West of West End [antikvár]

West of West End It had been a raunchy afternoon spent in the fires of passion, but it was over and I was alone. I felt fulfilled, I can truthfully say I was happy. I was sitting at the window, basking in the red rays of the setting sun. I was in a state of bliss, I was at peace with the world and with myself. As if on an impulse I walked over to the record player and started playing one of the three LP's 1 still own. It was the death of Don Quichotte sung by the great Chaliapin. In the throes of death the Knight of the Woeful Countenance starts hallucinating and suddenly the voice of his beloved Dulcinée sings to him. It is the voice of God, the most sublime voice ever heard by man. By the time she started singing, I was back in my armchair and the sun started sinking precipitously. Along with the knight, I was on my way to heaven. 1 first heard this record in my childhood. Tall and corpulent uncle Elijah, my mother's older brother had played it for me after warning me to forget Chaliapin and listen for the soprano. Uncle Elijah knew there was something special about her, but he had a hard time putting whatever that was in words and so he just said