For my funeral (I'm 51 years old but you never know), Bach's 4th cello suite will be played.
At Tarkovsky's funeral (the Russian director), Rostropovich played the suites. I know nothing about music, I know nothing about writing, I know nothing about being.
The only moment where I feel is when Pablo Casals sings the first note of the first suite. Then everything remains perfectly understandable, immobile, frozen in the velvet of the notes.
Now I can't live without it anymore.
A sickness like the one in which Netoska's violinist father died. The protagonist of Fyodor Dostoevsky's novel. He was sick with music, and music killed him.
How would it have been possible for little Netoscha to save her father....
Help me if you have an answer.
Giorgio della Porta
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