Leon's maturity is highly self-aware. "You can either perform a piece as though you're in the midst of what's happening, or as a narrator," he said. "You know, 'Once upon a time, there was...' That can be more expressive. It frees the listener's imagination. It doesn't dictate, 'This is what I feel, therefore you should feel this.' A prodigy can't do that, but a fully developed performer can." He described brilliant young students as being like people who want to build a house around a decorative object. "I teach them, 'The bedroom goes here, the kitchen, there, and the living room, there. You have to have that before you fill it with beautiful things. First is the structure.'" His son wryly pointed out that this tremendously nuanced way of thinking does not extend to human relations: "It's not a question of being nice, but of noticing the minds of the people he loves. But then in the music, it's all there."

I wondered whether Leon's dystonia had brought any rewards. "This forced me, and so enabled me, to go sideways, to expand my field of-what is the companion word to vision: aurision aurision? Were I given the chance to relive it and not come down with focal dystonia, I'm not sure I would change anything." The dystonia proved what he had learned from Schnabel: that musicianship requires modesty. "Schnabel likened the performer to the Alpine mountain guide," Leon said. "His aim is to lead you to the top of the mountain so that you can enjoy the view. He isn't the goal. The view is."

When Leon was in his mid-seventies, Botox relaxed the permanently cramped muscles of his hand, and Rolfing further eased the movement of his soft tissue. He began to perform with both hands again, and his subsequent recordings earned him high honors. "The technique isn't what it was, and what's left is the musicality," Julian said. "He almost doesn't play notes; he plays the meaning in them." Leon said, "I am in no way cured. When I play, a good eighty to ninety percent of my concentration and awareness is how to deal with my hand. I've worn away the cartilage between my joints, so bone is rubbing on bone in my fingers, and it's a little bit like 'The Little Mermaid.' She fell in love with a man, and her wish was granted: she became a human. The price was that every step she took was like walking on knives. That's a fairy tale I remember very, very clearly."

Musical prodigies are sometimes compared to child actors, but child actors portray children; no one pays to watch a six-year-old playing Hamlet. No discipline has ever been permanently transformed by a child's revelations. Leon Botstein said, "Prodigies confirm conventional wisdom; they never change it." Musical performance can quickly be integrated because it is rule-driven, structured, and formal; profundity comes later. Mozart was the archetypal prodigy, but if he hadn't lived past twenty-five, we'd know nothing of him as a composer. After the English lawyer Daines Barrington examined the eight-year-old Mozart in 1764, he wrote, "He had a thorough knowledge of the fundamental principles of composition. He was also a master of modulation, and his transitions from one key to another were excessively natural and judicious." Yet, Mozart was also clearly a child. "Whilst he was playing to me, a favourite cat came in, upon which he immediately left his harpsichord, nor could we bring him back for a considerable time. He would also sometimes run about the room with a stick between his legs by way of horse." Every prodigy is a chimera of such mastery and childishness, and the contrast between musical sophistication and personal immaturity can be striking. One prodigy whom I interviewed had switched from the violin to the piano when she was seven. She offered to tell me why if I didn't tell her mother. "I wanted to sit down," she said.

Most people who receive rigorous early training do not become singular musicians. Juilliard's Veda Kaplinsky, who is perhaps the world's most highly esteemed piano teacher for younger students, explained, "Until the child reaches eighteen or nineteen, you don't know if he'll have the emotional capacity for expression." A mature childhood can be a recipe for an immature adulthood-a principle most publicly borne out by Michael Jackson. A Japanese proverb says that the ten-year-old prodigy becomes a talented fifteen-year-old on the way to mediocrity at twenty.

The sprinter unwisely indulges his arrogance against the marathon runner, and likewise, parents who encourage their children's narcissism do them no favors. It is best to accomplish something before becoming famous, because if the fame comes first, it often precludes accomplishment. The manager Charles Hamlen, who has nurtured the careers of many stellar musicians, wearily described the parents who want their children to make Carnegie Hall debuts at twelve. "You don't build a career by playing Carnegie Hall," he said. "You build a career, and then Carnegie Hall will invite you to play."

Schnabel saw Leon Fleisher as a child with remarkable skills rather than a set of skills inconveniently attached to a child, but many parents lack the sophistication to make such a distinction. Karen Monroe, a psychiatrist who works with prodigious children, said, "When you have a child whose gift is so overshadowing, it is easy for parents to be distracted and lose track of the child himself." Van Cliburn was among the preeminent prodigies of the twentieth century, although he was not catapulted to fame until he was twenty-three, when he won the Tchaikovsky piano competition at the height of the Cold War and was welcomed home with a ticker-tape parade. His mother was his piano teacher, and when she was teaching him, she would say, "You know I'm not your mother now." Of his childhood, Cliburn said, "There were other things I would like to have done besides practicing the piano, but I knew my mother was right about what I should do." Cliburn lived with his mother all her life. But he largely forsook his career after the death of his father, who was also his manager, because he could not bear the pressure, and he suffered from depression and alcoholism, becoming a revered fixture of Fort Worth society-kind, affable, piously reactionary, and the figurehead of an eponymous competition that has become as prestigious as the one that he won. lack the sophistication to make such a distinction. Karen Monroe, a psychiatrist who works with prodigious children, said, "When you have a child whose gift is so overshadowing, it is easy for parents to be distracted and lose track of the child himself." Van Cliburn was among the preeminent prodigies of the twentieth century, although he was not catapulted to fame until he was twenty-three, when he won the Tchaikovsky piano competition at the height of the Cold War and was welcomed home with a ticker-tape parade. His mother was his piano teacher, and when she was teaching him, she would say, "You know I'm not your mother now." Of his childhood, Cliburn said, "There were other things I would like to have done besides practicing the piano, but I knew my mother was right about what I should do." Cliburn lived with his mother all her life. But he largely forsook his career after the death of his father, who was also his manager, because he could not bear the pressure, and he suffered from depression and alcoholism, becoming a revered fixture of Fort Worth society-kind, affable, piously reactionary, and the figurehead of an eponymous competition that has become as prestigious as the one that he won.

In 1945, there were five piano competitions worldwide; there are now seven hundred fifty. Robert Levin, professor of music at Harvard, said, "The favored repertoire is music of such technical challenges that, as recently as thirty years ago, less than one percent of pianists were playing it. Now, about eighty percent are. It isn't an improvement. It reflects a purely gladiatorial, physical behavior. You should not tell a young student to learn the notes and then add the expression. You might as well tell a chef, 'First you cook the food, then you add the flavor.'"

Sue and Joe Peterson always put their son Drew's personal needs before his talent, but the two often seemed to coincide. Drew didn't speak until he was three and a half, but Sue never believed he was slow. When he was eighteen months old, she was reading to him and skipped a word, whereupon Drew reached over and pointed to the missing word on the page. Drew didn't produce much sound at that stage, but he already cared about it deeply. "Church bells would elicit a big response," Sue said. "Birdsong would stop him in his tracks."

Sue, who had learned piano as a child, taught Drew the basics on an old upright, and he became fascinated by sheet music. "He needed to decode it," Sue said. "So I had to recall what little I remembered, which was the treble clef." Drew said, "It was like learning thirteen letters of the alphabet and then trying to read books." He figured out the bass clef on his own, and when he began formal lessons at five, his teacher said he could skip the first six months' worth of material. Within the year, Drew was performing Beethoven sonatas at the recital hall at Carnegie Hall and was flown to Italy to perform in a youth festival where the other youths were a decade older than he. Sue said, "I thought it was delightful, but I also thought we shouldn't take it too seriously. He was just a little boy." his teacher said he could skip the first six months' worth of material. Within the year, Drew was performing Beethoven sonatas at the recital hall at Carnegie Hall and was flown to Italy to perform in a youth festival where the other youths were a decade older than he. Sue said, "I thought it was delightful, but I also thought we shouldn't take it too seriously. He was just a little boy."

