, in this film clearly stated to be 1951, 1986, and the earliest, unidentified time which can be inferred to be sometime between March and September 1939. The scene shifts back and forth a good deal and some critics found this confusing and destructive of continuity but I found no difficulty in following the story line. Memory is not linear and orderly but rather fragmented and out of sequence, particularly when dealing with highly charged emotionally traumatic experiences. This is an exceptionally intelligent screenplay where not everything has to be spelled out. It's true that a key plot point mystery is fairly predictable. Yet the story builds to a wrenching climax in a way you don't see every day in the movies.
Tim Roth plays well against type as a quiet, introspective Brit. The score composer, Howard Shore, was involved in composing the impressive music in the Lord of the Rings and does an award-deserving job here. I rate the film at 3.5/4 stars. Strongly recommended for everybody, especially any serious music student as well as anyone of Jewish background, particularly of GenX through to Millennials.
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This movie reminds me a lot of Life is Beautiful. It plays around with humor and satire, but it ultimately shows that love is stronger than hate. Its a great movie all around. Watch Online Forbes. Who else is a single pringle listening. V. September 8, 2019 11:30PM PT Director François Girard returns to the musical mysteries of 'The Red Violin' with a historical drama that strikes too many bum notes. In the Jewish faith, the Kaddish is known as the “mourners prayer, ” intended to memorialize the deceased and affirm their place in their families and within their communities. But among the horrors of the Holocaust emerged some devastating practical problems: The names of the dead were too numerous to remember easily, and whole families were lost, leaving survivors with the difficult task of remembering them. François Girards “The Song of Names” is constructed around a musical solution to this dilemma, but its a fatally old-fashioned and lugubrious historical drama, muting the emotional payoff it labors so hard to deliver. Sony Pictures Classics will appeal to older audiences for a rollout starting Christmas Day, but the film may have trouble standing out among an especially crowded awards-season slate. Much of the anticipation surrounding “The Song of Names” is Girards return to the classical-music mystery of his 1998 hit “The Red Violin, ” which followed a single instrument through four centuries, five countries and an assortment of linked narratives. His approach mirrored the ingenious anthology of his 1993 curio “Thirty Two Short Films About Glenn Gould, ” and both films revealed a passion and expertise for music and the difficult individuals who play it at its highest form. That would seem to make him the ideal candidate to wrestle with the story of a Polish violin prodigy who disappears like a ghost in the aftermath of World War II. Theres even a subplot about tracking down the origins of the instrument, which brings it further into Girards aesthetic wheelhouse. Yet music is merely the impetus and the frame for a densely interwoven detective story that stretches across multiple timelines. In 1951 London, a young Polish Jew named Dovidl Rapoport is set to electrify an audience of critics, dignitaries and other members of the citys upper crust, but he never shows and isnt heard from again. Cut to 35 years later, when Dovidls childhood best friend Martin ( Tim Roth) the son of a music publisher and benefactor, witnesses another young violinist mimic Dovidls distinct ritual for applying rosin to his bow. That inspires Martin, over the objections of his wife ( Catherine McCormack) to follow the breadcrumbs all the way to Eastern Europe in an effort to find his old buddy and get some answers. Screenwriter Jeffrey Caine (“The Constant Gardener”) then sets about telling two stories in parallel: In the late 30s, Martins father agreed to take the preternaturally gifted (and supremely arrogant) Dovidl into his home to help develop his talent, and the two boys became roommates and inseparable chums in short order. In the ‘80s timeline, Martin searches doggedly for Dovidl, but when he turns up in the bedraggled form of Clive Owen, it becomes clear that he never wanted to be found. Still filled with anger and regret over Dovidl leaving him and his family without notice or explanation, Martin seeks answers and