One piece of music that I keep revisiting:
During the latter part of the concert, watching this 82-year-old genius play, I found mist forming in my eyes for some mysterious reason I could not explain. I was not sad. I was exultant. It had something to do with my pride, at that very moment, in being part of the same civilisation that this great and endearing man playing the piano was part of.
Almost at the same time instant I felt the suggestion of tears in my eyes, the television camera left Horowitz’s fingers on the keyboard and dissolved to the face of a Soviet citizen in the audience. His eyes were closed, his head tilted slightly backward so that his face was up… and one lone teardrop ran down his cheek...
It was the same teardrop running down mine.