So there has been a little bit of a battle going on as I try to persuade my daughter, who is clearly not interested, to run cross country for her middle school. I dragged her out running with me, bought her shoes, talked about the joys of winning, etc. Meanwhile, she is very worried that all this running is going to cut into her time to write. And so tonight, my husband reads me this letter from composer Samuel Barber, written to his mother, at age 9: Dear Mother: I have written this to tell you my worrying secret. Now don’t cry when you read it because it is neither yours nor my fault. I suppose I will have to tell it now without any nonsense. To begin with I was not meant to be an athlet [sic]. I was meant to be a composer, and will be I’m sure. I’ll ask you one more thing.—Don’t ask me to try to forget this unpleasant thing and go play football.—Please—Sometimes I’ve been worrying about this so much that it makes me mad (not very), Love, Sam Barber II
Posted on: Tue, 12 Aug 2014 02:16:31 +0000
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