the fulfillment of a promise that wasnt kept. Though Roth and Owen give fine performances, as do the two pairs of children who play their characters at different ages, the soundtrack is the biggest star of “The Song of Names, ” starting with a delicate original score by Howard Shore, the Oscar-winning composer of “The Lord of the Rings” and much of fellow Canadian David Cronenbergs work. But while it makes sense for the film to withhold the musical wallop suggested by the title, much of “The Song of Names” is tangled up in a plodding period mystery that emphasizes handsome production values over hot-blooded emotion. Grief, rage, betrayal, genocide — these are not usually matters to be treated with such reserve. When Girard finally arrives at the project Dovidl has been laboring over all these years, however, the film does land one scene of extraordinary power that nearly justifies the journey to get there. But even then, the bitterness Martin and his wife continue to harbor doesnt make much sense: After all, the Dovidl of 1951 would be understandably preoccupied with his familys well-being after the Holocaust and perhaps inclined to readjust his priorities from narcissistic violin prodigy to a man who takes his heritage more seriously. Its a sign of the films priorities that it would rather follow Martin, a bourgeois assessor of up-and-coming talent, than Dovidl, whos had to contend with unimaginable hardship and loss. “The Song of Names” would rather be respectable than wrenching. The Sundance Film Festival is fighting a battle thats been building for several years, and what its fighting for can be summed up in one word: relevance. What makes a Sundance movie relevant? In a sense, the old criteria still hold. Its some combination of box-office performance, awards cachet, and that buzzy, you-know-it-when-you-see-it thing of. When Tim Bell died in London last summer, the media response was largely, somewhat sheepishly, polite: It was hard not to envision the ruthless political spin doctor still massaging his legacy from from beyond the grave. “Irrepressible” was the first adjective chosen in the New York Times obituary. “He had far too few scruples about who. After three weeks in theaters, Sonys “Bad Boys for Life” is officially the highest-grossing installment in the action-comedy series. The Will Smith and Martin Lawrence-led threequel has made 291 million globally to date, pushing it past previous franchise record holder, 2003s “Bad Boys II” and its 271 million haul. The first entry, 1995s “Bad Boys, ”. World War I story “1917” dominated the BAFTA film awards, which were awarded Sunday evening at Londons Royal Albert Hall with Graham Norton hosting. The wins for “1917” included best film, best director for Sam Mendes and outstanding British film. The awards are broadcast on the BBC in the United Kingdom and at 5 p. m. “1917, ” Sam Mendes World War I survival thriller, dominated at the 73rd British Academy of Film and Televisions Film Awards with seven wins including best film and best director. “Joker, ” meanwhile, which went into the BAFTAs with the most nominations, 11, won three awards including best actor for Joaquin Phoenix. “Parasite” picked up two awards. ] Every summer, more than 1, 000 teens swarm the Texas capitol building to attend Boys State, the annual American Legion-sponsored leadership conference where these incipient politicians divide into rival parties, the Nationalists and the Federalists, and attempt to build a mock government from the ground up. In 2017, the program attracted attention for all the wrong. Box office newcomers “Rhythm Section” and “Gretel and Hansel” fumbled as “Bad Boys for Life” remained champions during a painfully slow Super Bowl weekend. Studios consider Sundays NFL championship a dead zone at movie theaters since the Super Bowl is the most-watched TV event of the year. And 2020 proved no exception. Overall ticket sales.
1 1 Posted by 16 days ago 1 comment 100% Upvoted Log in or sign up to leave a comment log in sign up Sort by level 1 Original Poster 1 point 16 days ago Full movies download High quality 1080p Watch - Kijken The Song Of Names 2019 film online gratis Available for free streaming Download - Kijken The Song Of Names 2019 film online gratis u/OpeningImpression0 Karma 1 Cake day January 19, 2020 help Reddit App Reddit coins Reddit premium Reddit gifts Communities Top Posts Topics about careers press advertise blog Terms Content policy Privacy policy Mod policy Reddit Inc 2020. All rights reserved. 
