From a passage in Rilke's ;-
Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge about
Beethoven.
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The Moleur, whose shop I pass every day, has hung two plaster masks beside his door. The face of a young drowned woman, which they took a cast of in the morgue because it was beautiful, because it smiled, because it smiled deceptively, as if it knew.
And beneath it, 'his' face, which knows. The hard knot of senses drawn tightly together. That inexorable self-condensing of a music continually trying to evaporate.
The countenance of a man whose hearing a God had closed up, so that there might be no sounds but his own; So that he might not be led astray by what is turbid and ephemeral noises - he who knew in himself their clarity and permanence.
So that only the soundless senses might carry the world into him silently, a world in suspense, waiting, unfinished, before the creation of sound world-consummator; as that which comes down as rain over the earth and upon the waters, falling carelessly, at random - inevitably rises again, invisible and joyous, out of all things, and ascends and floats and forms the heavens; so our precipitations rose out of you, and vaulted the world with music.
Your music; it could have encircled the whole universe; not merely us.
A grand-piano could have been built for you in the Theban desert, and an angel would have led you to that solitary instrument, through mountain-ranges in he wilderness, where kings are buried and courtesans and anchorites. And he would have flung himself up and away, for fear that you woulde begin.
And then you would have streamed forth, unheard, giving back to the universe what only the universe can endure. Bedouins in the distance would have galloped by, superstitiously; but merchants would have flung themselves to the ground at the edge of your music, as if you were a storm. Only a few solitary lions would have prowled around you at night, in wide circles, afraid of themselves, menaced by their own excited blood.
For who will now take you out of ears that are lascivious? Who will drive them from the concert halls, these corrupt ears whose sterile hearing fornicates and never conceives.
But Master, if some pure spirit with a virgin ear were to lie down beside your music; he would die of bliss; or he would become pregnant with infinity, and his fertilized brain would explode with so much birth.
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[This message has been edited by Amalie (edited August 05, 2003).]
Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge about
Beethoven.
****************************************
The Moleur, whose shop I pass every day, has hung two plaster masks beside his door. The face of a young drowned woman, which they took a cast of in the morgue because it was beautiful, because it smiled, because it smiled deceptively, as if it knew.
And beneath it, 'his' face, which knows. The hard knot of senses drawn tightly together. That inexorable self-condensing of a music continually trying to evaporate.
The countenance of a man whose hearing a God had closed up, so that there might be no sounds but his own; So that he might not be led astray by what is turbid and ephemeral noises - he who knew in himself their clarity and permanence.
So that only the soundless senses might carry the world into him silently, a world in suspense, waiting, unfinished, before the creation of sound world-consummator; as that which comes down as rain over the earth and upon the waters, falling carelessly, at random - inevitably rises again, invisible and joyous, out of all things, and ascends and floats and forms the heavens; so our precipitations rose out of you, and vaulted the world with music.
Your music; it could have encircled the whole universe; not merely us.
A grand-piano could have been built for you in the Theban desert, and an angel would have led you to that solitary instrument, through mountain-ranges in he wilderness, where kings are buried and courtesans and anchorites. And he would have flung himself up and away, for fear that you woulde begin.
And then you would have streamed forth, unheard, giving back to the universe what only the universe can endure. Bedouins in the distance would have galloped by, superstitiously; but merchants would have flung themselves to the ground at the edge of your music, as if you were a storm. Only a few solitary lions would have prowled around you at night, in wide circles, afraid of themselves, menaced by their own excited blood.
For who will now take you out of ears that are lascivious? Who will drive them from the concert halls, these corrupt ears whose sterile hearing fornicates and never conceives.
But Master, if some pure spirit with a virgin ear were to lie down beside your music; he would die of bliss; or he would become pregnant with infinity, and his fertilized brain would explode with so much birth.
******************************************
[This message has been edited by Amalie (edited August 05, 2003).]
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