In the late winter of 1992, Northwestern University, which houses a large collection of John Cage's manuscripts, papers, art works, and programs, celebrated his approaching eightieth birthday with a week-long series of concerts, lectures, workshops, panels, and exhibits. The following remarks opened the first concert on the evening of 3 March. Afterwards, Cage and I walked back to the hotel where we were both staying. As we were saying goodbye at the elevator – I was leaving the next morning – I asked him, “What do you think about all this fuss people have been making over postmodernism?” In his usual style, he thought for a while, before answering, “I think it's wonderful when people make a fuss over anything.” That was the last time I saw him; he died of a stroke several months later, a few weeks short of his eightieth birthday.

From the late 1950s through the 70s I was involved with John Cage in various ways: at the bridge and poker table; listening to and occasionally performing in his compositions; and trying to write about him. I thought I had an intuitive grasp of what he was doing and why he was doing it, but when it came to putting things into words, I felt that something was eluding me.