The family had some differences with Drew's teacher, and Sue was advised to seek out a teacher named Miyoko Lotto, who warned that she didn't have time to teach Drew, but would listen to him play and then refer him to someone else. When he finished playing, Lotto said, "I have time Tuesdays at four." Years later, she recalled, "He could barely reach the pedals, but he played with every adult nuance you'd ever want. I thought, 'Oh my God, this really is a genius. He's not mimicking and not being spoon-fed. His musicality comes from within.'"

Her enthusiasm was not entirely welcome. Sue said, "It was so extreme, and it gave me the creeps." Joe said, "It just sounded ridiculous." Sue could not take Drew into Manhattan every week, but she enrolled him with a teacher in New Jersey whom Lotto recommended. Lotto e-mailed Sue every couple of weeks to ask how things were going. Every few months, she'd invite Drew to play for her. "It felt very casual, but in retrospect, it was regimented and purposeful," Sue said.

On his way to kindergarten one day, Drew asked his mother, "Can I just stay home so I can learn something?" Sue was at a loss. "He was reading textbooks this big, and they're in class holding up a blowup M, M," she said. Drew said, "At first, it felt lonely. Then you accept that, yes, you're different from everyone else, but people will be your friends anyway." Drew's parents moved him to a Montessori school, then to a private school. They bought him a new piano because he had announced, at seven, that their upright lacked dynamic contrast. "It cost more money than we'd ever paid for anything except a down payment on a house," Sue said. By junior high, he was performing frequently and had taken up competitive swimming with a team that practiced nine hours a week. When Drew was fourteen, Sue found a homeschool program created by Harvard; when I met Drew, he was sixteen and halfway to a Harvard bachelor's degree.

Spending time with the Petersons, I was struck not only by their mutual devotion, but also by the easy way they avoided the snobberies that tend to cling to classical music. Sue is a school nurse; Joe works in the engineering department of Volkswagen. They never expected the life into which Drew has led them, but they were neither intimidated by it nor brash in pursuing it; it remained both a diligence and an art. Joe said, "How do you describe a normal family? The only way I can describe a normal one is a happy one. What my kids do brings a lot of joy into this household." When I asked how Drew's talent had affected their parenting of his younger brother, Sue said, "It's distracting and different. It would be similar if Eric's brother had a disability or a wooden leg." I can describe a normal one is a happy one. What my kids do brings a lot of joy into this household." When I asked how Drew's talent had affected their parenting of his younger brother, Sue said, "It's distracting and different. It would be similar if Eric's brother had a disability or a wooden leg."

The gravitational pull of music is inexorable for Drew. He said, "I thought at Harvard I would find some subject that I was really interested in, maybe even more than music. I haven't, and I'm not sure I really want to." Since Lotto was at the Manhattan School of Music, Drew has pursued his musical education there. "He said, 'I don't want management and publicity now; I don't want a childhood in music; I want a life in music,'" Sue recalled. She had fielded invitations to put him on Oprah Oprah. "He was seven," Sue recalled, "and he said, 'I'm not a circus act.'" At sixteen, Drew still didn't want management. "You have to be able to fight back," he explained.

I asked Drew how he could express so much through music after so little life experience, and he said, "I can only express it through music, not through words. Maybe I can only experience it through music, too." We assume that certain intimacies are apportioned to speech, others to sex, others to sports-but why shouldn't music be the locus of intimacy, and speech the locus of formality? A year after I met him, Drew was selected for a master class with the Chinese pianist Lang Lang, then twenty-eight, and I went to watch them interact. Lang Lang, for whom speech is easy, coached six students. He said the least to Drew, and Drew the least to him, yet Drew's playing changed to incorporate Lang Lang's insights with a fluency none of the others could muster.

Sue said, "His talent is a magnifying glass on what I need to do. To be honest, I have no way to know what I'm doing right or wrong except to ask him." Drew said to her, "You're always questioning. As much as I am a nonconformist, you're a questioner." She said, "Fortunately, your answers are very convincing."

Musical talent can be divided into three components: the athletic, the mimetic, and the interpretive. It takes physical prowess to move your hands or lips with the precision most instruments require. To be a musician, the person has to have a mimetic capacity to reproduce others' techniques. "That should not be dismissed as simply replication," said Justin Davidson, music critic for New York New York magazine. "That's how we learn to speak, to write, to express ourselves. Musicians who have a tremendous gift for mimicry can produce very refined interpretations at a very young age. Are they producing those because they've learned them from a teacher, from a recording, or from hearing other pianists, magazine. "That's how we learn to speak, to write, to express ourselves. Musicians who have a tremendous gift for mimicry can produce very refined interpretations at a very young age. Are they producing those because they've learned them from a teacher, from a recording, or from hearing other pianists, or because it comes to them internally? Everybody does both." Robert Levin said, "It's hard to convey a message if you haven't learned how to pronounce the words. People who have amazing minds, but neglect their technical skills, will fail just as surely as people who are perfect at what they do but have no message. You have to take these apparently incompatible elements and make a vinaigrette of discipline and experience." As Pierre-Auguste Renoir said, craftsmanship has never stood in the way of genius. or because it comes to them internally? Everybody does both." Robert Levin said, "It's hard to convey a message if you haven't learned how to pronounce the words. People who have amazing minds, but neglect their technical skills, will fail just as surely as people who are perfect at what they do but have no message. You have to take these apparently incompatible elements and make a vinaigrette of discipline and experience." As Pierre-Auguste Renoir said, craftsmanship has never stood in the way of genius.

Musical performance, like Sign, requires that manual dexterity become the seat of emotional and intellectual meaning. Sometimes that meaning is there from the beginning, as with Drew Peterson. Sometimes it comes later. The cellist and pedagogue Steven Isserlis complained to me that music is too often taught as a competitive sport. "It should be taught like a mixture of religion and science," he said. "Being able to move your fingers very fast is very impressive, but has nothing to do with music. Music does something to you; you don't do something to music."

Mikhail and Natalie Paremski held comfortable positions within the Soviet system: Mikhail with the Russian Atomic Agency, Natalie with the Physics Engineering Institute. Their daughter, Natasha, born in 1987, showed a precocious interest in the piano; her younger brother, Misha, did not. "I was in the kitchen, and I thought, 'Who is playing?'" Natalie recalled. "Then I saw, 'It's the baby, picking out nursery songs.' My husband said music was a terrible life; he begged me not to give her lessons." But Natalie thought a few lessons could do no harm. Six months later, Natasha played a Chopin mazurka in a children's concert. "She decided, 'I'm going to be a pianist,' at four years old," Natalie said. Natasha was always first in her class at school. "We didn't worry about music, because she was so good in math, physics, chemistry. She could have easily done something else if she ran out of talent for this."

When the Soviet Union collapsed, people with Soviet-era privilege were figures of considerable suspicion. In 1993, Mikhail was brutally beaten on his way home from work late one night. The doctors told Natalie that night, "Prepare to be a widow." A corporate recruiter had been pestering Mikhail for years to work in the United States, but the Paremskis didn't want to leave Russia. After the attack, Natalie changed her mind. "Three days later, I take the paperwork to the hospital. Mikhail's hand, I move it myself to make his signature. When he woke up from his almost coma, I tell him, 'You're going to California.'"

Mikhail went ahead; the family followed in 1995. Natasha entered fourth grade, where everyone else was two years older than she. Within a few months, she was speaking English without an accent and coming first on every school test. The family couldn't afford a good piano; they finally found a cheap one that "sounded like cabbage," Natasha recalled. Natalie persuaded the school to let Natasha do independent study so she could perform. "Everyone would say, 'You must be so proud of your daughter,'" Natalie said. "I used to say that it's not for me to be proud, it's Natasha who does this herself-but I learned that this is not the polite American way. So now I always say, 'I am so proud of my daughter,' and then maybe we can have a conversation." Natasha agreed that her own impulse drove her success. "What did they do to make me practice?" she asked. "What did they do to make me eat or sleep?" a few months, she was speaking English without an accent and coming first on every school test. The family couldn't afford a good piano; they finally found a cheap one that "sounded like cabbage," Natasha recalled. Natalie persuaded the school to let Natasha do independent study so she could perform. "Everyone would say, 'You must be so proud of your daughter,'" Natalie said. "I used to say that it's not for me to be proud, it's Natasha who does this herself-but I learned that this is not the polite American way. So now I always say, 'I am so proud of my daughter,' and then maybe we can have a conversation." Natasha agreed that her own impulse drove her success. "What did they do to make me practice?" she asked. "What did they do to make me eat or sleep?"

