Historic 6-minute long shot:
Each note should end dying.
... Dying, you bowing's too hard. Remember, with each stroke of the bow, Someone you love vanishes into the shadows. Mysteriously, they fade from sight, leaving tears in your eyes. You play too uniformly! Music is like a hunt, You must speed up when you have the stag in your sights. Chew firmly when you devour it! Hold back a moment before your climax. Music's goal is to transport the soul. To make you giddy! To move us! The aim is sweetness.
Shadows, in the shadows.........
He was all austerity and rage.
He was as mute as a fish.
I am an impostor and I am worthless.
I ambitioned nothingness.
I reaped nothingness. Sugar, gold and shame.
He was music. He viewed the world in the bright flame of the torch we light for the dead.
I never plumbed the depths of his desire. I had a teacher and the shadows took him.
Shut up in his cabin. He practiced up to 15 hours a day. He devised a new way to hold the viol between the knees. He added a 7th string to give it a deeper voice, And a more melancholic tone. He perfected his bowling by lightening his grip. I'm pressing only on the horsehair with two fingers, Which he did with great virtuosity. It was said he could imitate the full range of the human voice, From young woman's sigh to an old man's sob, From Henry IV's battle cry To the soft breath of a sleeping child.
Songs and laments arose under his fingers. When they haunted him, he opened his red music book And jotted them down to be rid of them.
Caignet: Sir, you live in ruin and silence, people envy your wildness. They envy the green woods above you.
My friends are my memories, in my court are willows, streams, whitebait, elder buds. Tell His Majesty his court does not need a wild man. I am so wild that I think I belong only to myself.
Father Mathieu: You hide your name among turkeys, hens and small fish! You hide a talent God bestowed on you in vainglorious poverty! His majesty knows your reputation. It is time to burn your coarse clothes and accept his bounty to procure a periwig! Your ruff is outmoded.
I am outmoded. I like sunlight on my hand, not gold! My coarse clothes, not your huge wigs! I prefer my hens to royal faddles, my pigs to you!!!
You will rot in your rural horror, Rot like a plum in your orchard!
Your palace is smaller than the cabin, Your public less than one person.
Sainte-Colombe wrote fewer new airs in his red book. He didn't want them printed and subjected to public judgment. He said they were rough improvisation, Expressing only a fleeting moment.
He thought often of his wife, of her loveliness, of her advices, always sound, Of her hips, of her belly that gave him two girls who were now women. Once he dreamed of sojourning in deep water. He had renounced all he loved on earth.
(Wind blows) You hear? The melody is staccato over the bass!
Death is the sum of what it steals from us. It's all worldly pleasures bidding us farewell. Listen to the sound of Baugin's brush. That's how you use your bow.( I like gold. Dead things pay well.) Sir, the secret of our art is surprise.
(A child pees in the night road.) Sir, you have learned how ornaments stand out.
It was also a chromatic descent! No.
Where is your boat? Where's my tears?
At last in 1689, on the night of the 23rd day. It was icy cold. The wind stung my eyes across the frozen ground. Not a cloud in the sky. I will never forget it. I thought, it's a clear, crisp night , with a full moon in the ageless sky. My horse galloped on. My rear was cold, my prick tiny and frozen.
I speak only to aged shadows who no longer move. If only there was someone alive besides me who loved music. We could talk and then I could die.(Scratching on the door) Who is that Singing in the darkness?( A man fleeing palaces in search of music.) What do you seek in music?( I seek sorrow and tears.) Music exists to say things that words cannot say. Which is why it is not entirely human. You found out that music is not for kings ?
(I found out it's for god.) You are wrong. God can speak.
( For the ear?) Things I can't speak of are not for the ear.
( For gold? for glory? for silence?) Silence is only the opposite of language.
( For rival musicians?, for love? The sorrow of love? wantoness? A wafer for the unknown? I give up. One must leave a drink for the dead.) You're getting warmer.( A refreshment for those who have run out of words. For lost childhood. To muffle the hammering of shoemakers. For the time before we were born. Before we breathed. Or saw light.) A moment ago. You heard me sigh. Soon i'll die. My art will die with me. I will only be missed by my chickens and geese. I will give you a few airs that can wake the dead.
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