poulenc, diaries

i went to borrow volkov's testimony, and ended up grabbing various diaries and correspondences in the vicinity. one of them is diaries poulenc kept about his songs. here's a cute quote (i'm typing in english cos i don't want to deal with accents):

"i am resuming this diary in a bad mood. i began it moreover, in similar circumstances. yesterday a recital by Mme X who sings with intelligence but a minimum of voice. the accompanist was impeccable but she was terribly mean when it came to using enough pedal.
it was a success, it seems. i left the salle gaveau in a fury
i detest intelligent singers. i like to hear some singing with a good sauce of pedal (the butter!), without which my music is destroyed."

one of the ironies with the net generation is the following: no one is nearer a clock for a greater amount of time than we do, because the computer has time displayed, and applications such as chat tell us what time it is literally all the time. but nobody loses track of time more than we do. times just slips away through the chat windows and between the browser tabs. :(