Voices on the Wind Voices in Tribute
Elegy for Dmitri Shostakovich by Wilda Morris Does the old survivor lay tense in his grave still awaiting the KGB? Did he try to take a small over-night bag, toothpaste, toothbrush, for fear he’ll be hauled out of paradise after dark? Or is he composing dissonant symphonies, string quartets for the angels, at last able to proclaim publicly what he said in private on the meaning of his music?