“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.”
