Like the guy who sits down at the piano in a hotel lobby and bangs out Rachmaninoff.
She played the Rachmaninoff "Prelude," and when she had finished they neither moved nor spoke.
They have not, however, the splendid mould of Rachmaninoff, nor have they his vigorous originality.
The giant of to-day, to my mind, is indisputably Rachmaninoff.
An excellent example of this is contained in the autobiography, Rachmaninoff's Recollections.
It is as dismal and as overdone as Rachmaninoff's Prelude in C sharp minor.
In this book, immortal Rachmaninoff describes in detail his success in overcoming a severe case of mental depression.