Order of Service - Interrobang Letterpress

Walter Kaiser
31 may, 1931 – 5 january, 2016
1.
Britten, Prelude (French horn solo) to
Serenade for Tenor, Horn, and Strings (Opus 31)
2.
Light the first light of evening, as in a room
In which we rest and, for small reason, think
The world imagined is the ultimate good.
This is, therefore, the intensest rendezvous.
It is in that thought that we collect ourselves,
Out of all the indifferences, into one thing.
Within a single thing, a single shawl
Wrapped tightly around us, since we are poor, a warmth,
A light, a power, the miraculous influence.
Here, now, we forget each other and ourselves
We feel the obscurity of an order, a whole,
A knowledge, that which arranged the rendezvous,
Within its vital boundary, in the mind.
We say God and the imagination are one.
How high that highest candle lights the dark . . .
Out of this same light, out of the central mind,
We make a dwelling in the evening air,
In which, being there together is enough.
– Wallace Stevens, Final Soliloquy of the Interior Paramour
3. Remember now thy creator in the days of thy youth,
when the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh,
when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them:
While the sun, or the light, or the moon, or the stars,
be not darkened, nor the clouds return after rain:
In the day when the keepers of the house shall
tremble, and the strong men shall bow themselves, and
the grinders cease because they are few, and those that
look out of the windows be darkened,
And the doors shall be shut in the streets, when the
sound of the grinding is low, and he shall rise up at the
voice of the bird, and all the daughters of musick shall
be brought low;
Also when they shall be afraid of that which is high,
and fears shall be in the way, and the almond tree shall
flourish, and the grasshopper shall be a burden, and
desire shall fail: because man goeth to his long home,
and the mourners go about the streets:
Or ever the silver cord be loosed, or the golden bowl
be broken, or the pitcher be broken at the fountain, or
the wheel broken at the cistern.
Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was: and
the spirit shall return unto God who gave it.
– Ecclesiastes 12:1-7
4.
Mikis Theodorakis and Giorgos Seferis, Krãthsa tØ zvÆ m
­ ou
Krãthsa tØ zvÆ m
­ ou krãthsa tØ zvÆ ­mou tajideÊontaw
énãmesa stå k¤trina d°ndra katå tÚ plãgiasma t∞w brox∞w
s¢ sivpil¢w plagi¢w fortvm°new m¢ tå fÊlla t∞w Ùjiçw,
kamiå fvtiå stØn korufÆ touw: bradiãzei.
Krãthsa tØ zvÆ m
­ ou.
I’ve held on to my life, held on to my life, traveling
Among yellow trees in sheets of rain
On silent mountainsides laden with beech leaves,
No fires on their summits: it grows dark now.
I’ve held on to my life.
tr. wk
5.
Once in the wind of morning
I ranged the thymy wold;
The world-wide air was azure
And all the brooks ran gold.
There through the dews beside me
Behold a youth that trod,
With feathered cap on forehead,
And posed a golden rod.
With mien to match the morning
And gay delightful guise
And friendly brows and laughter
He looked me in the eyes.
Oh whence, I asked, and whither?
He smiled and would not say,
And looked at me and beckoned
And laughed and led the way.
And with kind looks and laughter
And nought to say beside
We two went on together,
I and my happy guide.
Across the glittering pastures
And empty upland still
And solitude of shepherds
High in the folded hill,
By hanging woods and hamlets
That gaze through orchards down
On many a windmill turning
And far-discovered town.
With gay regards of promise
And sure unslackened stride
And smiles and nothing spoken
Led on my merry guide.
By blowing realms of woodland
With sunstruck vanes afield
And cloud-led shadows sailing
About the windy weald,
By valley-guarded granges
And silver waters wide,
Content at heart I followed
With my delightful guide.
And like the cloudy shadows
Across the country blown,
We two fare on for ever,
But not we two alone.
With the great gale we journey
That breathes from gardens thinned,
Borne in the drift of blossoms
Whose petals throng the wind;
Buoyed on the heaven-heard whisper
Of dancing leaflets whirled
From all the woods that autumn
Bereaves in all the world.
And midst the fluttering legion
Of all that ever died
I follow, and before us
Goes the delightful guide
With lips that brim with laughter
But never once respond
And feet that fly on feathers,
And serpent-circled wand.
