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wonderful to follow, I was in on the whole scene. great fluidity KS On 29/03/2008, Frederick Pollack <[log in to unmask]> wrote: > I Resurrect Hans Rott > > > With a gesture, I fix > the error in the inferior frontal cortex, the mix > of neurotransmitters, the wounds (as real > as brain events) of memory – > poverty, insult, his parents' deaths – though not > the facts. And the TB > that killed him. He stands before me, > twenty-six, > still terribly thin, incurably strained > and earnest. I urge him to sit, > and shake his hand and thus forestall > kneeling or other nonsense. I tell him > how pleased I am to have him as my guest; > and, immediately, that Brahms > was out of line to say of the E-major symphony, > "You didn't write this" or "You should give up music." > He begins, stammering, to explain > which version happened, for now he's sure. > I wave this off. It's clear > he's as moved as one must be > when the voice of authority > is also that of justice. But that he's embarrassed – > despite his mistreatment > at the hands of the Provincial Asylum – by the incident > that put him there: a fellow-passenger > about to light a cigar, he > pulling a revolver, > crying that Brahms > had packed the train with dynamite … "Forget it," I say, > setting before him > fragments he wrote and burnt. > We spend the afternoon > discussing where he might go > from this measure, how he would orchestrate > that chord. "You needn't feel," > I say somewhat wistfully, > "you have to revive these works. > You'll probably want to catch up > with Mahler – he loved you, you know – > and what came after. But I hope > you'll have something for us soon." > I ring for the staff > to show him to his quarters. "Are you God?" > he cries. With Victorian > or rather Hapsburg heaviness, I thunder, > "No! Merely an admirer > of genius." He takes his sketches, hurries out, > his mood between a heel-click and a grin. > The palace is large enough > that he won't, before the concerts, > encounter Sibelius > completing the Eighth Symphony, or Duparc > atoning for long silence, > or those who wrote their last at Terezin. > >