At thirteen, Natasha was in a competition in Italy, and one of the judges saw that she was going to play Prokofiev's six sonatas. He said, "You can't play this piece, because it's about prison, and you didn't go to prison." Natasha was indignant. "I'm not going to prison to improve my playing," she said. Natasha sees nothing strange in a musician's ability to express emotions she has not experienced. "Had I experienced them, that wouldn't necessarily help me to express them better in my music. I'm an actress, not a character; my job is to represent something, not to live it. Chopin wrote a mazurka, person X in the audience wants to hear the mazurka, and so I have to decipher the score and make it apprehensible to person X, and it's really hard to do. But it has nothing to do with my life experience. We need to keep populating the world with sound. If you eliminated one thing-if you deprived the world of, say, Brahms's Second Concerto-there would be something wrong. This world, with that Brahms in it, is my world-and some of what makes up that world comes through me."

Natasha graduated with top honors from high school at fourteen and was offered a full scholarship by Mannes College for Music, in New York. She signed with management, moved East, and began fulltime study there. She lived with a host family in New York City during the week and spent weekends with her manager in the suburbs. Her mother worried about the deficit of soul in New York. "There is no time for vision! People are just struggling to survive, like in Moscow," Natalie said-to which her daughter replied, "Vision is how I survive." In those early New York days, Natasha and her mother spoke by phone constantly. Nonetheless, Natalie said, "That was my present to her: I gave her her own life."

I met Natasha when she was fifteen, and I first interviewed her when she was sixteen. A year later, in 2004, I went to her Carnegie Hall debut, for which she played Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto no. 2. She's a beautiful young woman, with cascades of hair and a sylphlike figure, and she wore a sleeveless, black velvet dress, so her arms would feel free, and a pair of insanely high heels that she said gave her better leverage on the pedals. Her playing was as virile as her clothing was feminine, and the audience gave her an ovation. Her parents were not there. "They're too supportive to come," Natasha told me just before the concert. Natalie explained, "If I am there, I am so worried about every single note that I can't even sit still. It's not helpful to Natasha." 2. She's a beautiful young woman, with cascades of hair and a sylphlike figure, and she wore a sleeveless, black velvet dress, so her arms would feel free, and a pair of insanely high heels that she said gave her better leverage on the pedals. Her playing was as virile as her clothing was feminine, and the audience gave her an ovation. Her parents were not there. "They're too supportive to come," Natasha told me just before the concert. Natalie explained, "If I am there, I am so worried about every single note that I can't even sit still. It's not helpful to Natasha."

At Mannes, Natasha rapidly emerged as a star. "My teacher wants me to be aware of exactly what I am doing," she told me when she was twenty. "That can destroy spontaneity. If you are aware that you are going to take a risk, and the risk is going to be this, then it is not a risk anymore. Playing should be a hundred percent intuition and a hundred percent logic." Her younger brother, sitting with us, said sarcastically, "What a logical statement!" Natasha rejoined, "But very intuitive at the same time. When I play, I use my brain and I breathe and everything like that. But I'm not-" Natasha was at a rare loss for words.

"-thinking of yourself," her mother finished. Natasha nodded. "That's why I worry, because she loses weight, she forgets to eat because she is playing the piano."

Natasha shook her head. "The rest of life is so distracting."

In 2005, she was invited to perform a benefit concert for the Prince of Wales with Sting. "She made friends with Madonna," her mother said. "I didn't make friends with her," Natasha protested. "She told me, 'You classical musicians are too stuck-up. You really should think about wearing hot pants.'" The New York Times, New York Times, which had declined to review her debut, wrote of a subsequent performance, "Youth, in her case, denotes freshness but also the rawness of new-cut wood. She delved into the score and emerged with all kinds of new notes and passages one felt one hadn't heard before." Despite these successes, Natasha remains unpretentious. "Everybody is calling me and telling me, 'Your daughter is so down-to-earth,'" Natalie said. "First it was 'You must be proud of your daughter.' Now, 'Your daughter is so down-to-earth.' This is a very American compliment." which had declined to review her debut, wrote of a subsequent performance, "Youth, in her case, denotes freshness but also the rawness of new-cut wood. She delved into the score and emerged with all kinds of new notes and passages one felt one hadn't heard before." Despite these successes, Natasha remains unpretentious. "Everybody is calling me and telling me, 'Your daughter is so down-to-earth,'" Natalie said. "First it was 'You must be proud of your daughter.' Now, 'Your daughter is so down-to-earth.' This is a very American compliment."

Some people can name any note they hear with the effortlessness with which most people can name a color. The phenomenon of absolute pitch absolute pitch has been identified in only about one in a thousand to one in ten thousand people. The rest of us function on relative pitch-the ability to hear the intervals between notes. So almost anyone can sing "Happy Birthday," but only a few people can say whether it is being sung in E-flat. In those who have absolute pitch, the exact identity has been identified in only about one in a thousand to one in ten thousand people. The rest of us function on relative pitch-the ability to hear the intervals between notes. So almost anyone can sing "Happy Birthday," but only a few people can say whether it is being sung in E-flat. In those who have absolute pitch, the exact identity of the notes is unmistakable. One researcher described how a woman played a scale on the piano for her three-year-old daughter and named the notes; a week later, their oven chimed, and the daughter said, "Does the microwave always sing an F?" Another child complained when one of his toys, its batteries running low, played a quarter tone flat. of the notes is unmistakable. One researcher described how a woman played a scale on the piano for her three-year-old daughter and named the notes; a week later, their oven chimed, and the daughter said, "Does the microwave always sing an F?" Another child complained when one of his toys, its batteries running low, played a quarter tone flat.

Some people who don't have innate absolute pitch can train themselves to recognize notes. Study may teach them to produce a G, for example, and they may be able to calculate other notes from there. This ability appears to be latent in a much higher percentage of the population. Since the measure of absolute pitch was traditionally the ability to name notes, there was no way to detect the ability among people who had not been educated to know the names of the notes in the first place. David Ross, a psychiatrist at Yale, found that some people who didn't have the training to name notes could tell when a band performed a favorite song a half step lower. Daniel Levitin, a psychologist at McGill, found that a surprisingly large number of people can produce the first tone of their favorite pop song. Another researcher demonstrated that many people can pick out the correct dial tone.

Absolute pitch does not always enhance musical ability. A singer described her struggle when other singers in her choir go flat by a quarter tone. Her natural impulse is to sing what is written in dissonance with the others. Another musician described how his youth-orchestra conductor said, "You're so intent on playing an F-sharp that you're not paying attention to what else is going on. An F-sharp is a different note if you're playing in D major, where it's the third, than if you're playing in G, where it's the leading tone." The boy had to learn to suppress his absolute pitch to become a musician.

Like so many other aberrations, musicality can be mapped physiologically. People with absolute pitch have an enlarged planum temporale in the auditory cortex of the brain. Violinists have an enlargement of the area of the brain that controls movement of the left hand. The parts of the brain that control motor coordination and language are greater in volume or metabolism among many musicians, suggesting that music is both athletic and linguistic. It is unclear, however, whether these characteristics are the basis of music ability, or the result of repetitive practice.

Robert Greenberg is a professor of linguistics. His wife, Orna, is a painter. Though neither is particularly musical, their infant son Jay would listen with rapt attention to the tunes on a Mother Goose recording, and whenever it stopped, he would cry, and they would have to play it again. At two, he began playing the cello; at three, he invented his own form of musical notation. Within a few years, he had a scholarship at Juilliard. "What would you do if you met an eight-year-old boy who can compose and fully notate half a movement of a magnificent piano sonata in the style of Beethoven, before your very eyes and without a piano, in less than an hour?" wrote Samuel Zyman, who teaches composition at Juilliard. invented his own form of musical notation. Within a few years, he had a scholarship at Juilliard. "What would you do if you met an eight-year-old boy who can compose and fully notate half a movement of a magnificent piano sonata in the style of Beethoven, before your very eyes and without a piano, in less than an hour?" wrote Samuel Zyman, who teaches composition at Juilliard.

