How can I forget this lovely gemstone in the earliest memory of my adolescence. I was enraptured at the time by its overwhelming sorrow and melancholy. First movement is where I experienced the most personal convulsion; the springlike sprinkle of piano intermezzo was unique to that age, and at the age of 15 it made my heart tremble for the lack of a soul. Now as a more seasoned sailor in the ocean of history, I fell for the second time, but not the first movement any more, perhaps due to the coarse lead-in by the orchestra, typical of Chopin’s maxim of reverse anticlimaticism, as I would call it. But the second movement rang the divinity resembling all the other great second movement in the main stream romantic era: beethoven violin concerto, Bruch violin concerto, just to name the ones that come immediately to mind. But such purity and soothing is rare in piano concertos. Composers in the Romantic age tend to be skilled in melodrama, sentimental explosion, not so many found it interesting in exploring the pristine, the untempered truthful depiction of goodness in nature. For that reason, perhaps, Beethoven owed a great deal of his supremacy in the period. His blunt affection for truth, equality, and magnanimity not only made up for his comparatively deficient spontaneity, but elevated him to the status of a fatherly figure. Chopin, being at the other extreme, reveals his transcendental beauty in that instance when he relinquishes his God-given role as the child prodigy, characterized by callousness of emotion and elitist affectation, and in exchange permitted the most primordial humor into his contemplative existence: for the reference, he wrote the song at age 17, an age of exuberance and yearning perhaps.