'I don't know what I played. It was the violin that played while I held it and listened. I forgot everybody, - forgot Kloster critically noting what I did wrong, and forgot, so completely that I might have been unconscious, myself. I was listening; and what I heard were secrets, secrets strange and exquisite; noble, and so courageous that suffering didn't matter, didn't touch, - all the secrets of life. I can't explain. It wasn't like anything one knows really. It was like something very important, very beautiful that one used to know, but has forgotten.'
from a letter dated July 19, 1914, in Christine by Alice Cholmondeley (Elizabeth von Arnim)
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