The irrepressible spirit that made his playing seem like good conversation is the Rubinstein legacy for pianists, if they can pick up their heads from the keyboard long enough to claim it.
[It] will never be mistaken for a high school gymnasium or a meeting room in a Midwestern motel.
Next to the writer of real estate advertisements, the autobiographer is the most suspect of prose artists.
The human brain can soften as a result of incessant listening to music with an intent to commit prose.
Perhaps no hall of comparable size anywhere has served so nobly as a spawning ground for young talent and, it must be said, as a graveyard for the hopes of the mediocre.
It might be argued that genuine spontaneity is not really possible or desirable so long as printed scores of great works exist. All modern musicians are, for better or worse, prisoners of Gutenberg.
Real folk music long ago went to Nashville and left no known survivors.
[Rubinstein was] a fountain from which music spouted, not a recitalist.
In her most taxing aria, O patria mia, there were powerful reminders of the Price that we remember best and want to remember, a Price beyond pearls.
When her name is mentioned in the opera history books we will recall that vibrant, soaring tone-that and the blinding, high-beam-headlight smile that she flashed on her fans at each curtain call.
The more disastrous the mishaps the simpler the reviewing task.