Outside the storm gathers. The lightning cracks its whip, as though punishing the thunder, which growls in disdain. Great slaps of rain buffet the window. The world dissolves in a pattern of blurred light, skids down the glass.
Inside Richter is playing Schubert. Sonata in G Major, first movement. The patient dignity of these notes that recognize the moment's sanctity, its delicate precision. And the majesty of spirit that goes to the making of a great pianist, an amplitude of heart that allows the music to assume its rightful shape, then entrusts it, ever so gently, to sound.
And the longing of one who, being mortal and therefore unworthy, finds himself caught between these two weather systems, these two species of awe, the one furious, the other tranquil. Two infinities of turmoil that the mind can barely comprehend, much less contain.
P.S. You may also want to see this. A lot of footage of Glenn Gould talking about Richter, some of it insightful, some rather ironic, but all made up for by snippets of Richter playing the G Major Sonata.