a naked soul
la primavera di Jos
In Spring 1982, while reading XIII century Troubadour music and lyrics I found this Rondeau. Because of the fascination with the music of that time and the beauty of its poetry, on April 25 of that year I wrote this short story which, after so many years, is still talking to me about early dreams, fantastic visions and the discovery of an inner self. I gave this story to my father who like me, loved that music and poetry and the beautiful energy of Mozart’s G minor symphony K.183 (you figure the connection… if any)
Amereis mi vous, cuers dous,
a cui j’ai m’amour donnée?
Nuit et jours je pens a vous.
Amereis mi vous, cuers dous?
Je ne puis durer sans vous,
vostre grans biauteis m’agreie.
Amereis mi vous, cuers dous,
a cui j’ai m’amour donnée?
Will you love me, O sweet heart
to whom I have given my love?
Night and day I think of you.
Will you love me, O sweet heart?
I cannot endure without you,
so much does your great beauty please me.
Will you love me, O sweet heart
to whom I have given my love?
Mi amerete, o dolce cuore,
cui ho dato il mio amore?
Notte e giorno io penso a voi.
Mi amerete, o dolce cuore?
Io non posso durare senza di voi,
tanto mi piace la vostra gran beltà.
Mi amerete, o dolce cuore,
cui ho dato il mio amore?
Years later, while reading Kundera’s Immortality, I found this paragraph which I leave here as a comment to all.
[…] no civilization has ever created such a miracle out of musical sounds as European music, with its thousand-year-old history and its wealth of forms and styles! Europe: great music and homo sentimentalis. Twins nurtured side by side in the same cradle. Music taught the European not only a richness of feeling, but also the worship of his feelings and his feeling self. After all, you are familiar with this situation: the violinist standing on the platform closes his eyes and plays the first two long notes. At that moment the listener also closes his eyes, feels his soul expanding in his breast, and says to himself: “How beautiful!” And yet he hears only two notes, which in themselves could not possibly contain anything of the composer’s ideas, any creativity, in other words any art or beauty. But those two notes have touched the listener’s heart and silenced his reason and aesthetic judgment. Mere musical sound performs approximately the same effect upon us as Myshkin’s gaze fixed upon a woman. Music: a pump for inflating the soul. Hypertrophic souls turned into huge balloons rise to the ceiling of the concert hall and jostle each other in unbelievable congestion. (from Immortality by Milan Kundera)