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The song of names download torrent free. Omfg! They're actually going there. Gotta see this 😂. Everything aside, that prosthetic is aweful. Ah, it's funny, because I was just about to post a new message about a similar thing. I've watched my weekly episode of [S. W. A. T. and, at my great surprise, who did I met? The cast of [12 Monkeys] was virtually perfect (excellent) and Todd (allow me to call him by his first name) was one of the very best among them. So, to meet him again and furthermore in the same kind of character (doing shiddy business in a bar, with drugs) and the exact same clothes! The episode is called "Monster" and is the 10th (Winter Climax) of the 3rd Season and aired December 12th, 2019. NB: I really very rarely write on Reddit (posts, comments) and is also the first time I add an image in a comment. Hope I won't make any mistake.
The song of names download torrent sites. The Song of Names Download torrent download. The Song of Names Download torrent divx. Grins hehe if twoset analyzes this. 1:28 Jennifer Connelly looks stunning. My dad was a huge fan of this movie. Sadly he isnt with us no more, but I am so going to watch this movie with a seat booked for him, no matter where he is, hes definitely gonna be there close to me watching this movie and cheering for maverick. 1 1 Posted by 2 days ago 1 comment 100% Upvoted Log in or sign up to leave a comment log in sign up Sort by level 1 Original Poster 1 point 2 days ago Watch and Download movies for free Full movies download Download - The Song Of Names 2019 ganzer film deutsch u/OtherwiseBrilliant1 Karma 1 Cake day February 2, 2020 help Reddit App Reddit coins Reddit premium Reddit gifts Communities Top Posts Topics about careers press advertise blog Terms Content policy Privacy policy Mod policy Reddit Inc 2020. All rights reserved.
Critics Consensus The Song of Names is made from intriguing ingredients, but they never quite coalesce into a drama that satisfies the way it should. 42% TOMATOMETER Total Count: 45 87% Audience Score Verified Ratings: 45 The Song of Names Ratings & Reviews Explanation Tickets & Showtimes The movie doesn't seem to be playing near you. Go back Enter your location to see showtimes near you. The Song of Names Videos Photos Movie Info As Europe erupts into World War II, 9 year old Martin comes to love his new brother Dovidl, a highly gifted violin prodigy of the same age and recent Polish-Jewish refugee to London. But hours before Dovidl's debut concert performance at the age of 21 he vanishes without a trace, causing shame and ruin for their family. A lifetime later, a young violinist shows a 56 year old Martin a stylistic flourish that could only have been taught by Dovidl. This triggers Martin's odyssey overseas in search of his lost brother, one that will lead to surprising revelations for both men and for Helen, the woman who stood between them. Rating: PG-13 (for some strong language, brief sexual material, thematic elements, and smoking) Genre: Directed By: Written By: In Theaters: Dec 25, 2019 limited Runtime: 113 minutes Studio: Sony Pictures Classics Cast News & Interviews for The Song of Names Critic Reviews for The Song of Names Audience Reviews for The Song of Names The Song of Names Quotes News & Features.
