Last week Poulenc invited me for our bimonthly tête-à-tête che lui so that we could play what we've each been writing, and drink some dubious-tasting lemon tea with the middle-aged French take for their crises de foie. Francis (qui me tutoie and who calls me mon enfant) never fails to amaze me when he speaks of how magnificient his own music is. It wouldn't occur to me to speak of my particular musical tricks or miracles for fear of boring people, let I readily talk of how luscious my skin is... He was in a typical swoon over my choral songs From an Unknown Past and, preferring it to my piano concerto, thinks le choeur is my principal talent. I, of course, return the compliment - particularly as regards his heavenly Stabat Mater - loving to enchant the man who has all the enchantment and instinct of his country and who needs none of the intellect of his colleagues to protect his talent. << less