It's only now that I'm getting beer with an egg in it that I realize how passionately I hated the way things were and how passionately I'd hate to have to go back to that way.
I don't know how long this phenomenon will go on but while it lasts I mean to make the most of it.
I unashamedly enjoy watching the expression of bewildered enthusiasm on everyone's face. That expression is there because everyone listens to and looks at what the polls tell him is popular and because everyone tells himself he likes it because "everyone" likes it.
But in some respects my feelings are more uncertain. I'm glad and at the same time sorry for the longhair musicians. It seems more embarrassing than pleasing to them to find themselves suddenly the idols of bobby-soxers. I try not to think of Stravinsky barricading himself against the adulating adolescents souveniring him to his underwear.
As you can see, I've had to harden my heart. (It's tempting to say I've had to become number.) And I intend to be even more ruthless.
I'm planning, for example, to place on the Hit Parade Dhaly's Concerto in Alpha Wave for Oscillograph and Woodwinds.
That's why I'm being exceedingly careful to leave nothing to chance. Though this document is sort of a hostage to fortune, I'm taking into account the possibility that I might lose it while commuting and that it might fall into the hands of some unsympathetic contemporary. So I'm not writing down my phone numbers or my name. I want to keep the lines clear for the pollsters.