"The majority of my symphonies are tombstones. Too many of our people died and were buried in places unknown to anyone, not even their relatives. It happened to many of my friends. Where do you put the tombstones...? Only music can do that for them. I'm willing to write a composition for each of the victims, but that's impossible, and that's why I dedicate my music to them all."
—DSCH
A creature is not simply his fur, flesh, and blood body. That alone is appearance, it's trivial. A creature needs that to live, true, but it's not who they are. It's used for recognition, or it can be, but other traits are more indicative and individual. I'd sooner be recognized in my music than if I were out walking on the path. A creature's more likely to say, "That's Mitya Shostak's music," than, "There's Mitya." We're more than our physicalities; the species comparisons and biases so many are wont to make are proof that physicalities aren't so important. I'm a fox, dear Volklov was a wolf—we are not evil as species may suggest. When we lose that physical mass assigned to us, it's less than losing the spirit, the identity within us. Mortal decay does not touch the soul of a deadbeast—that lives on forever. And so it's far worse when a creature's spirit dies or nearly does and his body continues to perform the rituals of life.
The death of a body and the death of a spirit can occur simultaneously, or near to that. That occurs, though, only when the components are from two different individuals. For the most ready example, when I heard Volklov was dead, my spirit took a mortal wound, deeper than from Zlaya's previous stab. My joining the Mtsensk military was deliberate adding of poison to the wound. I was as good as dead; it's fortunate that, as a soul is not material, it can be revived from very far under. As it were, if that was not true, you would not have my testimony. In fact, I had many close calls, you know, that could have resulted in the same thing and maybe worse.
When a death is not completely sudden, the dying victim most often has a few relevant last words to say. I don't know if Volklov had time to say anything before he was killed; if he did, I have no idea what they might have been. As I sat in my quarters later on the day I learned of his fate, uncomfortable in the new uniform of a Mtsensk junior officer(!), I composed a piece serving as a swan song for the both of us. One might say, if he ever heard it, that the piece was not in my usual style, personal or official. I'd agree with that. The idea came up in complete form, just a very few lines of piano music I wrote down very quickly. It was, I think, what Volklov Varzar's own music would have sounded like had he been a composer. I didn't really try to do that, but what other idea would be a more fitting tombstone?
It truly is a shame that the piece for Volklov will never be heard. All I remember of it now is fragments of the exposition; I could never restructure it completely. The piece isn't actually lost, though. Or if it is lost, I lost it on purpose, so to speak. To assume what I wrote was Volklov's, as it were, Zlaya wouldn't have approved of Volklov's style, either. And so what could I do with it? There was no funeral that I know of; I have no idea as to where Volklov lies even now. So there was no funeral to even consider playing it at, nor a grave to place it on. I think that if I had physically died while in Mtsensk, I would have been in much the same situation. But as I was spiritually on my deathbed, I had to close off. I left my quarters onto the outdoor, walled-in grounds of Mtsensk. Going up as close to the wall as I could, I dug a shallow trench and placed my new score in it, mentally playing the visible notes one last time before replacing the dirt over the page. So Volklov's tombstone is also underground, and that's why it's, so to speak, lost.
I think Zlaya was expecting me to her personal office. Otherwise, she could have called or dragged me off there well before I, slightly muddy-pawed, arrived there myself on my own accord. She called me in after I knocked, timidly, four times. Zlaya sat at a large, ornate desk, a shifty-looking ferret several seasons older than me seated in a simpler chair beside it. Zlaya eyed my uniform rather amusedly before stating, "You're not going to fight for me. I won't have it."
The opening remark surprised me—I was expecting a harsh comment on either Volklov himself or the music found on him. But instead, I got only amused observations. I tried to think of a response in return, but ended up only adjusting my spectacles and staring.
The ferret's face remained mostly motionless except for the corners of his lips as Zlaya continued. "You can wear that uniform if you really want to, but I won't let you fight when I start my next campaign. That would be a sorry waste of your extravagant talent."
I blinked, inside confused. That might have been a trick or a sarcastic mark, more likely than not. If I had "extravagant talent," so to speak, what was the reasoning behind everything else Zlaya had inflicted on me?
"Extravagant, that is, if it were to be applied in a way that would be beneficial to the state. And therefore also to you. If you have suitable lyrics, the music will come." Zlaya seemed pleased with her final statement.
My theory has always been that Broken-Sword Warrior's lyrics were the thing that bothered Zlaya so much. The music may have miffed her a bit, but the words truly set her off. If the words led to the music, really as she thought, I saw perhaps the angle that she came from. I didn't agree with it, but I saw it, and I went along with it in the deadened state I was then in.
"Mitya Shostak, I'd like to introduce you to my Minister of Propaganda, Vsevolod Zloyevich. He's an aspiring poet, and I'll say you could make use of his verses." For interpretation's sake, "could" meant "must" when Zlaya spoke like that.