At fourteen, Jay explained on 60 Minutes 60 Minutes that he has constant multiple channels running in his head and simply transcribes what he hears. "My brain is able to control two or three different musics at the same time, along with the channel of everyday life and everything else," he said. "The unconscious mind is giving orders at the speed of light. I just hear it as if it were a smooth performance of a work that is already written." Supporting such a prodigy is a full-time job. "We had to go into debt and make sacrifices in our careers, but not because we were stage parents," Robert said to me. "It's because those changes were essential for our son's well-being, mental health, self-confidence, and ability to find mentors and friends." that he has constant multiple channels running in his head and simply transcribes what he hears. "My brain is able to control two or three different musics at the same time, along with the channel of everyday life and everything else," he said. "The unconscious mind is giving orders at the speed of light. I just hear it as if it were a smooth performance of a work that is already written." Supporting such a prodigy is a full-time job. "We had to go into debt and make sacrifices in our careers, but not because we were stage parents," Robert said to me. "It's because those changes were essential for our son's well-being, mental health, self-confidence, and ability to find mentors and friends."

The neuroscientist Nancy Andreasen has proposed "that the creative process is similar in artists and scientists, that it is highly intuitive, and that it may arise from unconscious or dreamlike mental states during which new links are created in the association cortices of the brain." Jay's descriptions of his compositional process support such observations. When asked how he found a musical idea, Jay said, "It comes to me. Usually it chooses the most inconvenient moment to do so, when I'm miles from the nearest sheet of paper or pen, let alone a computer containing music software. For instance, I'm walking and I hear a certain cadence played by two oboes, a bassoon, and a didgeridoo. So I go home, and from that I take more ideas for other melodies that will eventually come together to form a complete piece."

By the time Jay was fourteen, he had a recording contract with Sony Classical. His liner notes for a recording of his Fifth Symphony and Quintet for Strings give some insight into his oblique mind: "The Fantasia was the last movement to be completed, excluding a few minor technical revisions to the Finale; it is also the most structurally perfect movement in the piece, as it follows a mathematical function, y = 1/x2. The graph of this function is based around the asymptotes of the x- and y-axes; from very close to, but still not quite, zero, it ascends slowly but steadily between the integers of x = 1 and x = 0 to almost touch the y-axis, which it once again fails to reach; this is mirrored across the axis. The Quintet describes the three facets of the human psyche according to Freudian theory: the superego, or conscience that restrains the rest of the piece (the Adagio); the ego, in touch with reality, and fulfilling the old adage that 'to those who feel, life is a tragedy; to those who think, it's a comedy' (the scherzo); and the id-the impulsive and instinctual, unconscious and ultimately most gratifying (the Prestissimo)." You would never guess from this how lyrical his music is or how gripping it can be. the old adage that 'to those who feel, life is a tragedy; to those who think, it's a comedy' (the scherzo); and the id-the impulsive and instinctual, unconscious and ultimately most gratifying (the Prestissimo)." You would never guess from this how lyrical his music is or how gripping it can be.

Jay's manner is diffident, often to the point of rudeness; if you say little, he appears bored; if you say much, he evinces disdain, as though to say that his energy and yours might be better spent in other pursuits. One journalist told me that interviewing him was "like dropping stones down a well." His father said, "He loves to hear the music performed live; it nourishes him. He hates the part where they want him to come up on the stage. Schubert doesn't have to go onstage; why should he?" Jay's misanthropy has an aura of triumph, as though it were proof of an authenticity that more socially adept musicians presumably lack. "He does better with adults, but many adults are afraid of that precociousness and feel threatened or upset or intimidated," Robert said. Jay clearly has a deeper humanity than he lets the public see, and he's more likable in his music and even on his blog than in person. In his mix of reflective aptitude and arrogant navete, he is not altogether unlike Ari Ne'eman, the autistic man who was classified as both gifted and disabled. "My music does express my feelings, even if I'm not conscious of it," Jay said. Many people rely on music to communicate their emotions to others; Jay relies on it to manifest his emotions to himself.

Throughout much of history, prodigies were thought to be possessed; Aristotle believed that there could be no genius without madness. Paganini was accused of putting himself in the hands of the devil. The Italian criminologist Cesare Lombroso said in 1891, "Genius is a true degenerative psychosis belonging to the group of moral insanity." Recent neuroscience demonstrates that the processes of creativity and psychosis map similarly in the brain, each contingent on a reduced number of dopamine D2 receptors in the thalamus. A continuum runs between the two conditions; there is no sharp line.

Norman Geschwind, the father of behavioral neurology, observed that prodigies often have a mix of abilities and challenges including dyslexia, delayed language acquisition, and asthma-"pathologies of superiority." These can be severe. One family told me that their son could identify more than fifty pieces of music when he was two. He would call out, "Mahler Fifth!" or "Brahms Quintet!" At five, the boy was diagnosed with borderline autism. Their pediatrician's instruction was to break the burgeoning obsession by taking away music completely, which they did. The autism symptoms abated, but he lost his affinity for music. Some researchers claim that musical predisposition is a function of an autistic-type hypersensitivity to sound. According to the Israeli psychiatrist Pinchas Noy, music is the organizing defense of such children against the clatter that assaults them. A number of the musicians described in this chapter likely meet clinical criteria for autism-spectrum disorders. affinity for music. Some researchers claim that musical predisposition is a function of an autistic-type hypersensitivity to sound. According to the Israeli psychiatrist Pinchas Noy, music is the organizing defense of such children against the clatter that assaults them. A number of the musicians described in this chapter likely meet clinical criteria for autism-spectrum disorders.

The association between genius and madness makes many parents wary of prodigious children. Miraca Gross, an Australian expert on gifted children, posits that they have more resilience than other children, while extremely extremely gifted children have less resilience. Zarin Mehta, president of the New York Philharmonic, said that he and his wife say to each other, "Thank God we don't have such talented children." The prodigy pianist Elisha Abas, who burned out at fourteen but has made something of a comeback in his mid-thirties, said, "Sometimes the shoulders of a child are not big enough to handle his genius." gifted children have less resilience. Zarin Mehta, president of the New York Philharmonic, said that he and his wife say to each other, "Thank God we don't have such talented children." The prodigy pianist Elisha Abas, who burned out at fourteen but has made something of a comeback in his mid-thirties, said, "Sometimes the shoulders of a child are not big enough to handle his genius."

Anyone who has worked with prodigies has seen the wreckage that can ensue when someone is asynchronous, which is the condition of having intellectual, emotional, and physical ages that do not align. It is no easier to have an adultlike mind in a child's body than to have a childlike mind in a mature body. Joseph Polisi, president of Juilliard, said, "Normal young children pick up the fiddle or go to the keyboard, and they're transformed before your eyes. It's frightening." His colleague Veda Kaplinsky added, "Genius is an abnormality, and abnormalities do not come one at a time. Many gifted kids have ADD or OCD or Asperger's. When the parents are confronted with two sides of a kid, they're so quick to acknowledge the positive, the talented, the exceptional; they are in denial over everything else." Musical performance is a sustained exercise in sensitivity, and sensitivity is the tinder of fragility. The parents of so many exceptional children must be educated to see the identity within a perceived illness; the parents of prodigies are confronted with an identity and must be educated to recognize the prospect of illness within it. Even those without a sideline diagnosis need to mitigate the loneliness of having their primary emotional relationship with an inanimate object. The psychiatrist Karen Monroe explained, "If you're spending five hours a day practicing, and the other kids are out playing baseball, you're not doing the same things. Even if you love it and can't imagine yourself doing anything else, that doesn't mean you don't feel lonely." Leon Botstein said bluntly, "Aloneness is the key to creativity."

