… where the children don’t look like their mother.
I read (too much).
Just for the hell of it, I just re-traced a typically convoluted online reading session, which more or less happens to be a daily occurrence.
Someone get me a doctor.
James Joyce’s Amazing Chronicle -> James Joyce and the Jesuits: a sort of homecoming – > Catholic Counter-Reformation Art -> Flemish art – > Rubens, Elevation of the Cross – > Political colour – > Memoir in a Melody: The Outrage in Nina Simone’s ‘Mississippi Goddam’ -> A Raised Voice: How Nina Simone turned the movement into music -> Black Sabbath – War Pigs -> Night on Bald Mountain (orig.) -> … [I’ll spare you the rest.]
I ended up on this quote:
“And then to Rimsky-Korsakov, Mussorgsky made a defiant statement that would prove spectacularly wrong: “Let it clearly be understood . . . that I shall never start re-modeling it; with whatever shortcomings it is born, and with them it must live if it is to live at all.” This high resolve lasted until his mentor Mili Balakirev saw the score, savaged it, and refused to allow it to be performed.”
Then I listened to my copy of the wonderful rendition of Mussorgsky’s “Night on the Bald Mountain” – the composer’s original version, which leaves all the others in the dust – by Christoph von Dohnányi and the Cleveland Orchestra (Teldec 1989).
Now I’m on Keith Jarrett’s and Charlie Haden’s “Jasmine” (2011).
Don’t tell me you’re surprised.