From his memoir Gathering Evidence (pp. 78-79):
"My own unaided resources were no match for the petty bourgeois logic which prevails in this city as in no other. Everything here is opposed to whatever is creative; and it remains true, no matter how vehemently the contrary is asserted, that this city is built on hypocrisy and that it greatest passion is hatred of the intellect and the spirit: wherever imagination is so much as glimpsed, it is rooted out. Salzburg is a deceitful façade, a monument to the world's mendacity, behind which creativity and the creative artist are doomed to atrophy, disintegration, and death. This city of my fathers is in reality a terminal disease which its inhabitants acquire through heredity or contagion. If they fail to leave at the right moment, they sooner or later either commit suicide, directly or indirectly, or perish slowly and wretchedly on this lethal soil with its archepiscopal architecture and its mindless blend of National Socialism and Catholicism."
A moment of amusement in an otherwise bleak and wholly unproductive day. Last night I dreamt I set up my drumset in the parking lot of a restaurant as members of a band waited for me to finish but we didn't get a chance to play any tunes. This is a frequently recurring dream. One comes right to the verge of playing--and the dream ends, or shifts scenes, as it did last night, to a bus or trolley, I couldn't tell which.
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