On Saturday, I thought I’d found perfection. I was at the Lensic, after the mind-blowing first act of Turandot, with Zeffirelli’s over the top gilded set. I was in the bathroom in a transcendent state. That first act, so crammed with plot, music that makes you weep at every swell, is the best. The second act is a shade less intense, and the third—never completed by Puccini himself because he died—the least strong, if also exquisite. Being the fool I sometimes am, I thought: this perfection will last forever.
I’m sorry to report it has not. Although the fragrance lingers, I’m back in the ordinary world.