Poor old Socrates had so few geniuses in history
to keep him company. He never had Mozart's
piano music to listen to. He never had Matisse's
colorful observations to find pleasure gazing at.
He never had Chekhov's letters to read, one
in which he mentions enjoying a bowl of rich
sorrel soup in a train station. None of this was
available to him to help take his mind off matters.
We know this is not true of Einstein. We know
that he loved Mozart. But god only knows what
precious thoughts went through that brain of his
while listening. Perhaps, one evening, he thought
about the lovely young woman he had seen while
walking across campus lost in thought,
flakes of snow coming to rest in his hair
like the tiniest of birds, chirpless and blind.
