Trust

by Hernan Diaz

realise now how poorly I’ve managed this whole thing. Should’ve done as so many times before: nudge him gently enough in the right direction so he could believe he was in command. Once I learned about the tumour, I should’ve told him I was unwell, let his doctors “discover” the illness + allow him to be in charge (nothing to be done anyway). It was a mistake to present him with the hopeless truth, supported by tests + examinations conducted behind his back. More than sad, he looked disoriented. And then I told him we were coming to this place. He followed, dutifully. I never let him be of help.

“Zauberberg.”

Magic Mountain by Thomas Mann

Nothing more private than pain. It can only involve one. But who? Who is “I” in “I hurt”? The one who inflicts the pain or the one who suffers it? And does “hurt” refer to the inflicting or the suffering?

La Fiesolana

It’s only through a great effort that I can convince myself that I’m here today.

Air like French horns.

Immediately after, another patient, accompanying himself at the piano, proceeds to descale, gut and behead Schubert’s trout. I’m amused.

Song Doe Forelle

Rereading the above “confession” made me think about diaries. Some journals are kept with the unspoken hope that they will be discovered long after the diarist’s death, the fossil of an extinct species of one. Others thrive on the belief that the only time each evanescent word will be read is as it’s being written. And others yet address the writer’s future self: one’s testament to be opened at one’s resurrection. They declare, respectively, “I was,” “I am,” “I’ll be.”

Andrew back. Happy with outcome in Z, which he now (as usual) describes as the result of his “intuition.” I had to be careful not to snap at him. Coming out of morph. Prickly.

Distracted by unseen birds unable to break their bondage to their 2 or 4 notes. Wish I had some knowledge of ornith.

I know my days are numbered, but not every day is a real number.

“Le chant du monde.” Gave up after 2 ch. Something simplistic about Giono’s

So many things I’d like to like. Scriabin, oysters, NY

Dullish

A just did a lovely thing. Hired a string quartet from a Z hotel and put together a little recital in the library. Also brought hotel waiters, refreshments + juices, just like home. Invited director, drs. + other people I didn’t know. Short, predictable program. Reductions of Vivaldi’s “Spring,” followed by “Kleine Nachtmusik,” J. Strauss + other viennoiseries. Still, very touched by A’s gest. Despite the trite selection, it was plain the musicians were 1st rate. They somehow managed to “find” something even in that overtrodden répert. After perf., I approached them for a chat. Violist studied under Hindemith. Cellist played at Verein. 2nd violin collaborates regularly with Barcz. They all met in Berlin, but left after Hitler became chancellor. How lovely to talk to true artists! Told them they could come to me for whatever they needed. Cellist suggested, with shy humour, one-way tickets to America + visas for all. I said they could consider it done. A looked at me from the back of the room as I talked to the musicians. Stoically sulky. Just like back home.

Songs

Music started out from noise. After a long journey, it’s going back home.

Reading Arduini’s latest. A lovely little poem about Thales of Miletus: Il greco che fece entrare tutta Cheope nella propria ombra

Measuring the immense

A just called from Z (again), asking for advice. Kolbe, Lenbach, London, NY, etc., etc., etc., etc. As always, he mistakes doubt with depth, hesitation with analysis. I drifted away. “Are you there?” He thought we’d been disconnected during my long silence after his long q. “No,” I said. I can’t explain the relief that word gave me. Not all the opium in the world. “Hello?” True. I was not there. “I’m such a brute,” he said. “You should rest.” “I’ve been doing this for too long. Done.” Silence between 2 is always shared. But 1 of the 2 owns it and shares it with the other. “But you live for this,” he said at last. “You . . .” He regretted his words. “Exactly. And now it’s over.” I hung up, gently, before we got trapped in another silence, which would say nothing except that there was nothing else to say.

Soon, tho, an imbalance became obvious: what he could teach me (nature of instruments, procedures, balance sheet analysis, etc.) was finite, while my domain was inexhaustible. Rules + defs. are fixed; conditions + our reactions to them change hourly. True, he’d provided capital. But after a year or so, I’d more than repaid + could’ve, in theory, broken away on my own.

For I’ve come to think one is truly married only when one is more committed to one’s vows than the person they refer to.

A most quoted line of the book.

Overheard: “The game is not worth the candle.”

I’m Adam, Eve. Mad, am I? D F♯ E A / A E F♯ D

Massage replaced by a passive sort of callisthenics. Nurse moves my limbs for me. This made me realise how little I know about “my will.” I want to move a leg. Then I’m aware of its moving. But what moved it? At what point does the sum of anonymous electric impulses + twitching muscles become me? Can I rightly call that force “I”? What’s the difference, regarding my participation, between the nurse’s moving my leg and the leg’s moving “on its own”?

I discussed stickiness principle + cobweb architecture with A countless times.

He felt unmanned, he once said. I found his vanity repulsive. Still, our queer collaboration continued. I was obsessed with the process; he was addicted to the results. But it’d be dishonest to claim it was only an intellectual exercise for me. I discovered a deep well of ambition within. From it I extracted a dark fuel.

back from Z. Tells me someone’s taking care of visas for quartet musicians.

“Un visage comme une brioche.”

Some bells in music: Zauberf. (tho the celesta in the pit never felt like bells to me) Parsifal? Tosca (matins) Symph. Fant. Mahler in almost every symph.? Sleigh bells in 4th so lovely.

The leap from percussion to melody took music out of prehistory into its history. Bone bells. A femur ...

I’ve never heard the Stock Exchange bell.

Language annoying today.

Quasimodo, deafened by bells, loves ringing them.

Nurse never feigns gaiety. Never makes shows of sympathy. Never pretends to know what I feel. Calling her a friend would be an insult to the dignity of her impersonal care. And yet.

Schumann

Harland’s

Perfect morph. novel. Enjoyed not being able to fully follow it.

Paganini, Hummel, Berlioz, Paderewski, Quilter, Saint-Saëns, Tosti, Franck, Lindner, Offenbach, Elgar, Dubochet, Rachmaninoff ever again.

I distrust the surge of well-being within me when I make him feel good.

Clouvel’s latest. Short. Perhaps perfect.

God is the most uninteresting answer to the most interesting questions.

A most highlighted text

“The orchestra played the kind of music where you know what’s coming next, where you can listen ahead.”

Musik. Opfer.

Schön.’s Suite for Piano.

“Imagine the relief of finding out that one is not the one one thought one was”

A bell in a bell jar won’t ring