A marathon concert of early-20th-century string quartets is only for the strong and thoroughly psychoanalyzed, unless a generous donor leaves a barrel of Xanax by the door of the Montreal Conservatory of Music. We salute you, whoever you were. The audience, consequently, was peaceful and generous — at intermission a drowsy fellow with a white moustache pressed a packet of stock certificates into my hands, saying I “looked like a nice fellow.” This is simply not true, as you know.
What recklessness!