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1 Time Out Swimming in a double-breasted suit against the Monday morning incoming tide, I feel a double misfit. The whole working world is flooding into town while I am heading out, and for no good reason. What is more, I am just about the only man on the forecourt in a respectable suit. Times have changed, and chinos are worn to work. Or whatever they call work. Sitting at a flickering screen, hunting and gathering data, strikes me as a poor substitute for the thrill of the chase, the joy of the kill, the kiss of conquest. There is no romance, no mortal struggle, in digitised so-called work. It is a virtual pursuit, without real vice or virtue. Mine, on the other hand, is a people profession, hence almost obsolescent. It would not do to enquire too closely into the purpose of my trip. 'Is your journey really necessary. nagged the railway hoardings during the war. No, not enough to convince the auditors, who will slash my expenses claim on seeing the negligible returns. Nor to satisfy Myrtle, who will raise a quizzical eyebrow and register a connubial debt. There is no pot of gold at the end of my trail nor, truth be told, enough profit to interest a Sunday boot-saler- which is not, of course, what I tell the accountants ( must keep in touch with consumer trends. or Myrtle ( meeting a familiar face can make all the difference when money's tight. What matters is that I know why I am going, and I don't have to make excuses to myself. Escape, or the illusion of it, is what keeps me alive and my business more or less solvent. Survival instinct propels me through the Euston crowds towards a reserved first-class seat on the nine-oh-three Intercity Express, my chest pounding with unaccustomed effort and an absurd anticipation of adventure. Absurd, because previous expeditions have attested beyond reasonable doubt that any prospect of adventure will get scotched at source by my innate reserve and speckless propriety- attributes that are bound to be mentioned in my none-too-distant obsequies, alongside the Dear Departed's musical expertise, mordant wit and discreet philanthropy. Adventure is, in any case, antithetical to my nature and inadvisable in my state of health. Furred arteries and a fear of bypass surgery have imposed severe restraints. I am limited to six lengths of the health-club pool and half a mile on the electronic treadmill; excitement is strenuously avoided; conjugality is conducted rarely and with the circumspection of porcupines. 'Take care of yourself. are Myrtle's parting words and, for her sake, I do try. In the absence of marital ardour, it's the least I can do. Yet, even a rackety, unbypassed old heart can be stirred by departure fantasy. As I board the train, my pulse picks up ten points in fake anticipation. I look ahead breathlessly, with a reassuring sense of déjà vu. It's like watching televised football highlights on a Saturday night when you've already heard the classified results on the radio. The programme may reveal some fine points of form and skill, but any tension has been ruled out by an incontrovertible foreknowledge of the outcome. Watching stale soccer from the snug of a prized deco armchair is the limit of my permitted thrills- a sad comedown for one who was groomed to make things happen. Sad to have slipped from motivator to spectator, from the wings of great stages to a piece of high-winged furniture. Still, there are compensations. By staying out of the thick of things, I have acquired an aura of what, in small-business circles, passes for timeless wisdom. Lifelong prudence has reaped its rewards. My town house has a heated indoor pool, I holiday winter and summer in wickedly overpriced Swiss resorts and my pension arrangements are structured to keep me in comfort for three lifetimes. 'Comfort ye, comfort ye, my people. said the prophet Isaiah- so we made it the tribal aspiration. What greater calm can a man find on earth than the quiet rustling of gilt-edged assets? At Rotary and Bnai Brith you cannot tell me apart from the rest of the Lodge, and that is how I like it; none of the other brothers has, to my certain knowledge, been invaded by genius and ruined by its defection. Forget I mentioned that: not many people are meant to know about it. 'Mustn't grumble. my father used to say, when asked how he was; and so do I. Normality is my nirvana. Only within, deep within, at the clotted edge of irreparable loss, do I feel the need for an unnecessary journey that will allow me to avoid devastating self-contemplation and the acceleration of inherited arteriosclerosis. I wouldn't be surprised if the railways were mostly run for people like me, half-wrecked psyches in perpetual flight from the missing part. I can just see a Development Director springing his brainwave initiative at a board meeting. 'Why don't we run extra Monday-morning services to the boondocks. he proposes brightly. 