“The field open to the musician is not a miserable stave of seven notes, but an immeasurable keyboard (still almost entirely unknown) on which, here and there only, separated by the thick darkness of its unexplored tracts, some few among the millions of keys of tenderness, of passion, of courage, of serenity, which compose it, each one differing from all the rest as one universe differs from another, have been discovered by a few great artists who do us the service, when they awaken in us the emotion corresponding to the theme they have discovered, of showing us what richness, what variety lies hidden, unknown to us, in that vast, unfathomed and forbidding night of our soul which we take to be an impenetrable void.”
~from “Swann’s Way”, Marcel Proust
I love this, partly for what it says: how certain musicians have the power to claim us, to defy those inner places we think will never be broken open; and partly because it’s composed as one sentence only.
I love it for both reasons.
A writer’s kind of music. It sings in so many, many ways.
And then there’s this:
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