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When David Tudor and I walked into the hotel where we were invited
to stay in Brussels, there were large envelopes for each of us at
the desk; they were full of programs, tickets, invitations,
special passes to the Fair, and general information. One of the
invitations I had was to a luncheon at the royal palace adjacent to
the Fair Grounds. I was to reply, but I didn’t because I was busy
with rehearsals, performances, and the writing of thirty of these
stories, which I was to deliver as a lecture in the course of the
week devoted to experimental music. So one day when I was coming
into the hotel, the desk attendant asked me whether I expected to
go to the palace for lunch the following day. I said, “Yes.” Over
the phone, he said, “He’s coming.” And then he checked my name off
a list in front of him. He asked whether I knew the plans of others
on the list, which by that time I was reading upside down.
I helped him as best I could. The next morning when I came down
for breakfast there was a man from Paris associated as physicist
with Schaeffer’s studio for musique concrète. I said,
“Well, I’ll be seeing you at luncheon today.” He said, “What
luncheon?” I said, “At the palace.” He said, “I haven’t
been invited.” I said, “I’m sure you are invited. I saw your
name on the list. You’d better call them up; they’re anxious
to know who’s coming.” An hour later the phone rang for me. It
was the director of the week’s events. He said, “I’ve just
found out that you’ve invited Dr. So-and-So to the luncheon.” I
said I’d seen his name on the list. The director said,
“You’ve made a mistake and I am able to correct it, but what I’d
like to know is: How many others have you also invited?”
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