Still, there are some mysterious moments in which I hear a music, and I have always had it inside me. I find it again as I would find a towel that I know, a home towel, on a foreign table. I have it as the odour of your own apartment. It springs out of me and we never left.
This happened tonight
It is a weird sensation; I do not know it formally, but it is a part of my person. It is like an ancient memory after an accident.
Indeed, the accident is time.
Never did I hear so much music as when I were an unconscious child. Children are immobilised, they have nothing to do, they have a strong perception and a voracious memory - if you wash them with music, it will never go away - it will stay and impress into the memory and the phantasy and in habit and tastes. It will be clandestin in a meadow of her brain, an occult, profound, forgotten memory: Until when.
This child will find again life, mother and house, when listening to that.
I belong to this group of children, and as often find myself back, as often those scores surprise me. I do not know how many or which one are they, either. I can only recognise those musical parents when I cross them on the street.
But then an arcane force of the brain calls me to life.
And I am home.
God be blessed for the depth of the brain.
Now my tonight's forgotten discourse has a name: Beethoven piano concerto 3 in C minor.
This is the first movement, well played by the old Arthur
Paris, 24 September 2010