...the mode by which he "heard" the universe and projected it far beyond himself. Perhaps it was in this, I said to Albertine, this unknown quality of a unique world which no other composer had ever yet revealed, that the most authentic proof of genius lies, even more than in the content of the work itself. "Even in literature?” Albertine inquired. “Even in literature.” And thinking again of the sameness of Vinteuil’s works, I explained to Albertine that the great men of letters have never created more than a single work, or rather have never done more than refract through various media an identical beauty which they bring into the world. “If it were not so late, my sweet,” I said to her, “I would show you this quality in all the writers whose works you read while I’m asleep, I would show you the same identity as in Vinteuil. These key-phrases, which you are beginning to recognise as I do, my little Albertine, the same in the sonata, in the septet, in the other works, would be, say for instance in Barbey dAurevilly, a hidden reality revealed by a physical sign, the physiological blush...

The power of music, narrative and drama is of the greatest practical and theoretical importance. One may see this even in the case of idiots, with IQs below 20 and the extremest motor incompetence and bewilderment. Their uncouth movements may disappear in a moment with music and dancing—suddenly, with music, they know how to move. We see how the retarded, unable to perform fairly simple tasks involving perhaps four or five movements or procedures in sequence, can do these perfectly if they work to music—the sequence of movements they cannot hold as schemes being perfectly holdable as music, i.e. embedded in music. The same may be seen, very dramatically, in patients with severe frontal lobe damage and apraxia—an inability to do things, to retain the simplest motor sequences and programmes, even to walk, despite perfectly preserved intelligence in all other ways. This procedural defect, or motor idiocy, as one might call it, which completely defeats any ordinary system of rehabilitative instruction, vanishes at once if music is the instructor. All this, no doubt, is the rationale, or one of the rationales, of work songs.

Ich sage immer, dass Messiaen mein Leben verändert hat. Er war wie ein Vater für mich, er hat mich nach Europa gebracht und eingeführt - nicht nur räumlich durch seine Einladung nach Paris, wo ich bei ihm zu Hause leben und von ihm lernen konnte, sondern in viel umfänglicherem Sinne. ... Auch war mir vieles fremd in Paris. Die andere Art des Lebens, die Denkweise, die Gerüche der Stadt, die Geräusche des Verkehrs, die ganz andere Ästhetik, nicht nur in der Musik und Kunst. Vieles war so neu und befremdlich, dass ich überhaupt keine Haltung dazu hatte. ... Es gab so viel zu lernen über die europäische Geschichte. Messiaen weckte in mir den Sinn für Vielfalt europäischer Traditionen und für die vielen Sprachen. Er und seine Frau zeigten mir Paris und brachten mich mit anderen Komponisten und Künstlern zusammen. Yvonne Loriod unterrichtete mich in vielen Privatstunden am Klavier, sodass ich Messiaens Werke besser verstehen würde. Für jemanden vom anderen Ende der Welt sind das ungemein prägende Erfahrungen. Selten habe ich so viel gelernt in meinem Leben.

По правило ирландците се женят късно. В ДНК-то ни е закодиран многовековен глад, една настройка, че не раждаш нищо, докато не си събрал и отделил на сигурно място достатъчно картофи, за да го изхраниш.

Mac Rebennack, better known as Dr. John, once told me that when a brass band plays at a small club back up in one of the neighborhoods, it's as if the audience--dancing, singing to the refrains, laughing--is part of the band. They are two parts of the same thing. The dancers interpret, or it might be better to say literally embody, the sounds of the band, answering the instruments. Since everyone is listening to different parts of the music--she to the trumpet melody, he to the bass drum, she to the trombone--the audience is a working model in three dimensions of the music, a synesthesic transformation of materials. And of course the band is also watching the dancers, and getting ideas from the dancers' gestures. The relationship between band and audience is in that sense like the relationship between two lovers making love, where cause and effect becomes very hard to see, even impossible to call by its right name; one is literally getting down, as in particle physics, to some root stratum where one is freed from the lockstop of time itself, where time might even run backward, or sideways, and something eternal and transcendent is accessed.

