Saturday, March 25, 2006


It is surely the unreasoning desire for an idea, an object or a person. In its romantic sense, passion is all pursuit. Its excitement lies with the hunting, not the result - and yet, in a piece of music, where the player and the listener are passionately involved in a flight of notes, does this lust of the ear end with the silence? I desire the child that grows within so much that when it is delivered as a small, pink, kicking thing, I will not wish it back inside my womb or believe the yearning I have for it will be spent on its arrival. That would be perverse, would it not? I long to write a perfect aria, full of passion and form that will celebrate the birth of my child. N.


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