from the same script. Among a certain set, conversation has devolved into a game of Chinese whispers. One is reminded of Yeats's poem "The Scholars":All shuffle there, all cough in ink;
All wear the carpet with their shoes;
All think what other people think;
All know the man their neighbour knows.
It is easy to see why Van Gogh would have contrasted the version of this he was familiar with to music. What could be more unmusical than saying what everybody else is saying? There is a place for unison in music, but no place for monotony, absence of variation, no change of tempo, and--above all--lack of invention.
from Frank Wilson: When Falls the Coliseum: That's What He Said: In the end we shall have had enough of cynicism and skepticism and humbug and we shall want to live more musically
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[by Harold Boatrite]
Burnt Noodle
Garlic and peppers in the sauce
from Frank Wilson: Books Inq.: The Epilogue: With apologies . . .
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