You sit there in your heartache Waiting on some beautiful boy to To save you from your old ways You play forgiveness Watch him now, here he comesHe doesnt look a thing like Jesus But he talks like a gentleman Like you imagined when you were youngCan we climb this mountain? I dont know Higher now than ever before I know we can make it if we take it slow That's takin' easy, easy now, watch it goWere burning down the highway skyline On the back of a hurricane that started turning When you were young When you were youngAnd sometimes you close your eyes And see the place where you used to live When you were youngThey say the Devils water it aint so sweet You dont have to drink right now But you can dip your feet Every once in a little whileYou sit there in your heartache Waiting on some beautiful boy to To save you from your old ways You play forgiveness Watch him now, here he comesHe doesnt look a thing like Jesus But he talks like a gentleman Like you imagined when you were young (Talks like a gentleman) (Like you imagined when) When you were youngI said he doesnt look a thing like Jesus He doesnt look a thing like Jesus But more than youll ever know

The music is everywhere, pressing in on them both, so much that she can almost see it floating in the air around them. It’s like wind, but also not, gracing over her skin as light as air, and she can hear it, more than hear it, both in her head and outside of it. It’s like Callum is shocking her, except the transfer is music, rather than electricity, and it goes on nearly forever. She can feel it weaving itself into her head, wrapping around and entangling with her thoughts in little, fragile, insistent tendrils. “It just amazes me,” Callum whispers, voice blending perfectly with the music. “How something can be so soft and so loud at the same time. It’s almost like it isn’t there at all, isn’t it?” The song ends. And in this moment, as the sun sets outside, and the room begins to go dark, she can feel him thinking. She can hear their breath mingling in the silence. She can hear every emotion he’s ever had, and she realizes that, though she has this, this thing that nobody else has, she understands perhaps the least about it of anyone. And he makes her want to. He makes her want to understand more.

Well," he said with equanimity, "you see, in my opinion there is no point at all in talking about music. I never talk about music. What reply, then, was I to make to your very able and just remarks? You were perfectly right in all you said. But, you see, I am a musician, not a professor, and I don't believe that, as regards music, there is the least point in being right. Music does not depend on being right, on having good taste and education and all that.""Indeed. Then what does it depend on?""On making music, Herr Haller, on making music as well and as much as possible and with all the intensity of which one is capable. That is the point, Monsieur. Though I carried the complete works of Bach and Haydn in my head and could say the cleverest things about them, not a soul would be the better for it. But when I take hold of my mouthpiece and play a lively shimmy, whether the shimmy be good or bad, it will give people pleasure. It gets into their legs and into their blood. That's the point and that alone. Look at the faces in a dance hall at the moment when the music strikes up after a longish pause, how eyes sparkle, legs twitch and faces begin to laugh. That is why one makes music.

Brian came in heavy at that moment on his guitar, the rapid, high-pitched squeal ranging back and forth as his fingers flew along the frets. As the intro's tempo grew more rapid, Bekka heard Derek's subtle bass line as it worked its way in. After another few seconds Will came in, slow at first, but racing along to match the others' pace. When their combined efforts seemed unable to get any heavier, David jumped into the mix.As the sound got nice and heavy, Bekka began to rock back-and-forth onstage. In front of her, hundreds of metal-lovers began to jump and gyrate to their music. She matched their movements for a moment, enjoying the connection that was being made, before stepping over to the keyboard that had been set up behind her. Sliding her microphone into an attached cradle, she assumed her position and got ready. Right on cue, all the others stopped playing, throwing the auditorium into an abrupt silence. Before the crowd could react, however, Bekka's fingers began to work the keys, issuing a rhythm that was much softer and slower than what had been built up. The audience's violent thrash-dance calmed at that moment and they began to sway in response.Bekka smiled to herself.This is what she lived for.

استمع إلى نبض الحياة في آلة هذا العازف النفخية.. إنّ الحياة مجرد أنفاس أيها الفتى. في البدء كانت الكلمة، ومن يدري كيف فهم الرهبان تلك الآية، لكن الكلمة تنشأ عبر التنفس.. عليك أن تهوى الحياة دائمًا، لأنّ الفاشيين فقط يحبون الموت!

Elnora lifted the violin and began to play. She wore a school dress of green gingham, with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. She seemed a part of the setting all around her. Her head shone like a small dark sun, her face never had seemed so rose-flushed and fair. From the instant she drew the bow, her lips parted and her eyes fastened on something far away in the swamp, and never did she give more of that immpression of feeling for her notes and repeating something audible only to her. Ammon was to near to get the best effect. he arose and stepped back several yards, leaning against a large tree, looking and listening with all his soul.As he changed position he saw that Mrs. Comstock had followed them, and was standing on the trail, where she could not have helped hearing everything Elnora had said. So to Ammon before her and the mother watching on the trail, Elnora played the Song of the Limberlost. It seemed as if the swamp hushed all its other voices and spoke only through her dancing bow. The mother out on the trail had heard it all once before from the girl, many times from her father. To the man it was a revelation. He stood so stunned he forgot Mrs. Comstock. He tried to realize what a great city audience would say to that music, from such a player, with a like background, he could not imagine.

