Body and Soul

Don’t be afraid of it. Learn it. Work hard. Do it seriously and try to get what you can out of it. Keep an open mind, and if in the end you decide to throw it away, you’ll be doing it from strength.

I’m angry. I just don’t give in to it.” He sipped his tea and then put it down. “Stuff happens all the time. What’d you call it? Outrageous. Outrageous stuff make you so mad you can just burn yourself up with it. You got to decide if the mad runs you, or you run the mad.

What you are looking for is authentication, Claude. But you’re looking outside, to the system, and that’s the wrong place to look. Bad music gets played every day and good music gets ignored. Everybody knows that. Forget about authentication. When it comes to writing music, all you can do is sign on for a way of life, and do the work. Do the work for its own sake.

They were playing the music, minds, bodies, and souls stretched near to the limit, but it was also true that the music was playing them. A balancing act of excruciating fragility, but to Claude sweet beyond words, sweet beyond imagining.

Trading off with Fredericks, he felt almost outside himself, listening to the magic flow, the shift of colors, hearing the pulse, watching his hands do their amazing work. As he shaped the music in his mind and played it, he felt Fredericks shaping and playing right along with him, their souls joined in harmonious enterprise, like two old friends who can talk without words, who can communicate a thought even before it has fully emerged, because the same thought is nascent in the other.

Deathbed speeches in novels. The soprano bares her soul and collapses on the divan. Citizen Kane and his Rosebud. That’s what we want, I guess. Some message, some meaning expressed in the last moments. What better time for it all to make sense than at the end? But it doesn’t make sense.” He opened his eyes. “The last moments are the same as any other moments. There is no special wisdom.

Claude saw the orchestra. Mr. Dove came up behind him. Together, they waited a moment. Then, briskly, Claude stepped forward into the light.

His ears opened as the applause faded. He took a deep, sighing breath and the music started, instantly there, like some enormous flower blossoming out of nothing in a nanosecond, big as a house. The air was thick with music.

If he was nothing, or almost nothing, with no idea of where he had come from or where he was going, why he was living or what he was supposed to be doing (the piano only an elusive hint), and if, further, he was buffeted by forces he could not name but which were loneliness, sadness, longing, anger, fear, and spiritual nausea, would he not deeply attend the infinite story of life? Would he not pay the fucking twenty-five cents to get into the cathedral and see the light?