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The modern world was insane, that much was obvious; in this world truth could turn into delirious nonsense, and delirious nonsense into truth, and everyone sensed it on some level. Truth was what everyone believed in, but what truth was was always up for debate. Fact and fiction were blurred, and what mattered was often how loud and how often you could say something.
“Imperfect world. That’s right. Creativity is only possible in an imperfect world. In a perfect, complete world it is not possible at all.”
But the underage idiot (Aspirin assumed Alyona’s brother was her age, maybe a couple of years older) did not consider one thing: an imperfect world was impossibly different from a green valley where one could play a pipe under the delicate rays of the gentle sun. In other words, wanting to learn how to swim, the boy jumped overboard during a violent storm. And, of course, he immediately drowned.
And he was a creator, because goddamnit, the world was imperfect, and that meant change was possible!
It’ll be like a crack in a clay pitcher. Like they did in the ancient times to prevent the Gods’ envy. Remember, like when a potter made a particularly good pitcher, he’d leave a small crack in it, a flaw, to make sure he didn’t anger the Gods. Then maybe you can play your song, and the world won’t break.”
“A musician, especially a composer, he takes a piece of himself, a bloody piece, with the taste of life, love, and the fear of death. And he preserves it . . . no, that’s not right, he translates the best—or the most terrifying—moments of his life into another semiotic system. Another code. And then he sends it into space. Or writes it down on paper using symbols. And he doesn’t care whether the bar has sold enough alcohol, whether the people sitting down are tapping their feet in time with the music, or whether the dance floor is vibrating.”
The hidden meaning of music, the one that Aspirin had only guessed at before, now came to the surface. To be alive—that was what it meant. To fear death. To experience joy. To live.
Death is when the music stops.
