Gombrowicz as a young boy standing on a horse in Malosyce in 1909
To me, art almost always speaks more forcefully when it appears in an imperfect, accidental, and fragmentary way, somehow just signaling its presence, allowing one to feel it through the ineptitude of the interpretation. I prefer the Chopin that reaches me in the street from an open window to the Chopin served in great style from the concert stage.
The German pianist galloped along accompanied by the orchestra. Rocked to sleep by the tones, my mind wandered in some sort of daydream—reminiscences, things that I had to get done the next day, Bumfili, the fox terrier. In the meantime, the concert continued, the pianist galloped on. Was he a pianist or a horse? I could swear this had nothing to do with Mozart but rather with whether or not this nimble steed would wrestle the bit away from Horowitz or Rubenstein. […] A pianist, a horse, or a boxer? It also seemed to me that he was a boxer who had mounted Mozart, who was riding Mozart, pounding and hitting him, jangling and jabbing him with his spurs. What’s that? He’s reached the finish line? Applause, applause, applause! The jockey got off and bowed, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief.
-Gombrowicz, Diary, 1953