![]() ![]() Meditation need not bear fruit: meditation can be an end in itself. This me that is you, for I cannot bear to be simply me, I need others in order to stand up, giddy and awkward as I am, for what can one do except meditate in order to plunge into that total void which can only be attained through meditation. Most of all, I dedicate it to the day’s vigil and to day itself, to the transparent voice of Debussy, to Marlos Nobre, to Prokofiev, to Carl Orff and Schoenberg, to the twelve-tone composers, to the strident notes of an electronic generation-to all those musicians who have touched within me the most alarming and unsuspected regions to all those prophets of our age who have revealed me to myself and made me explode into: me. To Death and Transfiguration, in which Richard Strauss predicts my fate. ![]() To Stravinsky who terrifies me and makes me soar in flames. To the vibrations of Bach’s neutral colours. I dedicate it to the tempest of Beethoven. I dedicate it to the memory of my years of hardship when everything was more austere and honourable, and I had never eaten lobster. ![]() I dedicate it, above all, to those gnomes, dwarfs, sylphs, and nymphs who inhabit my life. I dedicate it to the deep crimson of my blood as someone in his prime. I dedicate this narrative to dear old Schumann and his beloved Clara who are now, alas, nothing but dust and ashes. 2023 PEN America Literary Awards Ceremony. ![]()
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