Suicide is an ever-present risk. Brandenn Bremmer had prodigious musical abilities, finished high school at ten, and told an interviewer flatly, "America is a society that demands perfection." When he was fourteen, his parents left the house to buy groceries and returned to find he had shot himself in the head, leaving no note. "He was born an adult," his mother said. "We just watched his body grow bigger." Terence Judd performed with the London Philharmonic Orchestra at twelve; won the Liszt Piano Competition at eighteen; and committed suicide at twenty-two by throwing himself off a cliff. The violinist Michael Rabin had a breakdown and "recovered," only to die from a fall at thirty-five, his blood full of barbiturates. Christiaan Kriens, a high-profile Dutch prodigy in violin, piano, conducting, and composing, shot himself in the head in later life, leaving a note saying he felt he could not sustain a career in music. fourteen, his parents left the house to buy groceries and returned to find he had shot himself in the head, leaving no note. "He was born an adult," his mother said. "We just watched his body grow bigger." Terence Judd performed with the London Philharmonic Orchestra at twelve; won the Liszt Piano Competition at eighteen; and committed suicide at twenty-two by throwing himself off a cliff. The violinist Michael Rabin had a breakdown and "recovered," only to die from a fall at thirty-five, his blood full of barbiturates. Christiaan Kriens, a high-profile Dutch prodigy in violin, piano, conducting, and composing, shot himself in the head in later life, leaving a note saying he felt he could not sustain a career in music.

Although Julian Whybra, in his writings on the emotional needs of gifted children, described "the growing problem of suicide among intellectually gifted children," others maintain that there is no research to show that such children are less emotionally hardy than others. That is not to say that brilliance is irrelevant to suicide. Some people may be spurred to suicide by their abilities, while others resist suicide because of similar abilities. Genius is both a protection and a vulnerability, and geniuses commit both more and less suicide. That the numbers average out the same does not imply that such rates are ontologically identical. The nuances of this dialectic-what drives some people to suicide keeps others from it-have not been adequately explored.

When these suicides do occur, parents tend to get blamed-and some do push their children to the breaking point. The presence of the stage mother, or the demanding father who is never satisfied, runs through the professional literature. Some parents are focused on helping their kids, and others, on helping themselves; many don't recognize a gap between these objectives. Some parents see the dream so vividly that they lose sight of the child. Robert Sirota, president of the Manhattan School of Music, said, "Mothers had their little boys castrated in Renaissance Italy to give them a music career, and the psychological mutilation of today is equally brutal." Mental health, independence of thought, and intelligence become particularly important as buffers of extraordinary aptitude that has nothing to do with them. Failed prodigies must forever carry the poisonous memory of themselves as promising. The narrative of prodigies is constantly pushed toward triumph or tragedy, when most must find contentment somewhere in between. The violinist Jascha Heifetz once described prodigiousness as being "a disease which is generally fatal," and one that he "was among the few to have the good fortune to survive."

The crudest and most straightforward form of exploitation is financial. In "The Awakening," Isaac Babel describes the subculture of prodigies in prewar Russia, where they represented a possible path out of poverty for their families. "When a boy turned four or five, his mother took the tiny, frail creature to Mr. Zagursky. Zagursky ran a factory that churned out child prodigies, a factory of Jewish dwarfs in lace collars and patent leather shoes." The prodigy pianist Ruth Slenczynska wrote in in prewar Russia, where they represented a possible path out of poverty for their families. "When a boy turned four or five, his mother took the tiny, frail creature to Mr. Zagursky. Zagursky ran a factory that churned out child prodigies, a factory of Jewish dwarfs in lace collars and patent leather shoes." The prodigy pianist Ruth Slenczynska wrote in Forbidden Childhood Forbidden Childhood of the beatings she endured: "Every time I made a mistake, he leaned over and, very methodically, without a word, slapped me across the face." Her 1931 debut, when she was four, met rave reviews. She remembers Rachmaninoff saying to her, "In one year you will be magnificent. In two years you will be unbelievable. Would you like some cookies?" One day, she overheard her father say, "I teach Ruth to play Beethoven because it brings in the dollars." She crumpled; when she gave up piano, "I was 16, felt 50 and looked 12." Her father threw her out; his parting words were "You lousy little bitch! You'll never play two notes again without me." of the beatings she endured: "Every time I made a mistake, he leaned over and, very methodically, without a word, slapped me across the face." Her 1931 debut, when she was four, met rave reviews. She remembers Rachmaninoff saying to her, "In one year you will be magnificent. In two years you will be unbelievable. Would you like some cookies?" One day, she overheard her father say, "I teach Ruth to play Beethoven because it brings in the dollars." She crumpled; when she gave up piano, "I was 16, felt 50 and looked 12." Her father threw her out; his parting words were "You lousy little bitch! You'll never play two notes again without me."

The Hungarian pianist Ervin Nyiregyhazi was closely studied throughout his childhood by a psychologist who documented his early life in detail. Ervin's parents never encouraged him to learn to dress himself or cut up his own food. He was given a diet superior to that enjoyed by the rest of the family. He did not attend school. His parents harnessed his genius to gain privilege; they were invited to present him to European royalty. Later, Ervin said, "I was like a calling card. By the time I was five, I realized I was in a world of strangers." His father had numerous affairs with Ervin's patrons; his mother squandered the money her son earned.

When Ervin was twelve, his father died, and his mother turned Ervin's chief joy into a gruesome chore. "My mother hated me," Ervin said. He hated his mother in return and once praised Hitler for exterminating her. Like many people whose early talent is overpraised, he showed the wounded narcissist's mix of arrogance and desperate insecurity. "Whatever obstacles were put in my way, I just gave up," he said. He married ten times and divorced nine. For a while he was homeless. Though he lived to old age, he performed only occasionally, with mixed results; without his mother to play for or against, he had no motive for authentic expression.

Lorin Hollander's father was associate concertmaster to the legendary conductor Arturo Toscanini and shared his boss's temper. "I was a battered child," Lorin said to me. "If I played something that wasn't how he wanted it, I'd be knocked or punched off the piano seat." After his triumphant debut in 1955 at eleven, Lorin's life began to accelerate. "I was already playing fifty concerts a year when I was fourteen, and making a recording a year. At sixteen, I started to have severe depressive episodes, and I also started to lose control of my right hand and arm." Fifty-two years after his first performance at Carnegie Hall, he said, "The stage fright, often stage terror, was debilitating. I didn't know that I had a choice, that there was anything else in life. Nothing I did was up to my standard. That standard was not only technical perfection, but that every note be imbued with the complete palette of human emotions, of spiritual questioning, of the search for beauty." making a recording a year. At sixteen, I started to have severe depressive episodes, and I also started to lose control of my right hand and arm." Fifty-two years after his first performance at Carnegie Hall, he said, "The stage fright, often stage terror, was debilitating. I didn't know that I had a choice, that there was anything else in life. Nothing I did was up to my standard. That standard was not only technical perfection, but that every note be imbued with the complete palette of human emotions, of spiritual questioning, of the search for beauty."

Lorin's personal life became confused. "I don't know whether you call it a sexual addiction. But I was not sexually faithful in my marriages. There's no excuse. It's just stupidity. There was nobody to speak to about the yearnings and thirsts and needs," he said. "The giftedness comes equipped with this hell. No one tells you this. The music starts racing faster and faster and faster, and you can't hold on to it. I'd hide after performances. I'd leave stages at the end of a concert with the audience standing and cheering. I'd go out a back door to drown in my shame." Lorin has worked with the parents of gifted children, warning them of the dangers. "It is not possible to understand the highly gifted by extending our understanding of the average," he said. "From understanding the highly gifted, we can go back down, but not vice versa." In other words, Tolstoy can teach us to understand a farmworker, but farmworkers cannot in general give us insight into the metaphoric complexities of Anna Karenina Anna Karenina.

Cruel parental control is hardly a recent invention. Mozart's childhood mantra was "Next to God comes Papa." Paganini said of his father, "If he didn't think I was industrious enough, he compelled me to redouble my efforts by making me go without food." In the early nineteenth century, Clara Wieck's diary was examined every day by her father, who also wrote large sections of it, some in his own hand, some that he made her copy out, as he trained her to become one of the Romantic era's singular pianists. "He persisted in using the first person throughout, as though Clara were writing," according to her biographer. "He seemed to be taking over her personality." When he realized she was in love with the composer Robert Schumann, he said, "You will have to leave one, him or me." She married Schumann, and her father refused to hand over the diaries.