The ferret stood up stiffly, extending a paw. "Nice to meet ya, Mitya," he said humorlessly, though the play of sound on greeting my name sent Zlaya into a bit of a disturbing chuckle. Zloyevich made no further effort to act sociable, or to even provide any more comments. Instead, he took a folder, a well-stuffed one at that, off the desk and shoved it into my paw. I thumbed through it, glancing more at the legibility factor of the green-ink scrawl than the words initially.
"Although I'm setting no deadlines for you, Shostak, I expect to see something out of this soon enough. It should keep you plenty busy, and Vsevolod's almost always writing more." I noted how Zlaya referred to me by my surname and Zloyevich by his first, but I suppose that such addresses make much sense in how Zlaya felt about each of us. Considering that minor detail, I left the office, moving with perhaps a little less jerkiness in my step than I unconsciously usually move with.
I suppose I should have been glad that some other creature in Mtsensk took towards a form of art on his own. Though one might say, and one would be correct in saying that Vsevolod Zloyevich and I were nowhere near the same situation, and were even less the same sort of artists. As you know, Zloyevich was in Zlaya's favor—that's a clear differentiation. Also, my being a composer is because I like to put together music, it really means something to me. As Zloyevich was the Minister of Propaganda, though, I'll suspect that his writing poetry was more another angle from which to operate his title and duties rather than verses as an expression of true feeling. Of course, you could say that Zloyevich's feelings were the propaganda, but that would display only the case of a shallow, warped personality.
There is no way I can treat Zloyevich's verses unbluntly or without bias. I'd be outright lying to say they were anything better than what they were. The whole concept of writing music for propaganda repulses me now, though I was somewhat dulled to the idea then. But even then, I took some time to inwardly remark that, if I had to do propaganda, make it at least well-written propaganda (if there is such a thing). Zloyevich's verses simply nauseated me. The idea of composing to such trash literally churned my stomach.
The poems made no sense: "We are advancing the century for Mtsensk,
let us clothe our country with woodland!"
They tried to combine elements of real emotions with images of Mtsensk's system, beginning, for example, with a sappy love poem, to end with:
"The beauty of Mtsensk's land
is all Zlaya's work.
May lovers stroll in our new garden."
They acted as if the very land itself cared about the System: "Swathes of woodland—defense of the homeland."
And, of course, they "sucked up," so to speak, to the Dictator: "Zlaya raised us," and, "Zlaya taught us to build for life, for centuries of happiness in our land," disgusting, and even, "Glory to the banner borne by Zlaya, be our song!"
It's hard to compose to a libretto like that. Or rather, it's hard to compose anything with even a fraction of a fraction of artistic value. It's actually impossible, but I made it a challenge to myself to come up with something palatable, so to speak. Perhaps that challenge showed I still had some spirit in me, but the end result of that hopeless musical venture was dead enough in my eyes to prove otherwise.
—DSCH
A creature is not simply his fur, flesh, and blood body. That alone is appearance, it's trivial. A creature needs that to live, true, but it's not who they are. It's used for recognition, or it can be, but other traits are more indicative and individual. I'd sooner be recognized in my music than if I were out walking on the path. A creature's more likely to say, "That's Mitya Shostak's music," than, "There's Mitya." We're more than our physicalities; the species comparisons and biases so many are wont to make are proof that physicalities aren't so important. I'm a fox, dear Volklov was a wolf—we are not evil as species may suggest. When we lose that physical mass assigned to us, it's less than losing the spirit, the identity within us. Mortal decay does not touch the soul of a deadbeast—that lives on forever. And so it's far worse when a creature's spirit dies or nearly does and his body continues to perform the rituals of life.
The death of a body and the death of a spirit can occur simultaneously, or near to that. That occurs, though, only when the components are from two different individuals. For the most ready example, when I heard Volklov was dead, my spirit took a mortal wound, deeper than from Zlaya's previous stab. My joining the Mtsensk military was deliberate adding of poison to the wound. I was as good as dead; it's fortunate that, as a soul is not material, it can be revived from very far under. As it were, if that was not true, you would not have my testimony. In fact, I had many close calls, you know, that could have resulted in the same thing and maybe worse.
When a death is not completely sudden, the dying victim most often has a few relevant last words to say. I don't know if Volklov had time to say anything before he was killed; if he did, I have no idea what they might have been. As I sat in my quarters later on the day I learned of his fate, uncomfortable in the new uniform of a Mtsensk junior officer(!), I composed a piece serving as a swan song for the both of us. One might say, if he ever heard it, that the piece was not in my usual style, personal or official. I'd agree with that. The idea came up in complete form, just a very few lines of piano music I wrote down very quickly. It was, I think, what Volklov Varzar's own music would have sounded like had he been a composer. I didn't really try to do that, but what other idea would be a more fitting tombstone?
