As I post these words, Ransom Wilson and the String Quartet of the Hermitage Orchestra are giving the Russian premiere of a piece of mine in St. Petersburg. I consider this to be one of the secret, guilty pleasures of being a composer: while I sit comfortably at home in my studio, fine musicians are sweating over my sixteenth notes halfway around the world.

Composers have so much trouble getting paid for their work, sometimes we have to savor these tiny morsels of psychic income.

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