– A. E. Housman, The Merry Guide
6.
As you set out on your journey to Ithaca,
hope that the way will be long,
full of adventures, full of insights
the Laestrygonians, the Cyclops,
angry Poseidon – don’t be fearful of them:
you’ll never find that sort of thing on your journey
if your thoughts remain lofty,
if your body and soul are touched with noble emotions.
The Laestrygonians, the Cyclops,
frenzied Poseidon – you won’t meet up with them
unless you carry them with you in your soul,
unless your soul places them in your way.
Hope that the journey will be long.
May there be many summer mornings when,
with such delight, with so much joy,
you enter harbors seen for the first time;
may you anchor at Phoenician emporia
and buy lovely things,
mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
and all sorts of voluptuous perfumes;
buy all the voluptuous perfumes you can.
Go to many Egyptian cities,
and learn and learn from their sages.
Always hold Ithaca in your mind.
Your destiny is to arrive there.
But don’t at all hasten your journey.
Better that it should last for many years
and that you should reach the island in old age,
enriched with all you’ve gained along the way,
not expecting Ithaca to give you riches.
Ithaca gave you the beautiful journey.
Without Ithaca, you would never have set forth.
She has nothing more to give you.
And if you find her poor, Ithaca won’t have deceived you.
Wise as you’ll have become from so much experience,
you’ll understand by then what Ithacas mean.
– C. P. Cavafy, Ithaca
tr. wk
7. …E tu? – chiese a Polo il Gran Han. – Torni da paesi altrettanto
lontani e tutto quello che sai dirmi sono i pensieri che vengono a chi prende il fresco la sera seduto sulla soglia di casa. A che ti serve, allora, tanto viaggiare?
. . . “And you,” the Great Khan asked Polo, “you return from lands
equally distant and you can tell me only the thoughts that come to a man
who sits on his doorstep at evening to enjoy the cool air.What is the use,
then, of all your traveling?”
—È sera, siamo seduti sulla scalinata del tuo palazzo, spira un
po’ di vento, — rispose Marco Polo. – Qualsiasi paese le mie
parole evochino intorno a te, lo vedrai da un osservatorio situato
come il tuo, anche se al posto della reggia c’è un villaggio di
palafitte e se la brezza porta l’odore d’un estuario fangoso. . .
“It is evening.We are seated on the steps of your palace.There is a
slight breeze,” Marco Polo answered. “Whatever country my words may
evoke around you, you will see it from such a vantage point, even if
instead of the palace there is a village on pilings and the breeze carries the
stench of a muddy estuary.”
. . . Marco Polo immaginava di rispondere (o Kublai immaginava la sua risposta) che più si perdeva in quartieri sconosciuti
di città lontane, più capiva le altre città che aveva attraversato per
giungere fin là, e ripercorreva le tappe dei suoi viaggi, e imparava
a conoscere il porto da cui era salpato, e i luoghi familiari della
sua giovinezza, e i dintorni di casa, e un campiello di Venezia dove
correva da bambino.
. . . Marco Polo imagined answering (or Kublai Khan imagined his
answer) that the more one was lost in unfamiliar quarters of distant cities,
the more one understood the other cities he had crossed to arrive there; and
he retraced the stages of his journeys, and he came to know the port from
which he had set sail, and the familiar places of his youth, and the surroundings of his home, and the little square of Venice where he gamboled
as a child.
A questo punto Kublai Kan l’interrompeva o immaginava di
interromperlo, o Marco Polo immaginava di essere interrotto,
con una domanda come: — Avanzi col capo voltato sempre
all’indietro? – oppure: — Ciò che vedi è sempre alle tue spalle? –
o meglio: — Il tuo viaggio si svolge solo nel passato?
Tutto perché Marco Polo potesse spiegare o immaginare di
spiegare o essere immaginato spiegare o riuscire finalmente a
spiegare a se stesso che quello che lui cercava era sempre qualcosa
davanti a sé, e anche se si trattava del passato era un passato che
cambiava man mano egli avanzava nel suo viaggio, perchè il passato del viaggiatore cambia a seconda dell’ itinerario compiuto, non
diciamo il passato prossimo cui ogni giorno che passa aggiunge
un giorno, ma il passato più remoto. Arrivando a ogni nuova città
il viaggiatore retrova un suo passato che non sapeva più di avere:
l’estraneità di ciò che non sei più o non possiede più t’aspetta al
varco nei luoghi estranei e non posseduti.
