by J C W

Fragile mind…

fragile heart…


the usual shit…




book coach, train, etc.

book plane to Berlin




tumblr, absolute madness..

up till 430 yesterday night..

starting to have communication with people…




managed to do corrections yesterday…


maybe I’ll be able to write this bloody paper after all…?


I should be…





Song of Ice and Fire…

I’ve been doing too much to have any lust for this (altogether delightful) crap…


we’ll see…


I’ll probably get back to it some day…


when in need for some ‘epic’…




I feel traps and temptations everywhere…

she might be one of those…

my goal was elsewhere…

I did not want a relationship…

and now I feel the lack of her…

so much, so much, at certain moments…


and yet, did my dreams, my profound dreams, really changed?

I’m really not sure…

I feel quite despaired to realize them, that’s for sure…

I don’t feel they are in any sense ‘close’ to me…

I don’t feel their effect…

Maybe that’s the work I should be doing?

Make my dreams come closer?


Tonight, Hamlet.


I would have gone with her…



Maybe it’ll be like the other time, at the concert: a sublime enjoyment.

Being alone, doing this for myself.


Just like going to museums, etc.


I should try to do that more often.


Question of finances, of course, to be taken into account.


Dream of urban lifestyle…

The city.

Its maddening production all the time…

Art, art, art.


Fashion, money, fame, all that.


The grand thing of mankind.


And I might read Balzac?




So, I see traps.

Traps, like her for instance (maybe? She also appears as salvation…)…

But also banking…

Money as such, without anything else…

Mammon. Its voice is there, more than ever.






Travels, travels.

I need to read them really.




Differently from the past.




Now the state gets lower and lower…

little desire to sleep…

difficulty, difficulty…

Just bad self management, I guess…


I am in front of this task, and I’m… unable to do it…

That is, to find the proper equilibrium to do it…

Inner balance, so that it’s not absolute forcing, etc.

And I’m not really stressed, so…

This does not help either…





Her, her in my mind…

Impossible to avoid.

Yet it is not really a dreadful feeling.

I ‘contained’ it tonight…

Is it good?


Would the opposite have been any … ‘good’… better…?


Enno Poppe.

Probably Staud, and Furrer.


Until I manage to extinguish them.


(Get back to Ferneyhough as well.

And Carter.)


Just listened to a bit of Birtwistle…


It is not very convincing…

Especially harmonically…

I can hear much more clearly now what he’s doing…

I am not absolutely sure it is … worth it.

Not sure, meaning it could be the case.


Meaning I might be wrong.


What I need, of course, is to find this, or those, examples, where it does work.


Boulez’ harmony, in Notations for orchestra, or in other pieces like …explosante-fixe… or Répons

This works.


Yet another doubt: Taruskin would say it is conservative. Did he really listen to this in depth?

I should probably not ‘deny’ my experience – Notations was luminous. Amazing, strong.


The other, longer pieces, a bit less…


It might be that Boulez will be the catalyst for a generation…

Just like Descartes… cut down, reduced, by each of his (great) followers…

So that he would be opening grand alleyways for music, in the future.

Paths, orientations, according to which piece you choose…




Enno Poppe.




This is not bad.

Strong, and with a reconciled sense of harmony.

Yet, I am not sure.

Doubt creeps in me.

Now, and this because of those fifties and sixties: because of Absolute modernism, and its Total Seriality… Every ‘easiness’, every ‘sense of immediacy’, every ‘pleasure’ is subject to suspicion.

Everything is potentially cheap, kitsch, poor.

Appealing, but with no real value.


The musicologist classified composers that way:

Xenakis, Scelsi, Sciarrino, Romitelli…

All flashy, all superficial. Love at first sight, boredom in the end…

Even Furrer (‘always the same!’, he would say)


! He still respects a few unconventional figures:

Ysang Yun,

Galina Ustvolskaya…


I see my problem.

I know nothing(, John Snow).


I have no taste.

Or, more nuanced: my taste is weak.

Instead of discovering for myself,

Instead of going for what I might love,

I listen to others.

I think about what I have to know.

I neglect the only thing that matters!!


Love, love, love.


This great ecstasy!

This great certitude.


This thing that makes me listen to

Ezra Pound.

The Master’s voice.

Or to Alain Badiou.




This Poppe could be of interest.

He is not very difficult.

I don’t suffer from his music (as I do from many pieces of Birtwistle, Carter, Ferneyhough…)

Yet is this truly profound?

Is this superhuman?

Is this an absolute exception?





I saw you. Tonight.

At the Young Vic.


You were immortal, yes.


You taught me things.

You amazed me,

You frightened me.





You say once,

That you can only trust

Your own judgement.


Is it renouncing mine

To agree with you?


Only if, as Pound

Writes in “Histrion”

My spherical heart shall be






I should do things differently.

I should learn

To do things differently.

With people.

In the great Game.


Know thyself.

Master thyself and others shall thee beare.




Method, absolute/foundational principle:

Foster the mode of relationship with the objects (discourses, works, etc.)

That is,

You have to focus on those moments where the relationship is

As you want.

Focus on that, always, and repeat, repeat.

Grow that.



If a field (of texts, of works, etc.)

Seems hard, impenetrable.

Going through many things will only help a little.

What you need is

An entrance door.

One thing: one work, one text, one idea.

That you may love.

For which your admiration is boundless.

Seek this, seek it.

Seek it through browsing. Don’t ponder too much on unloveable things. Go to the next one

In that large and multiple world (always, always more diverse and rich than you think).

Seek it through digging. When possible, dig deep into half-loved ones,

To reveal their richness.

Digging: always at the proper tempo.

Enraged when you can,

Soft, wise and detached in normal days.





I should write more.


Or better: I should write in interaction.


Write so that people read me.


Write publicly.




The question of my present life…



I know not what I could do,

In what direction I might go…


Yet, maybe, this question

Could be dissolved.


If the process is restored in its strength and power,

If true pleasure can be found,

As well as great, great depth and truth,

I might only need

A very vague end, or direction.

Just a great light, a great height,

The dream of revealed excellence.





Verdi, the path of Pop.

Production, market, all sorts of pressure.

Yet renown, popularity, and a real force in the end.


Wagner, the path of the elite.

Wandering, no direction, the pains of indifférenciation.

And, through grandeur and aristocracy,

And immortal accomplishment.





Silly, silly thing.

Yet without it,

Am I not just a beast?

Hamlet, Hamlet again…