Volevo rivolgerle i miei complimenti per l'articolo dedicato a questo libercolo, che andrebbe eliminato senza lasciar traccia, insieme a tutto quello che i due disonesti e rozzi pseudomusicologi hanno scritto, e in primo luogo la loro Caduta degli dei. Volevo comunicarle che sto redigendo un'edizione in formato pdf della puntate della mia rubrica Ahimé ch'io cado, e ho pronte quelle da 1 a 20. Proprio l'ultima è occupata dal suo saggio. Grazie ancora, spero che prima o poi ripigli a scrivere: mi farebbe piacere rileggerla ancora.
e sono pure parecchio bravi, nel cd ci sono ben quattro opere suonate da loro. Un paio pure in prima assoluta. E comunque, Somers è un bravo compositore!
Somers: Elegy, Transformation, Jubilation. In memoriam four suicides (1980)
Espirt Orchestra diretta da Alex Pauk
"In his three years as a high school student in the New Jersey suburbs, the sixteen-, seventeen-, and eighteen-year-old Ferguson started twenty-seven short stories, finished nineteen of them, and spent no less than one hour every day with what he called his work notebooks, which he filled with various writing exercises he invented for himself in order to stay sharp, dig down, and try to get better (as he once put it to Amy): descriptions of physical objects, landscapes, morning skies, human faces, animals, the effect of light on snow, the sound of rain on glass, the smell of burning wood, the sensation of walking through fog or listening to wind blow through the branches of trees; monologues in the voices of other people in order to become those other people or at least try to understand them better (his father, his mother, his stepfather, Amy, Noah, his teachers, his friends at school, Mr. and Mrs. Federman), but also unknown and more distant others such as J. S. Bach, Franz Kafka, the checkout girl at the local supermarket, the ticket collector on the Erie Lackawanna Railroad, and the bearded panhandler who cadged a dollar from him in Grand Central Station; imitations of admired, demanding, inimitable writers from the past (take a paragraph from Hawthorne, for example, and compose something based on his syntactical model, using a verb wherever he used a verb, a noun wherever he used a noun, an adjective wherever he used an adjective—in order to feel the rhythms in your bones, to feel how the music was made); a curious sequence of vignettes generated by puns, homonyms, and one-letter displacements of words: ail/ale, lust/lost, soul/soil, birth/berth; and impetuous jags of automatic writing to clear his brain whenever he was feeling stuck, as with a four-page scribble-gush inspired by the word nomad that began: No, I am not mad. Nor am I even angry, but give me a chance to discombobulate you, and I’ll pick your pockets clean."
- Paul Auster, 4321