At this point Kublai Khan interrupted him or imagined interrupting
him, or Marco Polo imagined himself interrupted, with a question such as:
“You advance always with your head turned back?” or “Is what you see
always behind you?” or rather, “Does your journey take place only in the
past?”
All this so that Marco Polo could explain or imagine explaining or be
imagined explaining or succeed finally in explaining to himself that what
he sought was always something lying ahead, and even if it was a matter
of the past it was a past that changed gradually as he advanced on his
journey, because the traveler’s past changes according to the route he has
followed: not the immediate past, that is, to which each day that goes
by adds a day, but the more remote past. Arriving at each new city, the
traveler finds again a past of his that he did not know he had: the foreignness of what you no longer are or no longer possess lies in wait for you in
foreign, unpossessed places.
. . . –Viaggi per rivivere il tuo passato? – era a questo punto la
domanda del Kan,che poteva anche essere formulata così: — Viaggo per ritrovare il tuo futuro?
. . . “Journeys to relive your past?” was the Khan’s question at this
point, a question which could also have been formulated: “Journeys to
recover your future?”
E la risposta di Marco: — L’altrove è uno specchio in negative.
Il viaggiatore riconosce il poco che è suo, scoprendo il molto che
non ha avuto a non avrà.
And Marco’s answer was: “Elsewhere is a negative mirror.The
traveler recognizes the little that is his, discovering the much he has not
had and will never have.”
– Italo Calvino, Le Città invisibili
tr. William Weaver
8. Schubert, Piano Sonata in B-flat major, D. 960, 2nd Movement
9.
Once or twice he attempted, as he had heard men in clerical bands
and long black sleeves counsel from the pulpit, to evaluate his own
past as best he could. He failed. In the first place, it wasn’t really
his past, but that of the people and things he had encountered
along the way; he saw them once more, or at least some of them;
he failed to see himself. All the same, it seemed to him that men
and circumstances had done him more good than ill, that, day by
day, he had had more enjoyment than suffering, but no doubt from
happiness most people wouldn’t have cared about. . . .
Une ou deux fois, comme il l’avait entendu conseiller enchaire par des gens à
rabat et à longues manches noires, il tâcha d’évaluer de son mieux son proper
passé. Il échoua.Tout d’abord, ce n’était pas particulièrement son passé, mais
seulement des gens et des choses rencontrés en route; il les revoyait, ou du
moins quelques-uns d’entre eux; il ne se voyait pas.Tout bien compté, il lui
semblait que les hommes et les circonstances lui avaient fait plus de bien que
de mal, qu’il avait joui, au fil des jours, plus qu’il n’avait souffert, mais sans
doute de bonheurs dont bien des gens n’eussent pas voulu. . . .
But, to begin with, who was this person he considered himself
to be? Where did he come from? From the fat, jovial carpenter
of the Admiralty dockyards, who liked to take snuff and deliver
blows, and from his Puritan spouse? Not at all: he had only passed
through them. He didn’t feel himself to be, as so many people
do, a man as opposed to beasts and trees; rather, a brother of one
and a distant cousin of the other. Nor did he particularly consider
himself male in contrast with the gentle order of women; he had
passionately possessed certain women, but, out of bed, his cares, his
needs, his constraints of money, sickness, and the daily tasks one
performs to live hadn’t seemed to him so different from theirs. He
had, rarely it is true, known the carnal brotherhood other men had
shared with him; he didn’t feel less a man for that. People falsify
everything, it seemed to him, in taking such little account of the
flexibility and resources of the human being, so like the plant
which seeks out the sun or water and nourishes itself fairly well
from whatever earth the wind had sown it in. Custom more than
nature seemed to him to dictate the differences we set up between
classes of men, the habits and knowledge acquired from infancy, or
the various ways of praying to what is called God. Ages, sexes, or
even species seemed to him closer one to another than each generally assumed about the other: child or old man, man or woman,
animal or biped who speaks and works with his hands, all come
together in the misery and sweetness of existence.
