One needn’t play one’s Katezenklavier to know how it sounds, to hear its music. Whether or not you make it is, after all, up to you, so long as you know that it’s real, so long as you hear it — that famous cat solo, cascading out of midnight alleys, old boots of approbation flying by like roses and room keys. And you with them, following the cats out and up and higher still, to where the air is sweeter for your static passage, for your new and distinguished company. 

Manufacturer’s note on Romantic psychology: Two men sit in a room. The first asks the second, “What do you think about cats?” The second says, “Plenty.” The first man frowns for a while. Then agrees.