'There must be thousands of useless deadweights, dog-ends and waiting-for-godders who are just dying to get away. Settling in my window seat I pop two pills, a brand-name sedative and a homoeopathic palliative, shutting my eyes for ten minutes of yogic meditation. My Harley Street consultant (the cardiologist, not the naturopath) advises daily exercise and the avoidance of agitation. Being of a responsible disposition, I eat warily and carry a kidney-donor card. If I see a pretty girl or a police chase, I look away. In Michelin-starred restaurants, I order steamed fish. I have many friends but no recent lovers, vague interests but no driving passions. Myrtle, my partner in life, has a life largely of her own. A large-boned lady of healthy appetites, she lunches sparingly in good causes and plays bridge for her metropolitan borough. She took it up in her thirties, after having children, discerning in the pastime an outlet for her formidable memory and jugular instincts. Myrtle can remember the seating plan at every chicken-schnitzel wedding we have attended, the Order of Service at Her Majesty's Coronation, the universal symbols of the periodic table and the entire line-up of the Hungarian football team that inflicted England's first home defeat, 3-6, in the aforementioned Coronation Year, which was also the year of our marriage. Many's the time I have urged her to apply her remarkable mental powers to a worthier object than a pack of cards. But Myrtle's tolerance for ladies who lunch on behalf of the starving and homeless is limited. Our two sons have grown up and apart from us, triumphs of private schooling and canny marriages. One is a Kensington obstetrician with a trophy wife, the other a libel lawyer with a traditional spouse. Over dinner, I prefer the barrister's scurrilous gossip to the manicured sanctimony of a society abortionist. But I feel no satisfying patrimony when, on Friday nights, we play a charade of happy families around a table groaning with murderously poly-saturated fats. Monastically picking at my wife's heedlessly prepared dietary dynamite, I retire dyspeptically to bed with a glass of camomile tea and the Spectator, a lifelong habit, while coffee is taken in the lounge. My apologies are accepted with a wince of scepticism. Some in the family, I suspect, ascribe my medical condition to chronic hypochondria. A decent Omm-trance is pretty much unattainable on a train that starts and lurches through a thicket of signals, then spurts past outer suburbs like a runaway horse. Once the speed settles to a steady rocking, incomprehensible announcements splutter forth about the whereabouts of the refreshment car and would the chief steward please make his way to first class, thank you. Giving up the quest for inner peace and undistracted by the silvered February landscape, my attention turns to business, which barely needs it. The company I keep going is a spectre of the firm that my father founded in 1919 'to advance the appreciation of music among men and women of modest means. In its heyday, Simmonds was a household name, to be found in the nation's living rooms among the Wedgwood teacups, Hornby toys and grafted aspidistras in Robertson's jampots. Simmonds (Symphonic Scores and Concerts) Ltd manufactured piano reductions of orchestral masterpieces, issued in noble purple covers for the uniform price of sixpence. We also produced popular lives of the great composers, albumised folk-songs and approachable novelties by uncelebrated living composers. But the heart of Simmonds was the concert division, which organised orchestral nights for all the family, grannies to toddlers, at group discounts that worked out at less than the price of a cinema seat. Simmonds' suite of offices, nuzzling the old Queen's Hall at the top of Regent Street, buzzed seven days a week with unprofitable ideas, artistic aspirations and fatally entrapped wasps. No window was ever opened, for fear of diluting the fug of inspiration. Elbow-patched pianists in pursuit of unpaid fees jostled students and factory workers waiting for last-minute penny tickets. Trilby-hatted newspapermen interviewed stateless conductors in secluded corners- on one occasion, apparently, in the left hand stall of the ladies' washroom where the cistern drip-dripped so relentlessly that an idle wit attributed the metronomic tempi of that night's Tchaikovsky Fifth to the inadequacies of Simmonds' plumbing. My father, hunched behind a pyramid of unread contracts and uncorrected page-proofs, presided at all hours over his musical emporium, seldom locking up before midnight. 'I can't leave the place empty. he would say. 