“Oh, it’s worse than that,” Moffat said. “It’s downright chaotic. There’s no way in hell it should work. Psychotropic tone structure or not, it reads like Korngold and Mahler take a vacation with Schönberg and end up on Krakatoa with a gamelan.” “You mean, it’s bad?” Michael asked, feeling as if the last firm foundation was about to be pulled from beneath his feet. Moffat smiled up at the ceiling and closed his eyes. “Not at all,” he said. “It’s impossible, but it’s wonderful. The few sections I’ve played—masterful. Demonic, but masterful. Liszt with his hair in braids and on LSD.”
