Do you get it now?

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Perhaps the sun speaks too loudly during heatwaves. To escape the hot noise people take to lying under mosquito nets on top of their beds so that the sun then falls silent because it suddenly realises that it’s the only one talking and that everyone else has gone to bed; he feels resentful and burns with rage. Not only is he too loud but he also has nothing much to say but still manages to use so many words. Somewhere Albert scribbled a remark in his notes – ‘the glib loquacity of the sun’. It’s difficult to imagine someone like Albert lying on his death bed, with all his quiet passion leaching out of him drop by drop, a long line of love conquests parading by, stray chiffons of cigarette smoke curling up to the ceiling past net curtains that sway in the January breeze and distort the shadows of mimosa trees that the sun throws onto the floor through the gauze of the curtains. Of course Albert didn’t die in bed. But wasn’t everything he wrote a search for an object on which he could fix all his faith and fervour? Honour, freedom and right were turned over time and again, as was time itself, and turning too for that matter; however, as Qoheleth discovered, everything fell apart in dust and vanity. Then he reviewed the world one last time, only on this new occasion through the thick, blurry lens of love. Men he regarded as if none could do any wrong, and women as if they all were innocent. A true Israelite in whom there was no guile, except that he wasn’t from Israel. Well at least faith and fervour found a home. And answer me this, does God ever get confused with so many people calling him by such a wide variety of names, not all of them pleasant? And with him being expected to be on every side in every war and football match, has he any identifiable identity left? And what about you, how courageous are you? Are you brave enough to suggest a definition of what music might happen to be? Go on, I dare you, tell us all what music is, or what you think it might be. If you get it wrong destiny will not forgive you, though density might, and you will be guillotined late on a winter's day in Place des Vosges, under leaden skies, sometime in November 1891. Your severed head will of course be given the opportunity to appeal the verdict, but a severed head rarely wins. Is it any more possible to give an accurate definition of what music might be than to do the same for truth? Maybe it’s easier and more helpful to say what music (or truth) is not – none of them are turmeric or cat poop or Sophia Loren’s toenail clippings. We know what music and truth are not. When Pilate asked Jesus “What is truth?” Jesus didn’t answer, so that doesn’t get us too far, or maybe we need to be listening more intently to his silence on the matter. I’ve heard it said that music is an audible monument to a deep spiritual quickening that has occurred in the soul of what is commonly but erroneously called the composer, but is that adequate? And what if the listener is deaf – does that mean that the aria in question is just vapour and vibration or is it actual music? We really must get to the bottom of all this before the desert runs out of sand. I’ve heard it said (or maybe seen it written) that a perfect sentence is one that, in its simplicity of correct syntax, grammar and choice of words, conceals behind its confident building bricks an entire world of dissembling, subterfuge and lies. The fewer words that are used the bigger the story and the more complex the web of lies. So, in conclusion, I have discovered why the sun burneth so fiercely right now in Austria. It’s because all Austrians have retreated indoors and are too warm to speak. That has left the sun speaking all alone and he hates the sound of his own voice so has had to stop speaking and so is now burning with rage. If you have read all the way to the end of this you might want to be worried about your sanity. I can recommend a very competent psychiatrist but he died quite a long time ago. I might make an appointment with him myself.