'Who knows when the next Kreisler might walk in. Half a century before open-plan offices, he took his door off its hinges, the better to observe all comings and goings. No artist ever entered unnoticed. As mail piled up and secretaries resigned in tears, my father juggled three telephone receivers simultaneously, virtuosically and without ever raising his voice. Mortimer (Mordecai) Simmonds had the manners of a gentleman and the abstraction of a scholar- though he was neither, having been sent to work 'in the print' at thirteen years old to support a widowed mother and four sisters in Bethnal Green. In the inky-stink din of a newspaper press, he befriended the lower echelons of journalism and ascended the proof-readers' ladder to join the sub-editors' desk of a literary supplement, itself a passport to Hampstead salons. There he met in mid-war and was persuaded to marry my mother, the dowried and somewhat dowdy eldest daughter of an Anglo-Sephardic dynasty, the Medolas, who offered to set him up in the business of his choice. Bookishness beckoned, the more so after two years on the Somme, but he failed to find the kind of books that would give him aesthetic satisfaction and would also make money. His business career was going nowhere when a friend gave him a spare ticket to the Queen's Hall on 4 May 1921, a date he would commemorate every year of his life. The soloist was Fritz Kreisler, back for the first time in eight years. Hearing him play an innocuous concerto by Viotti moved my father more than all the words he had ever read. Kreisler, with his bushy moustache and flashing eyes, ran off dazzling cadenzas as if they were child's play while holding listeners, one by one, in the grip of a limpid glare. 'I was seduced. my father would recall. 'It was as if he played only for me. From the moment his eye caught mine, I knew that my life was destined for music. Unable to read a score or play a scale, my father hired a tutor to instruct him in the difference between crotchets and quavers and the significance of pitch relations in concert programming. He frequented student recitals at the Trinity College of Music, behind Selfridge's department store, sniffing talent by instinct. One violinist he picked off the pavement, busking in Oxford Street. With a handful of hopefuls, he put on chamber recitals at the Aeolian Hall, a churchy room on Regent Street; and with the newly formed Birmingham Orchestra, bussed in for the night, he staged the first of his family entertainments at the marbled Royal Albert Hall, on the southern edge of Hyde Park. No critic was ever invited to his concerts, but the halls were full and admission was universally affordable. An outraged music industry condemned Simmonds for 'lowering the tone. My father laughed, and halved his top-price tickets. He refused to join collegial committees to discuss unit costs, credit lines and entry controls on foreign performers. He could not countenance anything that imposed restraint on an interpreter of music, a bringer of light and joy. He revered artists, almost without reservation. No Balkan pianist with three Zs in his name would ever come under pressure from Mortimer Simmonds to adopt a new identity for English convenience. No fat singer was ever required to slim. He gave second chances to panic-frozen beginners and blamed his own shortcomings when a concert flopped. He had no time for snob-appeal or seasonal brochures, for copyright niceties and entertainment tax- least of all, let it be noted, for his wife and son, whom he only ever saw in daylight over Sunday lunch, and not with undivided attention or unfailing punctuality. So when the phone rang one winter Sunday with the roast beef charred in the oven and my mother muttering over her petit-point, I failed to react in any way, hysterical or practical, to news of his death at the desk. My father belonged to Simmonds (Symphonic Scores and Concerts) Ltd, not to me; he died at his post, as it were, amid a mound of unopened mail. He was sixty-one, my present age. At the funeral, the rabbi spoke of his love of art, his humility and self-deprecating wit. He left me wishing I had seen more of him. Hauled out of Cambridge, where I was sitting my history finals, I took charge of the firm and swiftly secured its future. On to my father's hyperactive disorder, I imposed financial rigour. The rabble of loss-making unheard-of composers, most of them Hitler or Stalin refugees, was parcelled off to a modern-music publisher in Vienna, who kept three and unsentimentally sacked the rest. The family concerts were wound up and the soloists redirected to rival agencies. Two became famous; the rest vanished into marriage, music-teaching or orchestral drudgery. I was sorry to lose the artists, for their eagerness was infectious and their egotism endlessly amusing. Some I had grown up with, others were so daunted by the challenge of tying their shoelaces that I did not like to think what would become of them without our unstinted protection- but what else, in the circumstances, could I have done? There was a pressing personal reason for me to terminate our involvement with talent, a reason I try very hard, on medical and legal advice, not to dwell upon or commit to print. I got a good price for the offices from a Dutch merchant bank, retaining a corner space for myself, a spinster secretary called Erna Winter and an occasional junior. The revenue from these rapid disposals provided for Mother, who fell silent after Father's death and required periodic care in a private psychiatric hospital. During a remission she helped arrange my introduction to Myrtle, the bony daughter of Hispanic cousins, and morosely graced our solemn nuptials before overdosing on anti-depressants- whether deliberately or accidentally I neither knew nor deeply cared.
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