"Gould, for instance, played the first part of his concert before fifty people, they begged him to extend the intermission another half an hour -- and when he came back on stage there were two thousand people in the audience! Word of mouth. Back then, people knew what mattered. A great pianist is an emergency." -- Prodigy, Nancy Huston

Great book so far. A novella. Only, the lady pianist is depicted as somewhat...uptight. What's new. I mean, I only look uptight. Really.

But speaking of Gould. Ah, how I absolutely adore him. I'm almost reverent. I carry this image of him, emblazed in my mind. His face told the truth of his boyish skinniness, such that his timeless man-suit seemed a betrayal. His coat was long and heavy, one that could overpower him if his presence were less noticeable, and you could tell that his shoulders did not match the width of the coat's boxy frame. A black poet's cap sat snug on his head, sprouting two small ears, cupped. His hands -- his hands were covered only partially by gloves that exposed slender fingers.

I picture him alone, in a dim and deserted hotel nightclub. He is patiently fiddling with his small fold-up chair at the piano on stage. It is an eerie setting -- the elegant grand juxtaposed with old empty wooden chairs stacked upside down on surrounding tables. He is quite particular with this fold-up chair, as if he knew exactly how it responded to his maneuvering.

I see him playing. Brow furrowed, eyes closed, with an expression of painful delight in his face. He hums and sometimes full-out sings while he plays, looking distressed at times, chuckling other times. He enjoys counterpoint in one hand while raising the other to conduct along. He is in private conversation.

"I hope people won't be blinded to my playing by what have been called my personal eccentricities." -- Glenn Gould

I have his recordings, and books written about him -- yet even with a wealth of research, I will only brush the mind of a genius. Never will I understand him.