Some theatre each day keeps the doctor away…

A Finnish Epic

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Saw A Finnish Epic with the Sydney Symphony today.  Ravel’s left piano concerto, which was rather brilliant.  Sibelius’ Kullervo Symphony, which had quite a few moments.

Older woman asked, during the interval, if she might swap seats with me (I was on the end of the row); she was concerned that she might need to get up during the symphony and leave if she was in too much pain or something (I dunno – old person has old person pains, I’m guessing).  She was in the middle of the row, almost.  But I didn’t feel like pushing past everyone else already sat down, especially as I was sitting down already too.  So I offered her my spare seat, which she was quite grateful for, though she didn’t need to get up in the end anyway, which surprised her.  I said I could’ve done with having a walk around at some point (it was quite a long work – 80 minutes).

Not sure why I’m retelling this.

Sitting in the Concert Hall, I decided – or discovered, perhaps – that depth is an emotion.  The sense of depth, that is. (I would have said ‘feeling’ of depth, but then that makes it seem a tad obvious.)  This is why I read Murakami.  Whether his is a false depth or not, I don’t know, nor do I care; it is the emotion that I value.  And the way I read Murakami is with a sort of idle curiosity, like a lazy slob who knows that something mysterious lies beyond the door, but is happy to keep his seat.

I think that’s probably the least glamorous definition of negative capability anyone has ever put to paper.  Probably.

Back on depth – I think that’s what I feel when I write two words with contrasting consonants.  (“Contrasting consonants” isn’t a very good label, but it’s what I was talking about when I mentioned that I liked the phrase “embossed froth” in Timon of Athens.  There’s a resonance in the sound that sort of vibrates a depth out of it, methinks.  My guess is that this is probably the same mechanic by which music works.  Perhaps.)

But that’s what you look for in poetry, isn’t it?  That which feels more than it is.

(Well, “that which feels more than it is” is a paradox/oxymoron/what-have-you, but you know what I mean, hopefully.  Or it’s an excellent example of poetry/depth itself, perhaps.)  (Well, actually, it’s not so much a paradox, because “that which is more than it is” would be closer.  Oh, whatever.  It’s too late to tease it out, and I doubt it’s going to be a very profitable enterprise.)

103/whatever in the bookum.  I was particularly impressed, I think, by “A Folklore for My Generation: A Prehistory of Late-Stage Capitalism”.  Maybe because it was longer than most of his short stories.

And I also read (among others) “Birthday Girl”, which, from reading the introduction, means that I have read Murakami’s contribution to the Birthday Stores anthology, and have thus ticked another book off the Murakami-list.  Sort of.  I mean, I’ll still read it (it’s the last book I have to read, and there’s one more after this before I get to it)…  I guess it holds value because it was Murakami who selected the stories?  (And the stories themselves no doubt have value too – it’s not like Murakami is the only author with value, after all.)


Written by epistemysics

February 16, 2013 at 2:38 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

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