Driving home I switch on the radio and one of those old Motown voices comes on and reaches my heart.
I have learned to thank God for what I cannot see, I have learned to trust God with what I cannot.
My teacher, Ben Johnston, was convinced that our tuning is responsible for much of our cultural psychology, the fact that we are so geared toward progress and action and violence and so little attuned to introspection, contentment, and acquiescence. Equal temperament could be described as the musical equivalent to eating a lot of red meat and processed sugars and watching violent action films. The music doesn’t turn your attention inward, it makes you want to go out and work off your nervous energy on something.
The pulse in music is what makes it alive.
God sends the best to those who deserves it.
In the soul of a lover, it is always spring where flowers of ecstasy are always blooming. Music of love is always playing.
Why would we need music if our lives were exactly as we wanted them to be?
To transform a grimace into a sound sounds impossible, yet it is possible to transform a vision into music, to go outside an enslaved personality, to become impersonal by transforming into sand, into water, into light.
The undistracted experience of affects of just about any sort, when free of practical consequences, appears to have intrinsic appeal for many of us.
It’s funny, isn’t it,” Miss Woolf whispered in Ursula’s ear, “how much German music we listen to. Great beauty transcends all. Perhaps after the war it will heal all too.