In the absence of adequate hotels in Cleveland in the 1960s and '70s, the renowned Cleveland Orchestra put up visiting artists at the homes of board members, and Scott Frankel's parents opened their house to Itzhak Perlman, Pinchas Zukerman, and Vladimir Ashkenazy. By five, Scott was taking piano lessons; he had perfect pitch and soon was able to improvise on any tune. "My mother used to write jingles and had plans for me to succeed in a larger way in the field," he said. "My father's work tapped neither his interest nor his aesthetic ability. So he was very attuned to how terrific it would be if I did something that interested me." five, Scott was taking piano lessons; he had perfect pitch and soon was able to improvise on any tune. "My mother used to write jingles and had plans for me to succeed in a larger way in the field," he said. "My father's work tapped neither his interest nor his aesthetic ability. So he was very attuned to how terrific it would be if I did something that interested me."

Scott's first piano teacher knew that Scott had a remarkable talent; Scott knew, too. "There's something palpable when your abilities fill you with a divine sense of fate," he said. "It instantly separates, even alienates, you from your schoolmates." Playing for his parents, "I began to think they liked me for what I could do, perhaps to the exclusion of who I was. The pressure made music an unsafe area. My partner and I had people over for lunch recently, and one asked me to play and I said, 'No,' and I sounded really rude, and I felt that rage again. I can't shake it."

Scott believes that his mother's need for control extended beyond his playing. "She wanted to be in charge of where I was going to go to school, who my friends were going to be, what career I was going to have, whom I was going to marry, what I was going to wear, and what I was going to say. When I started to veer from her notions, it enraged her. She was mercurial, carnivorous, and boundary-disrespecting and thought of me as an extension of herself. My father was unable, or unwilling, or both, to protect me from her."

Scott began to study at the Cleveland Institute of Music with a Russian piano teacher who disdained the Midwest. "We had these long, ferocious lessons," he said. "If something was bad, her ultimate insult was to say it sounded Spanish. She'd say, 'The way you're playing the Bach-why does it sound so Spanish?' But the Cleveland Orchestra had a concerto competition, and I entered and won. She couldn't believe it." The prize entailed a debut with the symphony; before long, Scott was off to Yale, where he discovered his calling-composing musicals.

When he told his parents he was gay, they were livid. "I resented the parochial affection," he said. "You get the whole package. You can't pick the shiny bits from the other bits." In his twenties, Scott became so angry at his parents that he stopped writing music. "Their interest made me want to eat the baby," he said, "to deprive them of something to pimp and market for their own purposes. Of course, it had the side effect of shooting myself, career-wise and ethos-wise, in the foot. I was completely unmoored, and nothing made sense anymore. All I had was drugs, sex, and therapy." Scott went ten years without touching a piano. "Yet music kept encroaching. I would be near a piano and feel emotions I couldn't shut out." Finally, Scott began composing the musicals that propelled him to Broadway. I couldn't shut out." Finally, Scott began composing the musicals that propelled him to Broadway.

He described how inspiration comes fast when he finds the right lyrics, and I said it sounded like a joyful process. "The music has a topography of incredible highs and lows. But my writing in general is pain-based," Scott said. "The varnished colors of regret and despair and hopelessness come out of my life experience." He showed me a picture on his iPhone of himself at five, wreathed in smiles. "This is exhibit A." Then he gave me a list of the antidepressant medications he was taking. "Exhibit B. That smiling little boy, I think he's my natural, essential nature, and if he'd been allowed to grow up without being damaged, I'd be writing happy-go-lucky music instead of Sturm und Drang music." He shook his head and I heard more sadness than anger in his protest. "The tunes might have been just as good," he said.

The violinist Vanessa-Mae's mother controlled every aspect of her life: her bank accounts, her clothes, and the sexually provocative photo shoot for the cover of the album she released at seventeen. Vanessa-Mae was never allowed to slice bread lest she cut her hand; she was not allowed to have friends, lest they distract her. Her mother said, "I love you because you are my daughter, but you'll never be special to me unless you play the violin." Vanessa-Mae chose a new manager when she was twenty-one, "desperately hoping for a normal mother/daughter relationship." She wanted companionship instead of supervision. Her mother has not spoken to her since; when a BBC film crew asked to interview Vanessa-Mae's mother, she wrote, "My daughter is nearly 30. That part of my life is well and truly over." Vanessa-Mae has been wildly successful, with a personal fortune estimated at $60 million, but she said, "I felt older at twelve than I do now." She explained, "I carry the e-mail she sent to the BBC around with me, and if I ever have any pangs about what our relationship might have been like, I read that and realize it is never going to be."

Nicolas Hodges was born into music. His mother, an opera singer who performed at Covent Garden, gave up her career to have a family. Nic began piano lessons at six and had by nine started an opera on the theme of Perseus. At sixteen, he told his parents that he had decided to be a composer, not a pianist. "It was like I'd stabbed them," Nic said. "What I had thought was all for and because of me was actually all for and because of her. It became shockingly clear that my mother didn't care what I wanted at all."

As Nic got older and his relationship with music deepened, he realized that he could not keep up his skill as both a composer and a pianist, and playing paid better. He wanted "to focus on who I already was and become not less of that, but more." His mother was delighted. "So I wrote her a letter saying I never wanted to speak to her again, and I had no contact for a year." Today, he plays mostly contemporary repertoire, which his mother dislikes. Even twenty-five years later, he said, "It's almost like an infidelity, and the partner never manages to forget the loss of trust. When I play nineteenth-century music, she says, 'Oh, oh, that's good! Oh, you do like that! Oh, you do!' When I put on a CD of Chopin when she was at my flat once, she said, 'Oh, so you still like Chopin?' It was like, 'Oh, you like boys, but you still like girls, too?' She was hoping that I would do something that pointed to her, that fed her." that he could not keep up his skill as both a composer and a pianist, and playing paid better. He wanted "to focus on who I already was and become not less of that, but more." His mother was delighted. "So I wrote her a letter saying I never wanted to speak to her again, and I had no contact for a year." Today, he plays mostly contemporary repertoire, which his mother dislikes. Even twenty-five years later, he said, "It's almost like an infidelity, and the partner never manages to forget the loss of trust. When I play nineteenth-century music, she says, 'Oh, oh, that's good! Oh, you do like that! Oh, you do!' When I put on a CD of Chopin when she was at my flat once, she said, 'Oh, so you still like Chopin?' It was like, 'Oh, you like boys, but you still like girls, too?' She was hoping that I would do something that pointed to her, that fed her."

Nic's eventual decision to return to performing contains a strange mix of defiance and acquiescence. "I went back to what she originally wanted, but by then, it was my choice to do that," he explained. "Having disappointed her so much and so suddenly when I was sixteen made it much easier for me to find what I really wanted to do."

Developing a life in music takes tremendous will. When the pianist Rudolf Serkin was director of the Curtis Institute of Music, perhaps the most prestigious music school in the world, a student said to him, "I've been trying to decide whether I can be a pianist or whether I should go premed." Serkin said, "I'd advise you to become a doctor." The boy said, "But you haven't heard me play yet." Serkin said, "If you're asking the question, you're not going to make it as a pianist." But questioning the decision to be a musician can be pressingly important. Even as enduring a genius as the cellist Yo-Yo Ma considered other careers after his prodigious youth. "It seemed as if the course of my life had been predetermined and I very much wanted to be allowed a choice," he wrote. He has expressed gratitude that his parents understood "that an early physical facility has to be combined with a mature emotional development before a healthy musical voice emerges." The singer Therese Mahler, a descendant of the composer Gustav Mahler, is likewise grateful she wasn't pushed into music. "I might have accomplished more if I had been," she said to me. "But I might not have discovered how much I need music. Because I was never pushed, I know it's my choice."