Mais, d’abord, qui était cette personne qu’il désignait comme étant
soi-même? D’où sortait-elle? Du gros charpentier jovial des chantiers de
l’Amirauté, aimant priser le tabac et distribuer des gifles, et de sa puritaine épouse? Que non: il avait seulement passé à travers eux. Il ne se
sentait pas, comme tant de gens, homme par opposition au bêtes et aux
arbres; plutôt frère des unes et lointain cousin des autres. Il ne se sentait pas
non plus particulièrement male en presence du doux peuple des femelles;
il avait ardemment possédé certain femmes, mais, hors du lit, ses soucis,
ses besoins, ses servitudes à l’égard de la paie, de la maladie, de tâches
quotidiennes qu’on accomplit pour vivre ne lui avait paru si différents des
leurs. Il avait, rarement, il est vrai, goûté la fraternité charnelle que lui apportaient d’autres hommes; il ne s’était pas de ce fait senti moins homme.
On faussait tout, se disait-il, en pensant si peu à la souplesse et aux ressources de l’être humain, si pareil à la plante qui cherche le soleil ou l’eau
et se nourrit tant bien que mal des sols où le vent l’a semée. Le coutume,
plus que la nature, lui semblait marquer les différences que nous établissons entre les rangs, les habitudes et les savoirs acquis dès l’enfance, ou les
diverses manières de prier ce qu’on appelle Dieu. Même les âges, les sexes,
et jusqu’aux espèces, lui paraissaient plus proches qu’on ne croit les uns des
autres: enfant ou vieillard, homme ou femme, animal ou bipède qui parle
et travaille de ses mains, tous communiaient dans l’infortune et la douceur
d’exister.
– Marguerite Yourcenar, Un homme obscur­
tr. wk
10. How idiotic to torment ourselves about passing into freedom
from all torment! As our birth brought us the birth of all things,
so will our death bring us the death of all things. Hence it is
equally foolish to weep because we shall not be alive a hundred years from now as it is to weep because we were not alive
a hundred years ago. . . . Nothing can be grievous that happens
once only. Is it reasonable so long to fear a thing so short? For
there is no long or short for things that are no more. Aristotle says
that there are little animals by the river Hypanis that live only a
day. The one who dies at eight o’clock in the morning dies in
its youth; the one that dies at five in the afternoon dies in its decrepitude. Who of us does not laugh to see this moment of duration considered in terms of happiness or unhappiness? The length
or shortness of our duration, if we compare it with eternity, or
yet with the duration of mountains, of rivers, of stars, of trees, and
even of some animals, is no less ridiculous. . . . Wherever your life
ends, all of it is there. The advantage of living is not measured by
length but by use; some men have lived long and lived little; make
the most of it while you are in it.
In my opinion, it is living happily, not, as Antisthenes said, dying
happily that constitutes human felicity. I haven’t tried to attach, in
monstrous fashion, the tail of a philosopher to the head and body
of a sinful man; or that this paltry remainder of my life should
disavow and belie its fairest, most complete, and longest part. I
want to present myself and to be seen uniformly throughout. If I
had to live over again, I would live as I have lived. I don’t deplore
the past nor fear the future. And unless I am deceiving myself, it
has done about the same within me as without. It is one of the
primary obligations I have to my fortune that my bodily state
has run its course with each thing in due season. I have seen the
grass, the flower, and the fruit; now I see the withering – happily,
because naturally.
– Michel de Montaigne,
Que philosopher c’est apprendre à mourir and Du repentir
tr. wk
Quelle sottise de nous peiner sur le point du passage à l’exemption de
toute peine! Comme nostre naissance nous apporta la naissance de toutes
choses, aussi fera la mort de toutes choses, nostre mort. Parquoy c’est
pareille folie de pleurer de ce que d’icy à cent ans nous ne vivrons pas, que
de pleurer de ce que nous ne vivions pas il y a cent ans. . . . Rien ne peut
estre grief, qui n’est qu’une fois. Est ce raison de craindre si long temps
chose de si brief temps? Le long temps vivre et le peu de temps vivre est
rendu tout un par la mort. Car le long et le court n’est point aux choses
qui ne sont plus. Aristote dit qu’il y a des petites bestes sur la riviere de
Hypanis, qui ne vivent qu’un jour. Celle qui meurt à huict heures du
matin, elle meurt en jeunesse; celle qui meurt à cinq heures du soir, meurt
en sa décrepitude. Qui de nous ne se moque de voir mettre en considération d’heur ou de malheur ce moment de durée? Le plus et le moins en
la nostre, si nous la comparons à l’éternité, ou encore à la durée des montagnes, des rivieres, des estoilles, des arbres, et mesmes d’aucuns animaux,
n’est pas moins ridicule. . . . Où que vostre vie finisse, elle y est toute.
