Watching a Rossini (that's him above) opera during an idle moment this afternoon, I was reminded that he only wept three times in his whole life.
Once when an early opera of his failed.
And once when a truffled turkey fell into the water during a river picnic.
The last time I wept was when watching a biopic about Brahms. As a solitary old man he was not very good at looking after himself. At a particularly poignant moment, when one of his most deeply-felt slow movements was playing in the background, he was shown struggling to open a tin of pressed tongue. The patent opener (this would have been in the 1890s) broke, leaving a small hole through which he was reduced to scraping out pathetically small shreds of this really rather nasty meat with the wrong end of a teaspoon. The notion that this elderly, lonely man, creator of such very beautiful things, should be reduced to this . . . well, although not usually that emotional, something gave way and I could not hold back the tears.