There were two other things that affected how I wrote while I was there and they were both music. Won… there's a wonderful Swiss tenor who… who is just coming in… into… into the scene then and they played a record of his one day, his name's Hugues Cuenod, I can't pronounce it pro, his name — H-U-G-U-E-S — but it's pronounced like Ugh, some of the troubadours for instance spelt their name — U-C— well that's the way his name is pronounced. He's a Swiss tenor and it's very different from any of the singing I had ever heard, it's right through the nose and pang, pong, pang, note after note after note, exact. And it's rather dry; it doesn't have all that vibrato that… that I hated in… in operatic singing of the 1920s and ‘30s, all that overdriven quality. You know, it sounds like you're trying to start a truck on a cold morning. Jesus Christ what is this? No, it… he was a… and… and he was becoming an enormous big star then. For example, when Stravinsky first heard him sing, he wrote a part for him into The Rake's Progress. And he was travelling around the country with Nadia Boulanger and all the… all the composers of that period studied with Nadia Boulanger, all the, you know, big musicians of almost any sort. I mean you had to have studied with her or… or you just, you… you weren't there. He had a record of Spanish and Italian songs of the 16th and 17th century that came on the radio one day — the university's radio station played a lot of classical music — and they played this one day and my hair just leapt… leap up off my head; I thought: you know the poems I'm writing have got everything they need, except that kind of passion and that kind of clarity and you gotta go for that.