I began writing this on the eve of a birth, followed the next day
by a death, both of which occurred in the middle of the 19th
century. Given the title of this little
piece it’s not too difficult to discern that I mean Oscar Wilde, born October
16, 1854, and Frédéric Chopin, died October 17, 1849. Both of these ghosts, friends as I call them,
haunt me almost every day of my life—one with brilliant words, the other with
melancholy music.
"I am not so weak as to submit to the demands of the age when they go against my convictions. I spin a cocoon around myself; let others do the same. I shall leave it to time to show what will come of it: a brilliant butterfly or maggot.” —Caspar David Friedrich
Showing posts with label Paris. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Paris. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 1, 2016
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