Oh Schubert you are such a bother for you were perfect. Even as you died. You went out listening to Beethoven’s string quarter #14 in C-sharp minor, Op. 131. Your friend Holt commented: “The King of Harmony has sent the King of Song a friendly bidding to the crossing.” Never mind the syphilis, the mercury poisoning, the blackened teeth. The best I can say is “never mind” like the barn owl—“the moon is perfect, never mind” and never mind getting lost in perfection.
This is how it’s done. The clocks may or may not be sad. Leaving the world in C-sharp minor.
E is the only major in C-sharp minor, but you can’t leave on E alone. Departure requires several dark feathers.
When I was a boy I thought I heard a voice coming from inside a window. Just a small auditory hallucination on a slow summer day. Here’s to conversant glass in an old house.
When I play Schubert on the hi fi I’m calling him on the Schubert phone.
I know so little and so I’m uncomfortable. I should know more about the stars and the gods of other ages. I should certainly know more about card games.
Now. Schubert insists on the river flowing out of now. This is the core of what the critics in their heavy boots call “Romanticism.”
Here’s to the Schubert singing windows and the Schubert rivers.
I’m not important. What a relief.
One thought on “Oh Schubert, you were perfect…”
Ah, isn’t though? Thanks for the reminder. “Just a goat’s hair brush in the master’s hand.”