Composer and nature writer Lev Parikian: ‘nature is awe-inspiring – but it’s also randomly cruel’

What is your earliest memory?
A general impression of house, parents, pets, happiness and safety. My father was a violinist, a very, very good one. When I was about three or four, I used to sit cross‑legged on his music room floor and listen in wonder.

Who has been your mentor?
Many people I’ve admired, looked up to and learnt from, and continue to learn from. Far too many to mention. As a conductor, two spring to mind: George Hurst taught me in the 1990s and gave me confidence; Ilya Musin, who I studied with in St Petersburg in the late 1990s.

How fit are you?
Fit enough to stand on one leg for two minutes, walk 10 miles and play a day of cricket. That’ll do me fine.

Tell me about an animal you have loved.
Our childhood dog Poops, a cross between a border collie and a Norwegian elkhound. He displayed the residual instincts of both breeds: he would randomly crouch down as if he was herding sheep, and randomly dash around as though he was part of a team pulling a sled. He was wonderful, very furry, cuddly, quite stupid. We grew up together. And also the swifts, which have returned from Africa — that’s an entirely unrequited love, as they have no idea I exist, but I do wait in some agony when the time for them to return comes around, and when they arrive I get very emotional.

Risk or caution, which has defined your life more?
Caution, definitely. Occasionally, I’ve taken risks without realising they were risks — they seemed like the sensible thing to do at the time.

What trait do you find most irritating in others?
Cruelty and unkindness, both of which I have recognised in myself, which I deplore.

What trait do you find most irritating in yourself?
Apart from the above, which I hope are no longer: general grumpiness and occasional outbursts of rage. Again, I hope I’ve got better at that last one as I get older.

What drives you on?
There’s so much out there to learn about, enjoy and relish. One lifetime is not enough. Also, especially when writing, a fundamental desire to be thought useful, to be valued.

Do you believe in an afterlife?
No. Not yet. It might come.

Which is more puzzling, the existence of suffering or its frequent absence?
The latter. You only have to look at the animal kingdom. I write about nature. We like to think of nature as good for our mental health; it’s beautiful, it’s awe-inspiring — but it’s also randomly cruel. We are animals, even though we don’t like to admit it.

Name your favourite river.
I have dozens. I’ve chosen the Water of Leith. Every year, I spend a week in Edinburgh, conducting the Rehearsal Orchestra, a wonderful summer course, playing for fun. I walk along the Water of Leith every day and I’ve seen dippers, herons, grey wagtails, kingfishers — it’s a miraculous place of complete calm, five minutes from a bustling city centre.

What would you have done differently?
I might have started writing earlier. But it’s entirely possible that if I’d started in my twenties, I’d have been rejected as I’d have been very bad at it, and then given up for ever as it would have hurt too much. Things happen for a reason.