"When I was five years old and lived in the city—in Brooklyn, New York—a miraculous thing happened one summer. A cricket! One night I heard a cricket calling. What ab beautiful sound. It was the only one, a lonely soloist calling for a mate. Each evening I'd lie in bed listening to the cricket. A few nights after the serenading began, I happened to be outside with my father shortly after dark. I saw a big cockroach and dutifully stepped on it without a thought, as I'd been taught to do. "Dad, look at the big roach I just killed!" So proud. "That's not a roach, Carl; that's a cricket." I had killed the night's music. Whoa."