Listening lately, in the cool, clean, airy quiet of my studio apartment to: the Albinoni Opus 3, 12 concerti a cinque; Haydn's "Erdodny" quartets, opus 76 (while reading the scores which I checked out at the same time); a relatively young Frenchman, Christophe Rousset's ravishing rendition of the harpsichord music of d'Anglebert--some of which, I blush to say, I have myself dared essay on the piano, and once or twice on the reconstructed Taskin at the University of Oregon. I blush because listening to Rousset makes me realize how imperfectly I understood them, how sloppily and stupidly I executed (le mot juste) them. Running into my musician friend John at dinner last night, I invited him over for tea and a listen to the salient treasures; sat him down with the score of L'Aurore, and had him read along with it; then "made" him listen to the d'Anglebert Tombeau de M. Chambonnie`res. His touching comment on the latter was, "I'm sure you play it much more beautifully." Love (friendhsip) is blind (deaf).