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I never knew! And it all happened 54 years ago. For Brahms is surely the glass of glűhwein drunk in anticipation of a 3 km descent down a broad-boulevard blue run, groomed to show off one's parallel ski-ing abilities. A world now lost to my enfeebled legs but remembered in tranquillity and with affection.
Driving home, there was more. My last short story ended enigmatically with:
But couldn’t see playing Schubert trios day in day out. Felt sure the Brahms sextets would be a goer.
To which Beth commented:
I loved this story, and cringe for poor Brahms.
To which I responded:
Are you implying there's another mini-step between Schubert and Brahms I should have used?
To which she replied:
Oh no, just that poor old lumbering brown Brahms would be embarrassed, and since I love him so much anyway, I feel compelled to defend him.
So should we all, all love Brahms.
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