Sometimes you’re 23 and standing in the kitchen of your house making breakfast and brewing coffee and listening to music that for some reason is really getting to your heart. You’re just standing there thinking about going to work and picking up your dry cleaning. And also more exciting things like books you’re reading and trips you plan on taking and relationships that are springing into existence. Or fading from your memory, which is far less exciting. And suddenly you just don’t feel at home in your skin or in your house and you just want home but “Mom’s” probably wouldn’t feel like home anymore either. There used to be the comfort of a number in your phone and ears that listened every day and arms that were never for anyone else. But just to calm you down when you started feeling trapped in a five-minute period where nostalgia is too much and thoughts of this person you are feel foreign. When you realize that you’ll never be this young again but this is the first time you’ve ever been this old. When you can’t remember how you got from sixteen to here and all the same feel like sixteen is just as much of a stranger to you now. The song is over. The coffee’s done. You’re going to breath in and out. You’re going to be fine in about five minutes.

Shrouded as he was for a decade in an apparent cloak of anonymity and obscurity, Osama bin Laden was by no means an invisible man. He was ubiquitous and palpable, both in a physical and a cyber-spectral form, to the extent that his death took on something of the feel of an exorcism. It is satisfying to know that, before the end came, he had begun at least to guess at the magnitude of his 9/11 mistake. It is essential to remember that his most fanatical and militant deputy, Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, did not just leave his corpse in Iraq but was isolated and repudiated even by the minority Sunnis on whose presumed behalf he spilled so much blood and wrought such hectic destruction. It is even more gratifying that bin Laden himself was exposed as an excrescence on the putrid body of a bankrupt and brutish state machine, and that he found himself quite unable to make any coherent comment on the tide—one hopes that it is a tide, rather than a mere wave—of demand for an accountable and secular form of civil society. There could not have been a finer affirmation of the force of life, so warmly and authentically counterposed to the hysterical celebration of death, and of that death-in-life that is experienced in the stultifications of theocracy, where womanhood and music and literature are stifled and young men mutated into robotic slaughterers.

Bernard and I always believed that most pop music fits into the board category called rock and roll. Rock and roll was ever changing, and this art form had different genres of classification for the benefit of consumers, like sections in a library or bookstore. Once any genre-folk, soul, rock or even some jazz-reaches a certain position on the pop charts, it does what’s known in the music business as crossing over, and gets played on the Top Forty stations. That’s the reason so many of us own songs by artists from genre’s we normally wouldn't-their hit songs crossed over into the pop Top Forty mainstream.When a genre repeatedly crosses over and comes to dominate the Top Forty, what had originated as an insurgency becomes the new ruling class. This was the path disco had taken-from the margins where it started, a weird combination of underground gay culture and funk and gospel-singing techniques and, in the case of Chic, Jazz-inflected groovy soul. But it was basically all rock and roll, historically speaking, as far as we were concerned.But the media and the industry pitted us against the Knack-the disco kings in their buppie uniforms verses the scrappy white boys. But we never saw it that way. We thought we were all on the same team, even if our voices and songs followed different idioms.Boy, were we naïve.And boy, did things change.

In Bezug auf die bewusste, geduldige, überwältigend entworfene und ausgearbeitete Textur seines Werkes ist Bach das genaue Gegenteil Beethovens. Selbst in den späteren Kompositionen, die den direkten Einfluss von Bachs Kontrapunkt zeigen (die Fugen op. 106, 110 oder 130, die Missa solemnis und andere), ist Beethovens Stil dramatisch - er drängt mit Phrasen von unwiderstehlicher Energie vorwärts, erobert neues Gebiet und strebt weiter, statt zu konsolidieren und mit kreisender Bewegung stetig auszugreifen, wie es bei Bach der Fall ist. In jedem seiner Werke verwendet Beethoven für diesen Angriff - entweder in der Exposition, Durchführung oder Reprise - andere Ansätze, die häufig winzig und themenlos sind, kaum mehr als gebrochene Dreiklänge (wie im ersten Satz der Eroica) oder thematische Muster, aus wiederholten Tönen gebildet (der erste und zweite Satz der Siebten Sinfonie). Bach ist episch, Beethoven dramatisch. Ich finde so faszinierend an Bachs letzten Werken (der h-Moll-Messe, den Goldberg-Variationen, der Kunst der Fuge, dem Musikalischen Opfer), dass er, anders als Beethoven, dessen Werke aus der dritten Periode die Gattung sprengen und eine Reihe zerstörter, unvollendeter, fragmentarischer Formen zurücklassen, offenbar bestrebt ist, jede Nuance, jede Verflechtung, jede Harmonie und jeden Rhythmus in das Ganze einzubeziehen.