The end, when it arrived, proved both timely and apt. Not only had I learned everything Mr. Martin had to offer, but I was sick of it all—the practice, the repertoire, the discipline, and the ennui of eighty-eight keys. By the time I turned sixteen, I began looking for an excuse to quit, a way out that would not break my mothers heart. The truth is that while I am a very good pianist, great even, I was never sublime. Yes, by far the best in our remote hamlet, no doubt our corner of the state, maybe the best from border to border, but beyond that, no. I lacked the passion, the consuming fire, to be a world-class pianist. Looking forward, the alternative was dreadful. To end up like old Mr. Martin himself, teaching others after a second-rate career? I would rather play in a bordello.

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