Leonard Bernstein is the musician we love to love and love to patronize. Even 24 years after his death, we treat him much as we did when he was alive. Oh, Lenny, we say with affectionate eye-rolling, there he goes again: a piece of pop-music sweetness in a supposedly “serious” work, an attempt at philosophizing that sounds so simplistic as to be toe-curling (in, for example, “Dinner with Lenny,” a long interview from 1989 with Jonathan Cott that Oxford University Press brought out as a book in 2013).
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