We shape the world and the world shapes us.
MOZART? The prancing white stallion of classical
music, full of Apollo’s dazzling, bright stars. But
where is the song of the Earth? Where is the dirt,
the raw polyphony of the rhythms of uncooked
wild nature? Too much cultivation leads to the
imbalance of the pallid polite smiles of the
perfumed Sunday salon, and too little of the
throwing open of November windows to embrace
the minor key of dead, rotting leaves and fierce
winds filled with fall rain.