L’utilité du vivre n’est pas en l’espace, elle est en l’usage: tel a vescu long
temps, qui a peu vescu: attendez vous y pendant que vous y estes.
A mon advis c’est vivre heureusement, non, comme disoit Antisthenes,
le mourir heureusement qui faict l’humaine felicité. Je ne me suis pas
attendu d’attacher monstrueusement la queue d’un philosophe à la teste
et au corps d’un homme perdu; ny que ce chetif bout eust à desadvouer et
desmentir la plus belle, entiere et longue partie de ma vie. Je me veux presenter et fair veoir par tout uniformément. Si j’avois à revivre, je revivrois
comme j’ay vescu; ny je ne pleins le passé, ni je ne crains l’avenir. Et si je
ne me deçoy, il est allé du dedans environ comme du dehors. C’est une des
principales obligations que j’aye à ma fortune, que le cours de mon estat
corporel ayt esté conduit chasque chose en sa saison. J’en ay veu l’herbe et
les fleurs et le fruit; et en vois la secheresse. Heureusement, puisque c’est
naturellement.
11. Herr: es ist Zeit. Der Sommer war sehr gross.
Leg deinen Schatten auf die Sonnenuhren,
und auf den Fluren lass die Winde los.
Befiehl den letzten Früchten voll zu sein;
gieb ihnen noch zwei südlichere Tage,
dränge sie zur Vollendung hin und jage
die letze Süsse in den schweren Wein.
Wer jetzt kein Haus hat, baut sich keines mehr.
Wer jetzt allein ist, wird es lange bleiben,
wird wachen, lesen, lange Briefe schreiben
und wird in den Alleen hin und her
unruhig wandern, wenn die Blätter treiben.
– Rainer Maria Rilke, Herbsttag
Lord, it is time. The summer was so big.
Lay thy shadow over the sundials,
and over the meadows let the winds go free.
Bid the last fruits to be full;
give them still two more southerly days,
urge them on to perfection, and drive
the last sweetness into the heavy wine.
Who now no house has, will not build him one.
Who now alone is, long will so remain,
will lie awake, read, write lengthy letters,
and will in the allées to and fro
restless wander, as the dead leaves blow.
tr. wk
12.
Beethoven, String Quartet in B-flat major, Op. 130, Cavatina
Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
Of dead and living. Not the intense moment
Isolated, with no before and after,
But a lifetime burning in every moment
And not the lifetime of one man only
But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.
There is a time for the evening under starlight,
A time for the evening under lamplight
(The evening with the photograph album.)
Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.
Old men ought to be explorers
Here and there does not matter
We must be still and still moving
Into another intensity
For a further union, a deeper communion
Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,
The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.
– T. S. Eliot, East Coker
14.
J’ai cueilli ce brin de bruyère
L’automne est morte souviens-toi
Nous ne nous verrons plus sur terre
Odeur du temps brin de bruyère
Et souviens-toi que je t’attends
16.
Fear no more the heat o’ th’ sun,
Nor the furious winter’s rages,
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone and ta’en thy wages.
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
– Guillaume Apollinaire, L’Adieu
– William Shakespeare, Cymbeline
I’ve plucked this sprig of heather;
Remember: the autumn is dead.
We shall see each other on earth no more.
Scent of the weather, sprig of heather;
And remember that I await you.
17. Mozart, “Soave sia il vento” from
Così fan tutte; Act 1, Scene 2
18.
Britten, Epilogue (French horn solo) to
Serenade for Tenor, Horn, and Strings (Opus 31)
tr. wk
15. You do look, my son, in a mov’d sort,
As if you were dismayed; be cheerful, sir.
