When I hear this music, I go to a very bright and breezy place inside of me. I can see an image, like a concrete wall with sunlight on it. Or moving trees through a passenger window of a car. I don’t know where they come from; maybe they are things I saw while listening before, or things that I imagined to accompany the music.
Whenever I feel anything very deeply, I am grateful. I can feel a complete difference between living with the memory of my whole life inside of me, and living without it. Living remembering the things that made me so happy, as a child. It’s not about living in the past versus the present… it’s about remembering versus dismembering. When we forget who we’ve been we are dismembered.
That’s one reason I prefer criticism to biography. A biographer can give you the outside facts of a person’s life, but that only gets you so far. When a good critic is at work, what you are reading is a biography of the imagination… and that’s so much more important. Because imagination never really makes sense - why would some suburban middle-class child of a fairly functional family go on to produce ineffable beauty? Why not? I’m not thinking of anyone in particular, just that most artists can be said to have had outwardly boring childhoods.
Music is beautiful. I adore it. It’s impossible… there’s no reason for it to be anything more than noise. The fact that there is such a thing as music in the world is to me greatly satisfying.