I want the look on my face that Lang Lang gets on his. I want to feel the diva’s thrill, the choir’s ecstasy, the silence between the notes, filled with promise. If I could just intuit with Bach, if I could know the ultimate to know, the music of the spheres, what was in Mozart’s mind— I think, in fact, I’d like to be a concerto. I’d like Solti to have written me in the air and Barenboim to undress me with his clever pudgy fingers while the latest virtuoso waits by the Yamaha to have his way with me.…