or dear Max, how you prefer to be called … I remember when you trusted me that was the name by which you called your mom but I, to show you that I fully understand what simple man you were, even so high thickness, I always preferred to call you simply Peter.
It was about a year and a half that there were writing us and I’m really mortified at not having updated. And now I can not anymore send you this simple hug or a bottle of wine in your island in the north east of Scotland, embraced by the North Sea.
Your castle above the cliffs, when in winter the sea was pounding so loud sounded the walls, I have only your stories.
Master, how i am hurt by this farewell!
We met so little and only in recent years, but believe me, in addition to a teacher so generous, I had met a true friend.
And now I find myself having to write a blog, damn it, crying for your loss. Death always tears us our loved ones from the flesh!
How I wanted to update you on my successes and my disappointments, as I wanted to invite you still to “ostricaio” in Livorno, or at home for a cup of tea.
Of course I still have so many new scores, and the memory of man, who besides being the name of Sir Peter Maxwell-Davies, the composer, was really the name of a cultured man, sensitive, humble and a bit tired to continue travel.
Tired of traveling, yes, but not of writing. You’ve never stopped. And in my small world, I understand why. It ‘s our way of being, we do not live by composers.
We are composers.
My friend, illustrious master, Sir, I really thank you for what you have taught me, and for the courage you gave me in tackling this life.
Out there there’s a lot of noise now. May we stay warm to chat and to drink a bit of wine, although once again, i will become a red spots on my face.
When I was young I was handed the keys to the city of Salford, where I was born. These keys enable me to be able to graze with sheep flock within the city.
(in a conversation with Sir Peter Maxwell-Davies)