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The Marriage of Figaro
Oct. 9th, 2001 02:40 pmTwo years ago, Raine swiped me the third disk of the Amadeus soundtrack. That I would like it was almost certain; I love Mozart, and I have a great respect for the Academy of St. Martin in the Fields. I already listened to the first two disks at least tri-weekly.
Immediately upon receipt, I tossed the new CD into The Monolith, punched play, and returned to Vector Algebra. Swept up in the manifestations of cross products, I presently forgot to what I was listening.
About half an hour later, I became exceptionally distressed to the point where I couldn't concentrate. The music was just . . . wrong somehow. Lacking. Flat. The tune was decent enough, but there was no complexity, no subtlety to the instrumentation. It felt as though I was being bludgeoned by sound. Betrayed, I rushed to grab the jewel case and demand an explanation. Then I relaxed.
Of course. It was Salieri.
Last night, Valancy confided to me -- in a very oblique and offhand sort of way -- that I make her feel as though she's him. I dismissed it very jokingly, promising to write a brilliant unfinished eulogy before I die at a young age and am buried in a pauper's grave; she has my full permission to steal it and present it as her own. Despite my cavalier attitude, I am deeply distressed; I've been Salieri before, or at least convinced myself I was, and it's dreadful. And as Mozart, I am only valued by other composers and the counterculture, at least during my lifetime.
I feel ungainly now, as though I'm oppressing her just by existing. It's not like that -- not really -- I just have the temperament. The only reason I come off as a genius is that I'm eccentric -- I cultivate that. I'm cheating. It's artifice.
Well, that's a lie. I've tried to be ordinary before, but as I don't have ordinary motives I invariably fail. It's actually somewhat traumatic.
But I do cheat. I steal, I amass, I assimilate. Very few of my ideas are original -- I just put them together in ways that would be obvious to anyone with all the information. (Big enough lever and a place to stand, etc.)
Of course Val prefers my writing -- I analyzed hers, lifted the best bits, and combined them with the best bits of a crossection of other authors in various fields. I'm a capital impersonator. Moreover, I am a populist -- I write to my audience.
Okay, sorry, I'm lying again. I'm much more of a snob than that. I do write to my audience, but they are a select crew. And if they dislike what I show them, then they're outside the set -- they no longer count as my audience for my purposes. Self-fulfilling prophecy.
In any case, my point is that Val thinks I'm brilliant because I tell her I am. But I'm an entirely unreliable source of information, as proven by the sheer volume of lying that's gone on so far in this entry.
Immediately upon receipt, I tossed the new CD into The Monolith, punched play, and returned to Vector Algebra. Swept up in the manifestations of cross products, I presently forgot to what I was listening.
About half an hour later, I became exceptionally distressed to the point where I couldn't concentrate. The music was just . . . wrong somehow. Lacking. Flat. The tune was decent enough, but there was no complexity, no subtlety to the instrumentation. It felt as though I was being bludgeoned by sound. Betrayed, I rushed to grab the jewel case and demand an explanation. Then I relaxed.
Of course. It was Salieri.
Last night, Valancy confided to me -- in a very oblique and offhand sort of way -- that I make her feel as though she's him. I dismissed it very jokingly, promising to write a brilliant unfinished eulogy before I die at a young age and am buried in a pauper's grave; she has my full permission to steal it and present it as her own. Despite my cavalier attitude, I am deeply distressed; I've been Salieri before, or at least convinced myself I was, and it's dreadful. And as Mozart, I am only valued by other composers and the counterculture, at least during my lifetime.
I feel ungainly now, as though I'm oppressing her just by existing. It's not like that -- not really -- I just have the temperament. The only reason I come off as a genius is that I'm eccentric -- I cultivate that. I'm cheating. It's artifice.
Well, that's a lie. I've tried to be ordinary before, but as I don't have ordinary motives I invariably fail. It's actually somewhat traumatic.
But I do cheat. I steal, I amass, I assimilate. Very few of my ideas are original -- I just put them together in ways that would be obvious to anyone with all the information. (Big enough lever and a place to stand, etc.)
Of course Val prefers my writing -- I analyzed hers, lifted the best bits, and combined them with the best bits of a crossection of other authors in various fields. I'm a capital impersonator. Moreover, I am a populist -- I write to my audience.
Okay, sorry, I'm lying again. I'm much more of a snob than that. I do write to my audience, but they are a select crew. And if they dislike what I show them, then they're outside the set -- they no longer count as my audience for my purposes. Self-fulfilling prophecy.
In any case, my point is that Val thinks I'm brilliant because I tell her I am. But I'm an entirely unreliable source of information, as proven by the sheer volume of lying that's gone on so far in this entry.