Our revels now are ended. These our actors
(As I foretold you) were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air,
And like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp’d tow’rs, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And like this insubstantial pageant faded
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made of, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
– William Shakespeare, The Tempest
notes, walter kaiser
1.
Britten. The early Serenade for Tenor, Horn, and Strings is the
first piece by Benjamin Britten I ever heard. A recording of it was
played for me by my dear friends Meta and Edward Malins in Horsham, Sussex at Christmas, 1949, and it is a piece I have loved ever
since and heard often.
2.
Wallace Stevens. I read this poem at my retirement dinner at I Tatti.
3.
Ecclesiastes. When I was a senior at Andover, I wrote an analysis of
this passage from the King James Version for my beloved teacher,
Dudley Fitts, to which he gave the grade: “aureâ coronetur.” It is
one of the passages in the Bible I have always loved most. Everything cultural that has most interested me in my life I was introduced to at Andover, a school to which I have an immense debt.
4. 5. 6.
7. Theodorakis & Seferis. Greek bouzouki music and dance have
been passions of mine, especially in the 1950s and 1960s, when
almost every summer I went into the suburbs of Athens and wandered in the Greek islands to see the dance and hear the music.
This little piece by Theodorakis is part of Seferis’s poem, “Epifania,
1937” and has haunted me for many years.
A. E. Housman. One of the happiest years of my life was that (194950) spent at Shrewsbury School in Shropshire. I used to bicycle
through Shropshire and northern Wales on Sundays, often reciting
to myself the poems from A Shropshire Lad as I went along. I find
that in my first copy of that book, I wrote a line from Horace: ille
terrarum mihi prater omnes/ angulus ridet (“that corner of the
world smiles for me above all others.”) Coincidentally, once on
a memorable occasion in Eliot House years ago, the master, John
Finley, publically compared me at some length to Hermes (who is,
of course, the «happy guide» of the poem.)
Cavafy. Since the mid-1950s, Greece has played a major rôle in my
life. This celebrated poem is meant to represent all that Greece has
given me — the enduring friendships, the unforgettable experiences, the beauty, the happiness.
Calvino. Calvino is one of my favorite modern writers, and I
invited him to give the Charles Eliot Norton lectures at Harvard in
1985, but he unfortunately died of a cereberal hemorrhage shortly
before he was to have come to Cambridge to deliver them.
8.
Schubert. I first heard this sonata in a live performance in the 1970s
in Aspen, Colorado, played by Alicia de la Rochas, and it moved
me deeply. I have heard it many times since, always with greater
appreciation. The first movement, in ways I can’t possibly explain,
seems to me to describe a great part of my life.
9.
Yourcenar. France, too, especially in 1954-56 when I lived in Paris,
first as a Fulbright student, then as a student at the Ecole Normale
Supérieure and, later, my friendship with Marguerite Yourcenar, has
been a major aspect of my life.
10.
Montaigne. After Shakespeare, I think Montaigne is the author
who has meant most to me. By which I mean that Shakespeare and
he have spoken to me more directly and sustained me more than
any other authors. I have chosen these two passages out of countless
possibilities simply because they seemed the most relevant to the
occasion.
11.
Rilke. For fifty years, I’ve tried without success to translate this
haunting sonnet, but it is impossible to carry its resonant beauty
over into another language, which is why it is being read in the
original German. The English version I’ve provided is only a pale
vestige of the original poem.
11.
Beethoven. The Cavatina from Opus 130 has always seemed to me
to be one of the profoundest things ever written about human
existence.
12.
Eliot. Over the years, probably no single poem has meant quite as
much to me as Four Quartets, which I first read in 1948 at Andover
and have lived with ever since. This is not my favorite passage, but
it’s the one that seems most apposite to the occasion – and it is very
beautiful.
14.
Apollinaire. This lovely little poem is one I’ve carried in my head
since 1949. It also resists all attempts at translation, because its music
gets lost.
17.
Mozart. Rarely has the human imagination created anything more
beautiful or of greater perfection than this little trio of farewell.
cover designed and printed at firefly press,
allston, massachusetts.
interior designed and typeset at interrobang letterpress,
jamaica plain, massachusetts.
april 2016
❦