Symphony No. 3 by Chris Eaton

Author:Chris Eaton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: BookThug
Published: 2019-10-26T19:42:03+00:00

The heart is small.

We do what we must.

We give what we have.

The heart is small.

The stiff of the limbs is not marked.

Henri first. Then Mother. Then Liszt, of pneumonia, it did not end. Life can be over in an instant. Life is a series of brief instants. Love is over in an instant. Happiness lasts only for an instant.

Only desire lasts forever.

My brother and I had never spoken much. It had not been common for him to share his feelings with me. But now we sat frequently together and talked about sad and weak and use and end and end and he would say: How much can the human mind stand and still maintain a wakeful, staring, unrelenting sanity? Did anyone ever get a second chance? I would try to console him, would long to help him. And yet, despite reassurances, he knew well he would hold that son’s grief, that it might never turn to quiet joy and tender sorrow, not even with time, that it might even begin to creep backwards, so fierce it was, into his memories. The pain was so great that it infected his entire life. Even in the times they had been together, he was going to already miss her, had already missed her.

The heart is small, but holds so much. Bussine’s apartment was burgled and set on fire and the perpetrator killed the policeman who tried to arrest him, claiming: This is the right of them who have nothing, to take from them who have. D’Indy gathered the others around him and had Camille removed from the Société Nationale de Musique entirely. No matter, my brother said. They are on a voyage to a world that has ceased to concern me, forever. He went out to drink and found himself with d’Indy at the same establishment. Camille ordered a Suze. A loud train whistle indicated the train from Marseilles was about to arrive. D’Indy stopped to place an arm around the shoulder of a man Camille did not recognize. Then he was at our table. D’Indy picked up Camille’s glass and took a long drink.

Can’t you ask first? said Camille.

D’Indy replaced the glass: So sorry, seigneur.

Why did you have to make me look mad?

Because you are mad! shouted d’Indy. Mad, mad, mad!

He was nearly to quit. And I whispered to him: You are a god. You can do anything you want. I said: The world does not know what it wants until you tell them. There is not gain without risk, however, no risk without love, no doubt without passion, no passion without risk. The heart is small. Beating in darkness. It emerges from the chest, lifted out of the body and placed on the shoulder. From nowhere, we were contacted once again by the London Philharmonic. Someone had died, they said. Could we help out, they said. A second chance at life. And we packed our things and said goodbye to France. A symphony is a memoir of failure. And we made

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