Deciding not not to develop a life in music after a prodigious beginning also takes will. Veda Kaplinsky said, "By the time they become adults, it's very difficult for them to differentiate the profession from themselves. They can't imagine themselves doing anything else, even if they really don't want to be musicians." Some wonderful musicians to develop a life in music after a prodigious beginning also takes will. Veda Kaplinsky said, "By the time they become adults, it's very difficult for them to differentiate the profession from themselves. They can't imagine themselves doing anything else, even if they really don't want to be musicians." Some wonderful musicians simply do not want the performer's life. As the piano prodigy Hoang Pham told me, "When you're young, you see success, but you can't really touch it. As you grow older, you swim a little closer to the thing that you want to touch, and you realize it's actually not quite what it seemed. There's trouble at sea, and everything is a little rougher than it looked, and the thing that you thought was so beautiful in the distance is actually quite jagged and a little fallen apart. But you've already swum so far by that time that you just keep going." simply do not want the performer's life. As the piano prodigy Hoang Pham told me, "When you're young, you see success, but you can't really touch it. As you grow older, you swim a little closer to the thing that you want to touch, and you realize it's actually not quite what it seemed. There's trouble at sea, and everything is a little rougher than it looked, and the thing that you thought was so beautiful in the distance is actually quite jagged and a little fallen apart. But you've already swum so far by that time that you just keep going."

Ken Noda's mother, Takayo Noda, saw an ad for piano lessons in the Village Voice Village Voice and enrolled Ken when he was five. Within two years, his teacher suggested that he audition for Juilliard's precollege division. Takayo had wanted to be a dancer, but she came from a prominent political family in Tokyo, and her father had forbidden it. She wanted to give her son the artistic opportunity she had been denied. "Suddenly my mother was sitting next to me, watching me practice, making sure I did two hours, punishing me when I made mistakes," Ken recalled. "I loved music, but I started to actually loathe the piano. It's a very recalcitrant, difficult instrument that doesn't vibrate; it's like a typewriter, basically." and enrolled Ken when he was five. Within two years, his teacher suggested that he audition for Juilliard's precollege division. Takayo had wanted to be a dancer, but she came from a prominent political family in Tokyo, and her father had forbidden it. She wanted to give her son the artistic opportunity she had been denied. "Suddenly my mother was sitting next to me, watching me practice, making sure I did two hours, punishing me when I made mistakes," Ken recalled. "I loved music, but I started to actually loathe the piano. It's a very recalcitrant, difficult instrument that doesn't vibrate; it's like a typewriter, basically."

As his parents' marriage disintegrated, his practice sessions became more grueling. "Violent yelling," Ken said. "It was nightmarish. You should have to pass a bar exam to qualify as a parent for talented children. I tried desperately to believe she was not the prototype of a stage mother, because she always used to tell everyone else she wasn't, but she was. She was very, very loving when I did well, and when I didn't do well, she was horrific." Meanwhile, Ken's father effectively abandoned him. "He often expressed contempt for what I was doing. It wasn't really for me; it was contempt for her. Since I didn't have time for friends, and since I needed someone to love me, I kept working so she'd love me, at least sometimes. You see, I was born with two umbilical cords: the physical one that everyone is born with, and another that was made of music."

What Ken refers to as his "first career" began when he was sixteen. After an auspicious 1979 debut concert, with Barenboim conducting, he was signed by Columbia Artists Management. Barenboim said to Takayo, "There's so much emotion, and so much going on inside him, but physically, he's so tense, so almost contorted when he plays, and I'm afraid he's going to hurt himself." Ken became Barenboim's pupil. Technical proficiency was hard for him, but he played with poignant insight. "I was an old soul," he said. Even an old soul needs some dalliance with youth, however. "Starting young, being groomed, being put on a certain track, meeting very powerful, important people who nine times out of ten see you in the image they want to make you, it's intoxicating, frightening, and ultimately can kill you," Ken said. When he was eighteen, Takayo left his father for an Italian painter. "That's when suddenly everything clicked, and I realized she herself was trapped, and that I had become her outlet." times out of ten see you in the image they want to make you, it's intoxicating, frightening, and ultimately can kill you," Ken said. When he was eighteen, Takayo left his father for an Italian painter. "That's when suddenly everything clicked, and I realized she herself was trapped, and that I had become her outlet."

At twenty-one he came out of the closet, which was necessary for both his mental health and his music. "Young people like romance stories and war stories and good-and-evil stories and old movies because their emotional life mostly is and should be fantasy, and they put that fantasized emotion into their playing, and it is very convincing. But as you grow older, fantasy emotion loses its freshness," he said. "For some time, I was able to draw on this fantasy life of what loss would mean, what a failed romance would mean, what death might mean, what sexual ecstasy might mean. I had an amazing capacity for imagining these feelings, and that's part of what talent is. But it dries up, in everyone. That's why so many prodigies have midlife crises in their late teens or early twenties. If our imagination is not replenished with experience, the ability to reproduce these feelings in one's playing gradually diminishes."

Ken had a run of concerts with formidable conductors; management had him scheduled years in advance. When he was twenty-seven, he had a crisis that brought him to the brink of suicide. "I was suffocating. My playing began to be careful, a little bit anal-retentive. I never miss notes; I've always been a very clean player, but the cleanness became almost hypochondriacal. I felt unable to express anything." He walked into the office of the head of Columbia Artists Management and announced that he was quitting. His manager said, "But you have concerts booked for the next five years." Ken said, "I want to cancel my whole life." Fifteen years later, he told me, "It was the single most thrilling experience I've ever had."

Ken had saved enough money to live comfortably for some time without working. "So I just walked around New York for a year. I sat in parks; I went to museums; I went to libraries-all these things I had never been able to do. People would ask, 'Where are you playing next?' and I'd say, 'Nowhere.' That was the best year of my life because my identity and self-worth had absolutely nothing to do with my talent."

Then James Levine, artistic director of the Metropolitan Opera, offered Ken a job as his deputy, and Ken's second life in music began. Ken coaches the singers; while Levine is somewhat socially disconnected, Ken's sparkle and warmth draw out the performers. "The musical life I'm having now is a dream," he said. "I love the theater. I love singers. I love the Met." He performs occasionally, usually as an accompanist, taking the unspotlit position he prefers. "I do it to prove to myself that I didn't stop because of stage fright," he said. taking the unspotlit position he prefers. "I do it to prove to myself that I didn't stop because of stage fright," he said.

It took Ken years to recognize the ways in which his new career resembled the relentless grind of his previous one. He woke every morning before five, studied operas, headed to the Met at six thirty, practiced for a few hours, rehearsed, coached, stayed until ten or eleven at night, and went home. At forty-five, Ken developed a staph infection; when the ER doctor asked for an emergency contact and Ken realized there was no one he wanted to inform, he entered a depression. He felt his musicality drying up again. It has served him as a bellwether: only when it wanes does he notice his underlying psychic decay. "It's very, very easy to fall into the trap of thinking you've lived all these emotions, because you've been reproducing them all day long. With middle age, I started yearning for life-life that I'd always been reading about in books, or seeing in movies, or witnessing in other people's homes."

Ken began his first serious relationship at forty-seven. "I'd had many love affairs, and they'd all been somewhat theatrical, shooting-star kind of romances," he said. "When I finally started to live, I had this incredible fear that my ability to produce art would dissipate." Periodically, this fear would spur him to withdraw. "The first time I broke up with Wayne, he was heartbroken," Ken recalled. "The second time, after three weeks, he just came back to find me." Ken described, as well, a social incompetence that was the legacy of his isolation. In the middle of a Gay Pride party, he announced that he had to go practice at the Met. Wayne said, "You're my partner. You can't just leave. You can't just run back to the Met and hide in a practice room." Ken said to me, "I never played with other children, so why at forty-seven would I go out and play with my partner?" Soon thereafter, Ken donated his piano and sheet music to charity. "It's a wonderfully simple feeling to come home, not have a piano."

After a period of estrangement, Ken has a cordial relationship with his father; Takayo has expressed enormous regret over his childhood, and they, too, have reconciled. "I can have overwhelming feelings of love for her," he said. "I don't hate her, ever. But the connection is so powerful, and I have to fight to have another focus in life." He paused. "The drive and focus that I have came from the way my mother drove me. That took me very far. I will never forgive her for my first life in music, which I hated, but I will never be able to thank her enough for my second life in music, which I love."

