One of the best pleasures

a sensitive human being

can have in this realm

is to luxuriate in the sound

of Andres Segovia

pressing his fat, sausage-

shaped fingers into and

against the nylon strings

of a classical guitar.

Segovia (1893-1987)

rescued the guitar

from the “noisy fingers”

of Flamenco players

in his native Spain,

and he brought

the guitar to the

concert stage

and the music of

Bach, Schumann,

and other supreme

spinners of heart-tearing

soul-healing melodies.

I’ve listened to packs

of classically-trained

guitarists since Segovia

passed, but not one of

them comes close to

the sounds he made,

especially when he’d

play a chord, which

then died away,

except for one lone

note, which he rocked

back and forth with

a sausage-shaped

finger in his


romantic way.

So much so that

many modern

classical guitarists

now mock his

style as “sentimental.”


But what they fail

to undertand is

that in music as

in life, it often

comes down to

that one person

one moment

one note


long after

the others





— Fyodor Bukowski, author of Mail-Order Annie


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