A CERTAIN PHENOMENON CALLED MUSIC
The child, who has played with things for so long, with sand, with water, what will remain in him later of his power to play?
As an accomplished adult, the mammal no longer plays, or so little. In man, however, being with slow development, the game finely insinuated, having had time to become important, cunning to survive other than in tracks, and sometimes seeks and finds, in the midst of adult behaviour, a new playful organisation.
... There is what is called music.
It is also about waves, very small and to play with, not certainly by receiving them on wet feet but only, so tiny they are, in the deepest part of the ear that receives them vibrant and like a Secret. Invisible, they arrive in circular lines, which will soon surround it as if they came from everywhere, and in a huge tank keep it bathed.
These tiny waves relieve things, the unbearable "solid state" of the world, all the consequences of this state, its structures, its insluevable masses, its harsh laws.
They know how to do the night on the object, and on the beings when they have become like objects. They can disembody the flesh, abstract the concrete, de-problematise the situation. We breathe, we will relive, everything else forgotten, the good flood having returned to cover the earth that the geometry, the walls, the ugliness and the countless undesirable encumbered, which had been stuffed there and that it would have taken at least three wars and as many revolutions to eliminate, and not so well as this simple and prodigious cover will do.
Music, a wonder that surely preceded the fire. We needed it otherwise.
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