A melody believes in its own existence, although its sense of self resides only as constructions of memory. Caught up in its own emotions, it denies the inevitability of its own demise. The listener could at least be wise enough to bear the impending doom of any melody in mind while the piece is being played. Then perhaps my meaning could be understood. I wrote these melodies so that you could watch them die."
The ghost was afflicted at this moment by a wracking cough. An ectoplasmic handkerchief, white and well-used, was produced from a coat pocket.
"Possessing spiritual wisdom doesn't correspond to sounding nice, as you can see. What is music but a continuous process of ending? It is this fact you must bear in mind when interpreting my music. You desire a clue to the ballade. Two thirds of the way through, the melody has become so turgid, so high-and-mighty, that it believes it will go on forever at this senseless height of feeling. We should feel a deep melancholy at the irony. Soon comes the winding down. Finally any further melodic impulse is brought to its knees, ripped apart by brutal and self-denying scales and silence. It is the pedestal of Ozymandias in the desert sand."
With a sneeze, the shade dissolved, and I walked around the block to consider his words. Apparitions such as this occur often, and perhaps it is best not to give them too much thought. But if the composer wasn't deliberately trying to confuse this third-rate pianist, it would seem his composition is a commentary on the fundamental nature of existence! And I'd thought it was all roses and tuberculosis. Tunes seem to struggle for survival, an aspect of humor lies in the swollen singing, and the heart is finally touched by silence.
