Close your eyes, keep them closed, and this is great. It's mane-tossingly European as it clip-clops by the glittering Rhine, and all that jazz, but the person who posted it has not provided any identifying information, nor have they given us anything to look at but a smudgy, distorted painting, presumably of Schubert.
Schubert isn't always my favorite, but there are moments. That awful one about the little boy and the father and the black demon - oh God, this will start me on a wild goose chase to find it for sure. With Schubert, only a melody comes into your head, you don't know where it's from, but then it plays and plays and just won't leave.
I remember a tenor - God, what was his name? - it was on CBC Radio, I was on one of my endless walks with my headset on, and the guy comes on and sings some Schubert and it is simply heartbreaking. He breaks it wide open in one of those scary moments in which an artist exceeds himself, does better than he knows how to do. Does he borrow power from the work itself, the composer, or from heaven above?
Ah yes, this. I only remembered "Schubert, Rosamunde," no details, and it took some clicking around - not much, in this magic age. And it was in my ears once again, some of the most life-loving music I have heard in a very long time. Music that is supremely joyous in the moment. Life eats us, all of us, don't you know that? But some few leave something behind that buoys up the survivors, just for a little while. Which is all we have, anyway.
Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book
It took me years to write, will you take a look. . .