Look at that massive stack of books with your little pink notebook on the top, open like the bud of a daisy and crawling with notes. Even those huge volumes by writers with high-brow names like Humphrey and Sacheverell did not grasp everything, nor succeed in having the last word on the subject.
Yes, even the most pompous, satisfyingly-thick, black-bound biographies have gaps in their scholarship and may fade into dust-gathering anachronisms. “Of the making of many books, there is no end,” after all.
But isn’t that comforting, in a way? And wonderfully liberating? If those authors you so admire could not write everything in 500 pages, why do you feel the pressure to do so in 20? Or 30? Even 60?
No, do not worry about saying everything. After all, your paper is only a small daisy in a vast forest of former trees, books upon books upon books that you can traverse by footnote but never fully explore.
But isn’t that exciting? After all, forests need flowers too, and you will never run out of trails to investigate, paths to forge.
So write what you can. Tend to your small bit of knowledge and watch it grow up among the leaves of books and the dust of authors past.
I am a pianist, but I have long suffered from stage fright. My junior undergraduate piano recital was yesterday and, true to my philosophy that no art is complete without a proper understanding of other art forms, I used literature such as Coleridge’s The Rime of the Ancient Mariner to create program notes to give greater depth to the pieces that I played.
As I was writing these notes, I realized: Why not also use literature and this wonderful union of my two arts to ease my stage fright? What if I wrote a story tracing the ideal progression of my recital and pretended that I was an audience member?
So I did. And, to my delight, it helped exponentially! Although I was still incredibly nervous, as soon as I stepped on stage, I was no longer scared little Ryanne, but the Girl in Red that I had seen perform her recital through the eyes of my narrator. It was marvelous! I felt like I had already seen the recital and so was able to imagine I was listening and enjoying the musical and literary journey rather than sitting on stage performing.
Obviously no live performance is perfect, but I felt that by writing this, I was able to play my repertoire more confidently and thus communicate their themes more effectively.
So, my dear musical readers, here is my recital in literary form:
Oh! I should tell you my program as well so this makes more sense:
Piano Sonata No. 17, Op. 31 No. 2 I. Largo-Allegro by Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827)
Miroirs II. “Oiseaux Tristes” (“Sad Birds”) by Maurice Ravel (1875-1937)
Années de pèlerinage II, S. 161 No. 7 Après une Lecture du Dante: Fantasia quasi Sonata by Franz Liszt (1811-1886)
So a piece about the storms of life, lonely birds, and Dante’s Inferno. Fun, right?
The Girl in the Red Dress
We came by invitation, to see a girl we know. She’s quite a character…lanky, blonde, eyes that are intense one minute and twinkling with laughter the next, always writing or dreaming of writing, usually stepping in a limping time to a tune nobody else can hear. But she’s anxious. She overworks herself and doubts her work. She is likely trembling backstage now, her hands nearly purple with cold from the frigid hall and her nervous heart. Likely she is pacing and wringing these hands, trying to calm herself and warm them.
I send a quick prayer up past the cracked ceiling of the hall for her. Lord, calm her nerves and let her play with the excellence and emotion with which she has practiced daily.
As I whisper “Amen,” my hands join the chorus of clapping. She has stepped onstage.
But this is someone different. Still her…and yet not. She’s taller. Her arms are stronger. Her lips match her blazing red dress and yet the blue of her eyes flash and burn the brightest. The click of her heels echo through the hall, a measured drumroll for her own performance.
But she looks upward when she looks outward, as if her audience is not below but somewhere beyond the ceiling’s crevices, in the region my prayer just ascended.
The audience scuffles, trying to hush the murmur of their program notes. Program notes…about books, of course. I glance down at them but it’s too dark to read now. To the glow of the stage I return.
The ghost of notes begin; substantial yet ethereal. How? I hardly dare to breathe, unsure whether I really heard them and yet they are resounding gently through the hall. It’s a mist of sound. And then the mist is broken by the steady gallop of a frightened yet determined human tread.
But the mist is back.
And now the running. It’s an uphill run- not fast but intense and ever moving.
And suddenly it’s a battle cry interchanged with a plea. And now a whirlwind. All melting seamlessly into each other.
But the mist comes again, for the adventurer has reached a peak in the mountain range. It is cold, yet clear, colors of sunlight radiating softly through the curtains of mountaintop clouds. Peace descends like a gentle rain, drawing us upward.
Then the battle rages once more, startling and yet not surprising…Did not we feel in our souls the same ever-present struggle of this piece? Beethoven was too knowledgeable. He knew himself- that is, he knew all of us – too well.
Another moment of peace…yet not peace. It’s a cry. The sound of an oboe as the sound of our very hearts. It is a recitative and it is reflective, but it is not weak.
And then a piercing urgency and pain returns, then whirling and, before I knew it, the piece concludes; urgent and yet not rushed. It is reminiscent of intentionally restraining the racing heart. Controlling our steps if we cannot quite control our fears.
Silence falls. I can see the moth-like breath of the girl in red; it flutters, shaky, but soft.
The scene changes. It’s still a mountain’s peak… Grey swirling mist abounds, but the girl in red leads us above it. We are alone. I am alone. She is alone. Everyone is isolated and alone. No man is an island? False. All men are mountaintops calling in vain to each other, wandering birds forever losing their nests.
It is beautiful but sorrowful. Something tugs in my heart at the harmonies, so blended and subdued but for a sudden flurry of frantic wings. And then faded again, as if the great shroud of mist has descended over us all, sealing out loneliness and separating us from the enduring and interconnected nature in which we have no part apart from our lost nests.
