OPERA
2010; Wiley; Volume: 98; Issue: 4 Linguagem: Inglês
10.1353/tyr.2010.0084
ISSN1467-9736
Autores Tópico(s)Musicology and Musical Analysis
Resumo8 0 Y O P E R A E D W I N F R A N K – Die Meistersinger misremembered in two broken parts Part One Things stand out in the light of that measured space distinctly. He has stacked the wood beside him: it lies to hand. He has settled the tools on the workbench and they are ready. He has rolled his sleeves up neatly to greet the morning shining in the window of his little workshop where all darkness is swept aside. * What do we see? Ordinary things! What else would we see in this renewed cleansing extraordinary light but the ordinary: things – wood that discloses its bright workable pith, its fine 8 1 R grain free of knots like muscle, the hand’s own muscle, the steel edge of the adze dully glinting in hand, the hand itself on the handle, the handle gripped in the hand – and the world outside beckoning to us: the meadow, the stand of trees, the wind that blows on the hill. These are the things that we see. * And hear. For he sings now. He lifts his voice and he sings about it, in praise of it, sings it up and in and out of thin air, his materials, his tools, each with its proper application and weight, and his particular poise, that too, his achieved self-possession, his wealth, his world – all this he sings and as he sings he can hear his children singing, the distant voices of boys and girls all calling back and echoing his in familiar response – * though he looks up now and breaks o√: now 8 2 Y sees himself bent over his labors growing old in them, face withering, voice faltering, his voice cracking and dying – * yet hears for all that in the children’s voices carrying forward in time his own voice calling him back to himself across the delay of time keeping time in the round of their days he thinks now as he turns back to his bench, absorbed once again in his work, yes, and knows this is as it should be and is eternity, in which the fathers and mothers the sons and daughters are gathered together in the here and now and then and there and everywhere singing the one great chorus again and again returning to its unaltered refrain of pure confirmation of the opus, the work that completes us, that makes us free in the encompassing meadow to sing a song that is not just a song but a language, a language of song that is pure conjugation in time of these things, the workbench, the wood the hand and the light and the world all arranged in an order at last no other than life. 8 3 R Part Two To be sung in the key of I, oh Yes! It is no key, I know. It is no key I know. To be sung, that is, In no key, Aieee! * Lean mouth, scrannel flute, Revisit the charming scene above As antithetical fantasy, Thus proving it to be Fantasy pure and simple. A sick one. * He and His who think To make a mockery of me I mock in turn. I interrupt them. I copy – no – ape them. (Let’s call a spade a spade.) I play back to them Their seedy revelry Both in my deep groaning Natural tuneless voice But also Falsetto, 8 4 Y My voice shrilling and trilling As after Sucking helium out Of a balloon, voice rising Higher and higher, Like a dirigible now, Now a child’s squeaky voice, now an excited woman’s, Never a real man’s, impersonal now As the sun, as the great Law itself shining high in the sky Above the great field where I – only I – Have gathered them all to witness my Escape. * I the intruder, the gratuitous one, I stand out. I Stand outside, denied. Music I make, but the music I make Is never more (or less) Than the bare Rudiments of music, a mere Bowing, and scraping. I don’t sing. I don’t perform. I practice Endlessly Upon you, Poor politician of my own renown...
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