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I have stretched poor Konstantin Simonov's poem over my acoustic noodle soup as if over a torture rack. During my childhood, I was only a kid; miracles did not show up, because I was endowed with such wooden brains that just did not want to understand anything [Wunderkind = Miracle Child]. Certainly, I was not a joy to my parents; they used to excuse everything by saying: "These were times of war, and nothing else was available!" Much later, later, I succeeded in doing as if I had been intelligent. Composing took Robert Schumann into the nuts house, and Jean Sibelius was lucky, because at age fifty, he kept his paws off it, and so he was able to enjoy forty-one years more without having to accelerate his gray cells.
In two years, I will turn eighty, with the help of God and the Virgin Mary. If not, we will have to throw in some saints, and there are enough of them.
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