Thomas Cottle's newest book
"When The Music Stopped:
Discovering My Mother"

Not surprisingly during the recent recession and rise of unemployment, Hardest Times: The Trauma of Long-Term Unemployment has been discovered by a host of journalists and commentators. Headline news of the day, the affect of long-term unemployment on the lives of American workers and their families, remains one of the most difficult issues, one that clearly has relevance for millions of our citizens. In Hardest Times, Thomas J. Cottle captures the lives of American workers no longer receiving compensation or insurance benefits, people no longer known to the American public. READ MORE

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Thomas Cottle Wins Distinguished Writing Award

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Excerpts

And so her career took off, in the United States and Europe as well, her terror of travel and stage fright probably ruining every moment of glory she experienced; the reviews and articles only confirm this. It was evident that she was a great concert pianist, a poet, and a wonderful colleague. Over the years, our house was filled with those illustrious colleagues, each of whom sang her praise and raved about her playing. If, as many allege, an artist’s happiness rests in great measure on the recognition of her contemporaries, my mother should have been happy indeed. [continue]

No social gathering at Hawthorne Place could ever have been deemed perfunctory. There was always excitement and tension as people prepared for the evening's company, be it a musician traveling on his own, a musician with an entourage, or, most significantly, what can only be described as the musical soirées. What I observed first hand was something already well known by Chicago's society columnists: My parents were spectacular party goers, and hosts. [continue]

My mother's relationship with the family of Arturo Toscanini began in the years that she and my father became friendly with Vladimir Horowitz and his wife, Toscanini's daughter, Wanda. Trips to Italy almost always involved visits to the Toscanini's, and there was rarely a journey to New York City when my mother failed to visit the Toscanini home in Riverdale, a huge mansion that my mother always described as having rooms the size of barns. In fact, on one excursion to the Riverdale manse, my mother, who had been invited to sleep over, could not find peaceful rest in rooms so enormous. Her first option was to sleep in a bathroom which she also found terrifying. [continue]

Having graduated from college and living through a somewhat low moment in my life, my father’s suggestion to work for him for two weeks [in Israel] seemed immensely appealing. I had nothing better to do, nothing resembling a career to pursue; besides, Israel represented an ideal jumping off place for trips to Greece and Italy. As it happened, I fell in love with the country and asked my father if I could remain after he departed. He was delighted and at once gave his approval. The first question, however, was where would I live? A telephone call to my mother brought news that the violinist Isaac Stern was staying in a hotel outside Tel Aviv; perhaps I should contact him. [continue]

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