I do my best to keep my mind in the present by working on my spring project. Alone in my room, I sift through the research I’ve compiled for my spring project—books and articles from musicologists, theorists, biographers, and others, some debating Beethoven’s genius, others questioning whether the Ninth Symphony breaches the rules of classic composition, but none that acknowledge the central problem I’ve unearthed. The lack of a piano. So it’s up to me and Liszt. Liszt, who adored Beethoven but didn’t simply imitate the master. Liszt reclaimed Beethoven, made the piano-less work his very own. He didn’t stand for things the way they were. He changed them. He stood up and made them better. I open a file to start the written portion of my spring project. As I write the first sentence, At some point an artist must break with the past, I feel a kinship with Liszt, knowing I am doing the same in my own way. I write for another thirty minutes when there’s a knock on my door. I get up and look through the keyhole.
