"It was in front of the Odessa opera house, before the street lamps were lit. I walked past a man who stared at me. His eyes were blank, without pupils. I recognized Shostakovich and felt most uncomfortable. I knew his opera, whose score was published. It had a sickening smell of glue. I was ill at ease in his presence. My knees were shaking! He was very odd: tense, yet extremely refined. A genius, but quite bizarre. A terrible depressive — he was totally crazy, too. I’m not saying I’m mad. I’m quite normal. Wish I were mad!" — Sviatoslav Richter