Some who love applause confuse that fervor with a passion for music. "Unfortunately," Veda Kaplinsky said, "they're going to be miserable. Because most of the time, it's you and your music, not you and your audience." The critic Justin Davidson said, "When you're fourteen, you do it because it's expected of you, you're good at it, and you're getting rewards. By the time you're seventeen or eighteen, if that's still why you're doing it, there's a good chance you're going to crash. If music is about expression, you have to be expressing yourself by that point, not somebody else." Because most of the time, it's you and your music, not you and your audience." The critic Justin Davidson said, "When you're fourteen, you do it because it's expected of you, you're good at it, and you're getting rewards. By the time you're seventeen or eighteen, if that's still why you're doing it, there's a good chance you're going to crash. If music is about expression, you have to be expressing yourself by that point, not somebody else."

Sometimes the adults a prodigy wants to please are competing with one another. Like deaf children who learn Sign at school, many musicians share with teachers a cherished language that their parents cannot master. The relationship between teacher and student often triangulates the parent-child bond as it did with Leon Fleisher, his mother, and Schnabel. It can be like a messy divorce, with the teacher and the parents giving different instructions, with different objectives, and the child caught awkwardly in the middle. One teacher told me about a student so anxious about the divergence between her mother's suggestions and the teacher's that she forsook a promising career and switched to mathematics.

The Texan prodigy Candy Bawcombe, her parents, and her teachers all recognized her potential, and they were all damaged in the effort to realize it. Candy was different in multiple ways from the other children in Cleburne, Texas, in the 1960s. She was adopted; her parents were Yankees; and they liked to listen to the Chicago Symphony on the radio. They put Candy in ballet classes. She hated ballet but was fascinated by the pianist who played for the lessons. She told her parents, "If you let me quit ballet, I'll practice the piano and I'll never stop." Their priest loaned Candy's father an 1893 Steinway upright piano that an erstwhile parishioner had brought to Texas in a covered wagon.

Candy's teacher used to tour Texas with the Dallas Male Chorus, and he started taking Candy along to perform when she was seven. "In Mineola, a lady said, 'I want your autograph,'" Candy remembered. "I said, 'I don't know how to write in cursive yet.' She said, 'Honey, it doesn't matter. You're going to be the next Van Cliburn.'" People started to call her Van Cleburne as an inside joke. "I began to feel like a circus act," Candy recalled. "I eventually went to my parents and said, 'I don't feel good. My tummy hurts.'"

Her parents pulled her from the shows when she was eight. Someone introduced them to Grace Ward Lankford, the Fort Worth grande dame who had effectively created the Cliburn Competition. Lankford offered to put Candy in private school in Fort Worth, board her during the week, and take over her musical education. Candy's parents declined, but they took the assessments of their daughter's ability seriously, and Lankford became Candy's teacher. Candy's mother insisted that Candy practice four hours a day, but Candy was determined to do so anyway. "I'd said when I was four, 'I'm going to be a concert pianist,'" she said. "There was no other option for me." That year, she won a competition in Fort Worth. When Candy was ten, Lankford was diagnosed with advanced colon cancer and lived only three months. No one wanted Candy to witness mortal illness, so she never saw her mentor again. She told her parents that she couldn't play without Lankford. Then they received a call. On her deathbed, Lankford had asked the renowned Hungarian pianist Lili Kraus, artist-in-residence at Texas Christian University, to take Candy as a pupil. declined, but they took the assessments of their daughter's ability seriously, and Lankford became Candy's teacher. Candy's mother insisted that Candy practice four hours a day, but Candy was determined to do so anyway. "I'd said when I was four, 'I'm going to be a concert pianist,'" she said. "There was no other option for me." That year, she won a competition in Fort Worth. When Candy was ten, Lankford was diagnosed with advanced colon cancer and lived only three months. No one wanted Candy to witness mortal illness, so she never saw her mentor again. She told her parents that she couldn't play without Lankford. Then they received a call. On her deathbed, Lankford had asked the renowned Hungarian pianist Lili Kraus, artist-in-residence at Texas Christian University, to take Candy as a pupil.

"I was overwhelmed by the glamour," Candy said. "Lili Kraus was a European queen. The brocade gowns. The triple strand of pearls around her neck that she wore every day of her life. The violinist Felix Galimir later told me, 'Every man in Europe was in love with Lili Kraus.'" Candy had learned the Mendelssohn Concerto in G Minor and thought her new teacher would be impressed. "She listened, and then said, 'Now, darling, I will teach you how to play the piano.' She took all my books off the piano, threw them on the floor, and said, 'Play a scale.' So I played a C-major scale. Then she started saying, 'Play G minor. Play B-flat major. Play in counter-motion. Play four octaves.' She was asking me to do things I'd never heard of before. My whole life caved in and crashed down."

Candy's mother had been somewhat intimidated by Lankford, but she was in awe of Lili Kraus; she took home the teacher's dresses to mend. Candy displaced a lot of feeling onto her new teacher. "If you have the strong personality of a world-famous concert artist in your life at the age of eleven, how can that not overshadow your mother?" she said. "I wanted to emulate Kraus in every way." Candy developed a rapport with Kraus beyond her mother's reach, but her mother became her drill sergeant, keeping her at the piano for hours every day. "Nothing came before that," Candy said. "Ever."

For a year and a half, Candy played nothing but exercises: arpeggios, trills, scales, Czerny, scales in thirds, scales in octaves. "I thought I was going to go insane. What happened to the concertos?" Finally, Kraus decided Candy was ready for a Mozart sonata. They established a routine: Kraus would tour in Europe all summer, during which time Candy would have music to learn by heart; when Madame returned in September, Candy would relearn those same pieces "the right way." Candy's father was offered promotions, but they involved moving, which was unthinkable as long as Candy was studying with Kraus.

It became a running joke to introduce Candy as "Lili Kraus's student who is the next winner of the Cliburn Competition," which for Candy would "ratchet that bolt and screw tighter and tighter." She wanted to go to Juilliard, but couldn't bear to leave Kraus. "I'm the only student who learned the real technique that Kraus had," she said. "I spent fourteen years with her to earn it." But Candy decided that she wanted to make her mark playing the concerto version of Schubert's "Wanderer" Fantasy, "Wanderer" Fantasy, and Kraus said, "I'm the only pianist who plays that piece." It was the beginning of trouble. "Madame Kraus was fighting to continue her career as long as possible," Candy said. "She wanted my youth, and she couldn't have it." and Kraus said, "I'm the only pianist who plays that piece." It was the beginning of trouble. "Madame Kraus was fighting to continue her career as long as possible," Candy said. "She wanted my youth, and she couldn't have it."

Candy felt pressured by her mother's focus and her father's missed career opportunities. She felt pushed by Kraus to triumph in a way that would elevate but not overshadow Kraus's own reputation. She felt the lingering burden of Lankford's hopes, and of being an adopted child who needed to prove herself worthy enough not to be abandoned. She felt the terrible anxiety that had begun with her sideshow act around Texas. She enrolled at TCU, where she began to struggle more and more with her work and physical health. She was, at last, preparing to enter the Cliburn Competition, playing the Prokofiev Piano Concerto no. 2.

Shortly before the competition, she became terribly ill and lost thirty pounds in a month. Doctors diagnosed her with anorexia, and for the next five years she became weaker and weaker; eventually, she was down to eighty-five pounds, though she is five feet ten. Her kidneys were giving out, and she was put on life support. Kraus wrote in her diary that she was saying good-bye to Candy before she died. In the hospital, Candy pondered her despair. "I accused my mother many times, 'You don't love me because I didn't win the Cliburn Competition.' I thought she'd seen me only as the piano prodigy. Madame Kraus loved me; I was her baby, and she called me Candy Bandy. But it was always 'Candy Bawcombe, pianist.' Why can't it just be 'Candy Bawcombe, person?'" She finally learned that she had Crohn's disease; it took her a year to walk again.