Thirty years ago I turned on our family's black-and-white console TV to watch an orchestra

conductor nearly as hyperactive as I was performing the magic trick of conjuring images out of melody, of churning emotions out of dissonance. The man gestured grandly with his baton to the horn section, a wavy black forelock dropped over

his forehead, and three horn players sounded out a theme. "What character is that？" he asked. "The wolf!" the audience of children responded noisily. Repeating the procedure, the man signaled the oboe, the flute, the clarinet and the drums, to which the kids answered instantly." Duck! ... Bird! ... Cat! ... Hunters! .... Wait, I left out the most important one," the conductor said, and with the violin, the kids shrieked out Peter!" and I chimed in with them. Rocking his arms jauntily as Peter's theme played on, Leonard Bernstein had won yet another concert. It was my first taste of symphonic music, nearly my first hint that there was a world larger, more sophisticated and splendid than my own. For me, and all the rest of the children from the hinterlands intently watching those Young People's Concerts, the air became slightly more rarefied with possibility. If I had had any idea at the time what an aura was, I would have recognized the one hovering around Carnegie Hall.

We can tell from the passage that as a child the author

A．was quiet and placid.

B．was addicted to TV.

C．lived in a big city.

D．was sensitive and imaginative.