On the 14th I attended a recital of works by Scriabin marking the second anniversary of his death. And it was a strange experience: I came to it from the second act of Kitezh, and after the terrors of the Tartar flight Scriabin's Preludes seemed to me so neutral, so tame and irrelevant, that I suffered intolerable pangs of boredom and only woke up towards the end of the concert with the Seventh and Ninth Sonatas. I did not much care for Borovsky's interpretation either: it was cold and superficial.