ABSTRACT
This is Dybbuk speaking, through the invultuation of Bill Lichtenwanger. I am sorry that I am unable to be present in person, but the Philadelphia Orchestra program book some years ago referred to me as “the late Nicolas Slonimsky.” (I wired them back protesting that I was late only in delivering manuscripts to my publishers, and that I was still technically alive and even capable of running a forty-minute mile.) Furthermore, according to the caption underneath a Kodak snapshot of me as a neurotic Russian boy, taken in a Finnish spa during the summer of 1910, I died in 1967. In view of these circumstances, any discussion of sex must be strictly posthumous.
