My Impromptus today begins with Alice Munro — the great writer who died earlier this week — and ends with Lalo Schifrin. In between are political and other matters. You may not know the name “Lalo Schifrin” but you likely know his most famous composition: the theme of Mission: Impossible. Some years ago, Mr. Schifrin was a passenger aboard a National Review cruise. That was a surprise and treat.

In yesterday’s Impromptus, I quoted an article by Zachary Woolfe about Ursula Oppens, the pianist. She is now 80. Ms. Oppens has no intention of retiring, wrote Woolfe, but she has “made some compromises with age.” She has retired Beethoven’s “Hammerklavier” Sonata from her repertoire. And she has “made peace,” said Woolfe, with never learning Ravel’s Gaspard de la nuit. From a technical point of view, Gaspard is one of the most difficult pieces in the repertoire.

This reminded me of Bleak House — Bleak House and me. I won’t retell my tale. (I wrote about this in an essay a few years ago, here.) But suffice it to say: Decades ago, Harold Bloom said that Bleak House is pretty much the best novel in English. I tried to read it for years and years. Just could not. Could not persevere in it. After a final push, I gave up.

I don’t say there is anything wrong with Bleak House, heaven knows. But there is something wrong with me — with me and Bleak House. And I have made my peace (sort of) with never reading it, or finishing it.

Are there works of literature or music or something else about which you feel the same? If so, and if you would like, let me know at jnordlinger@nationalreview.com. I might could do a little article on this.

I have a fair amount of mail to publish, but I have already gone on a bit. Let me publish something about a pianist, since I have mentioned a pianist — though this one is Yefim Bronfman. He played a recital in Carnegie Hall a couple of weeks ago, and I reviewed it here.

Michael Frachioni, of Pittsburgh, writes, “Fifteen years ago, I offered a eulogy for my mother. It included the following anecdote” — and here it is:

Mom loved art, and music, and could appreciate them so deeply because she would look and listen with her heart even more than with her eyes and ears. She strove mightily, without much success, to get her four philistine sons to also open their hearts to all things of beauty and grace.

Once, we went with her to see the pianist Yefim Bronfman perform with the orchestra. He was magnificent and was called out for an encore. This was just before intermission. His encore was a piece by Beethoven, which he played with such power and grace that I cannot possibly relate it in words, though it will always stay with me.

What stays with me, too, is how deeply it touched Mom. When Bronfman struck the final chord, the entire audience leapt from their seats, with cheers and applause. Mom was the first to stand, and the most vocal in her appreciation.

When she learned that Bronfman would be signing autographs during intermission, she raced to the lobby ahead of the crowd and monopolized the pianist for much of the break. But I think it pleased him to see how his art had touched this woman, and they spoke about music as though they were old friends.

I can still see her, practically skipping back to her seat, clutching an autographed CD to her chest like a giddy schoolgirl. “He’s such a nice guy,” Mom kept repeating. Transcendent artistry was one thing, but it’s more important to be nice.

Mom often connected with people on such a level, and when she did, she would forevermore refer to them as “my friend.” She went to see Bronfman a few more times, when he performed locally, telling me how she went to see “my friend Bronfman” again.

Marvelous. Thank you to one and all readers.