This silence is lighter and heavier at the same time. Something is coming. Something terrifying.
And then it does, in a trumpet blast. It is evil. Or no…not evil…something more terrifying than the evil that has become familiar. It is the best good. It is the Good. And I cannot stand to it and thus cannot but think it evil. The mountaintop that seemed a hermitage is opening up as a gaping prison beneath me and I stumble into it with a crying utterance too deep for words.
Is she bringing us into this inferno? Is she the girl I know or some spirit sent to administer justice of the most fearful kind?
The lament continues, more rhythmic than melodic and each note is a beat of my own heart, which is pounding at the walls of my chest in an effort to escape, but my ribs constrain it and it holds its time.
A reaching for higher aid falls back into lament. We have all killed an Albatross in our lives and this is our recompense.
Drum-rolls and rising tides. Shivers of terror more substantial than chains run down my spine and suddenly it is the distant beating of drums as they approach a funeral pyre…my funeral pyre.
But something is changing… the tonality is richer. Something of gold is in the flames of judgement and real gold fears no fire…but who put it there? Can it – this gold – be enough to pay my ransom?
And then in a burst of light made of every color, my soul is bathed in the burning purity of F-sharp major. It peels back my mask of sin and I realize this mask hid not my face but hid me from seeing the face of One too Great for My Sight.
But I can hear Him. Though I may not yet look, I might hear and feel and sense that the Almighty has won a victory. The victory. And I might dare to hope that He shall make me a soldier to share in this victory.
I take to arms within the deepest part of my being and when the trumpets of fearsome judgement sound again, there is something of my own determination in them.
And this determination brings the strength which is grace.
It is beautiful. I am swept into a lulling dance which turns to the song of Him singing over me. The powers of darkness might whirl around, but this song holds me fast, anchoring me.
It gives way to a beautiful dancing flurry which concludes with a declaration of coming victory, if only the judgement first comes.
Drums again. I feel the darkness creeping forth from its pit. It will not be contained, it says. It inches its way toward the hearts of men.
But that Great and Only Goodness is not touched. It’s dignity and perfection reign and the throne is not overthrown by these creeping, oozing things. It’s perfect order and rhythm and timing subdue them with a fear greater than any they could evoke.
And the song sings again, restoring my strength to finish this battle.
And I see it. I see this Light. Distant, but it is coming for me. I tremble yet rush to meet it.
Oh, glorious victory! Surely it is won!
But are those the trumpets of perdition I hear once more? Oh! the dwellers of the pit sneak forth again in chromatic slyness. They dance, the demons do, dance with a syncopation that is too easy to fall into. They crescendo in their final push.
But their frantic, Bacchic celebration of their own undoing is overthrown by the grace and gentleness of a waltz, which crescendos along with them into their end and its everlasting beginning.
The drums return, but no longer accompanying lament. Rather, it is a drumroll toward triumph. And the horns declaring this triumph continue longer than expected, but, after all, are they not to resound throughout all eternity?
I am shaken. Something has been purged from my soul. I barely register my hands applauding. How does one applaud the victory of the Lord?
But then I remember. This is a piano recital. An ordinary girl in a red dress is performing. This is a piano solo, not a divine judgement. But perhaps they are intertwined after all. Perhaps, even more than the Steinway grand, she herself was an instrument of the true Master.
Flowers and bows and the girl in red smiling as if she has won a victory herself, yet blushing and laughing with an innocent, overwhelmed delight at the same time.
More bows. More golden laughter, trilling softly beneath the thunderous applause of her loved ones below.
She winks at a friend, signaling him to stop clapping and waits for others to follow before she invites us to tea and scones.
Tea and scones? After this moral turbulence?
I glance at my watch. It’s only been thirty minutes.
When we think about books, especially about what type of books we prefer, we tend to categorize them into genres, time periods, literary movements, etc. Today, during a visit to the library, my school librarian commented that The Maze Runner and Divergent are silver. This seemed a completely logical statement to me and I added that I needed a silver book as ebony (such as the works of Charles Dickens) was too deep a tinge for the moment. Then, I realized: books truly can be described simply through colors (and the occasional pattern.) This sounds whimsical, but to any serious reader, whimsy and sense are actually quite similar.
Anyway, my thoughts took the loveliest turn this evening as I considered which of my favorite books are best represented by which colors and I came to some entertaining conclusions. For example:
Anne of Green Gables– a pale, minty green speckled with purplish flowers
Gone With the Wind– vibrant Scarlet, like the character, tinged with emerald
The Mysterious Benedict Society– cream with splashes of navy
The Picture of Dorian Gray– reddishmahogany
The Hunger Games– bronze
Harry Potter– fiery orange like the Weasleys’ hair
The Fairy’s Return and Other Princess Tales– blush pink and crystal
Pride and Prejudice– pastel rose-pink with traces of green
Little Women– indigo with feathery white patches
Charlotte’s Web– cornflower blue
The Phantom of the Opera– deep purple with silver linings
The Illustrated Man– blend of deep colors, like a sleeve tattoo
Those are just a couple; my mind has been a flurry of titles and hues all night! It amazes me how many pictures authors can create through words, evoking memories of color and texture with only black words on a white page. And now my mind is turning to music… just imagine all the shades painted within the compositions of Chopin, Bach, or Grieg! But I’ll save that for another time. For now, I’m going to enjoy some “silver” reading.