It truly is a shame that the piece for Volklov will never be heard. All I remember of it now is fragments of the exposition; I could never restructure it completely. The piece isn't actually lost, though. Or if it is lost, I lost it on purpose, so to speak. To assume what I wrote was Volklov's, as it were, Zlaya wouldn't have approved of Volklov's style, either. And so what could I do with it? There was no funeral that I know of; I have no idea as to where Volklov lies even now. So there was no funeral to even consider playing it at, nor a grave to place it on. I think that if I had physically died while in Mtsensk, I would have been in much the same situation. But as I was spiritually on my deathbed, I had to close off. I left my quarters onto the outdoor, walled-in grounds of Mtsensk. Going up as close to the wall as I could, I dug a shallow trench and placed my new score in it, mentally playing the visible notes one last time before replacing the dirt over the page. So Volklov's tombstone is also underground, and that's why it's, so to speak, lost.
I think Zlaya was expecting me to her personal office. Otherwise, she could have called or dragged me off there well before I, slightly muddy-pawed, arrived there myself on my own accord. She called me in after I knocked, timidly, four times. Zlaya sat at a large, ornate desk, a shifty-looking ferret several seasons older than me seated in a simpler chair beside it. Zlaya eyed my uniform rather amusedly before stating, "You're not going to fight for me. I won't have it."
The opening remark surprised me—I was expecting a harsh comment on either Volklov himself or the music found on him. But instead, I got only amused observations. I tried to think of a response in return, but ended up only adjusting my spectacles and staring.
The ferret's face remained mostly motionless except for the corners of his lips as Zlaya continued. "You can wear that uniform if you really want to, but I won't let you fight when I start my next campaign. That would be a sorry waste of your extravagant talent."
I blinked, inside confused. That might have been a trick or a sarcastic mark, more likely than not. If I had "extravagant talent," so to speak, what was the reasoning behind everything else Zlaya had inflicted on me?
"Extravagant, that is, if it were to be applied in a way that would be beneficial to the state. And therefore also to you. If you have suitable lyrics, the music will come." Zlaya seemed pleased with her final statement.
My theory has always been that Broken-Sword Warrior's lyrics were the thing that bothered Zlaya so much. The music may have miffed her a bit, but the words truly set her off. If the words led to the music, really as she thought, I saw perhaps the angle that she came from. I didn't agree with it, but I saw it, and I went along with it in the deadened state I was then in.
"Mitya Shostak, I'd like to introduce you to my Minister of Propaganda, Vsevolod Zloyevich. He's an aspiring poet, and I'll say you could make use of his verses." For interpretation's sake, "could" meant "must" when Zlaya spoke like that.
The ferret stood up stiffly, extending a paw. "Nice to meet ya, Mitya," he said humorlessly, though the play of sound on greeting my name sent Zlaya into a bit of a disturbing chuckle. Zloyevich made no further effort to act sociable, or to even provide any more comments. Instead, he took a folder, a well-stuffed one at that, off the desk and shoved it into my paw. I thumbed through it, glancing more at the legibility factor of the green-ink scrawl than the words initially.
"Although I'm setting no deadlines for you, Shostak, I expect to see something out of this soon enough. It should keep you plenty busy, and Vsevolod's almost always writing more." I noted how Zlaya referred to me by my surname and Zloyevich by his first, but I suppose that such addresses make much sense in how Zlaya felt about each of us. Considering that minor detail, I left the office, moving with perhaps a little less jerkiness in my step than I unconsciously usually move with.
I suppose I should have been glad that some other creature in Mtsensk took towards a form of art on his own. Though one might say, and one would be correct in saying that Vsevolod Zloyevich and I were nowhere near the same situation, and were even less the same sort of artists. As you know, Zloyevich was in Zlaya's favor—that's a clear differentiation. Also, my being a composer is because I like to put together music, it really means something to me. As Zloyevich was the Minister of Propaganda, though, I'll suspect that his writing poetry was more another angle from which to operate his title and duties rather than verses as an expression of true feeling. Of course, you could say that Zloyevich's feelings were the propaganda, but that would display only the case of a shallow, warped personality.
There is no way I can treat Zloyevich's verses unbluntly or without bias. I'd be outright lying to say they were anything better than what they were. The whole concept of writing music for propaganda repulses me now, though I was somewhat dulled to the idea then. But even then, I took some time to inwardly remark that, if I had to do propaganda, make it at least well-written propaganda (if there is such a thing). Zloyevich's verses simply nauseated me. The idea of composing to such trash literally churned my stomach.
The poems made no sense: "We are advancing the century for Mtsensk,
let us clothe our country with woodland!"
They tried to combine elements of real emotions with images of Mtsensk's system, beginning, for example, with a sappy love poem, to end with:
"The beauty of Mtsensk's land
is all Zlaya's work.
May lovers stroll in our new garden."
They acted as if the very land itself cared about the System: "Swathes of woodland—defense of the homeland."
And, of course, they "sucked up," so to speak, to the Dictator: "Zlaya raised us," and, "Zlaya taught us to build for life, for centuries of happiness in our land," disgusting, and even, "Glory to the banner borne by Zlaya, be our song!"
It's hard to compose to a libretto like that. Or rather, it's hard to compose anything with even a fraction of a fraction of artistic value. It's actually impossible, but I made it a challenge to myself to come up with something palatable, so to speak. Perhaps that challenge showed I still had some spirit in me, but the end result of that hopeless musical venture was dead enough in my eyes to prove otherwise.