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Noi sntem ca un cntec, nu credei?

Un cntec nu se poate cnta niciodat de la sfrit

spre nceput. Trebuie s-l cni totdeauna ndreptndu-te spre sfrit. Pe parcurs, n timp ce cni
nc i muzica te mbat, i dai seama c sfritul se apropie totui, orict l-ai amna. ncerci s
lungeti puin notele, dar asta nu d cntecul napoi, nu renvie ceea ce a murit din muzic ntre
timp. Amni doar sfritul. Te ncpnezi s nu recunoti o eviden. C orice cntec are un
sfrit. Orict ar fi de frumoas o melodie, vine o clip cnd ea e acoperit de tcere. Cnd
tcerea e mai puternic dect muzica. Astfel c orice cntec, orice concert mi se prea c
nu este dect un continuu avertisment. Mi se repeta mereu c frumuseea, vraja snt provizorii.
C dup ele va urma tcerea. C sunetele acelea minunate pe care le ascultam se vor preface
n tcere, n cenu. Muzica va muri. Nu putem, n timpul concertului, s fugim napoi prin
desiul sunetelor spre clipa cnd, mbtai de muzic, am deschis buzele i am nceput s

Pe msur ce naintezi n emoie, te apropii i de sfritul ei. Nimic nu te poate salva. Nu

exist dect frumusei trectoare. Etern e doar tcerea. Concertele care ntrerup tcerea nu fac
dect s-o tulbure cteva clipe ca o piatr care lovete suprafaa ncremenit a unui lac. Att
dureaz muzica. Att dureaz ct i cercurile concentrice de pe luciul unui lac. Restul, da, restul
e tcere. Orice am face. Concertele snt ca i noi. Accidente ale tcerii. O, dac am putea s ne
ntoarcem de la jumtatea unui concert napoi spre nceputul lui! Dar nu se poate.

Un cntec mbtrnete n timpul ct l cntm. El ncepe tnr, luminos, plin de ncredere

i de speran. Se maturizeaz, continu ngndurat, apoi deodat mbtrnete. Uneori
mbtrnete solemn, alteori mbtrnete melancolic. Asta n-are importan. Ceea ce conteaz
e c se apropie de sfrit i de moarte. O moarte somptuoas nu e mai puin moarte... Dac am
ncerca s ne ntoarcem... dar nu, nu se poate. Nici s ne oprim. tii cum se aude un cntec
atunci cnd acul care se rotete pe disc nu mai nainteaz... O punei c un concert se poate
relua de la capt le cte ori vrei. Nu e adevrat.

De fiecare dat nu e ntocmai acelai concert. E ceva schimbat. Ceva, infim poate,
schimbat n tine nsui. Discul e acelai, dar tu nu mai eti acelai dinainte. Eti altul, mereu
altul. i astfel, dac asculi toat viaa acelai concert, de fapt asculi mereu alte concerte. Aa
cum nu putem citi aceeai carte orict am vrea. Nu, asta e o himer. Chiar dac citim
aceeai carte va trebui s recunoatem la sfrit c am citit nenumrate cri. De fiecare dat
alt carte, pentru c de fiecare dat eu nu mai eram eu cel dinainte, ci altul, puin sau mult
schimbat... Numai c la o carte e mai uor s-i dai iluzia c poi s rmi la aceeai pagin.
Chiar dac i asta e o iluzie. O minciun. Pentru c, dac rmi la aceeai pagin, de fapt citeti
mereu o pagin nou pe msur ce mbtrneti... Dar crile snt mai generoase cu iluziile
noastre. Putem s le citim mai ncet, s ntrziem, s amnm, s revenim, s ne minim, s
uitm fatalitatea sfritului, n timp ce ascultnd un concert e imposibil s faci asta. Iat de ce am
renunat i la muzic.

Viata pe un peron - Octavian Paler

Were like a song, dont you think so? A song can never be played from its end to its
beginning. You always have to play it heading to the end. Along the way, while youre still
singing and the music gets you drunk, you realize that the end is coming near, however, no
matter how much you try to put it off. You try to make the notes a little longer, but that doesnt
give you the song back, it doesnt revive what has died in the music meanwhile. You only put off
the end. You become stubborn by not acknowledging something that is obvious. That every
song has an end. No matter how beautiful a song might be, there always comes a sole moment
when it is covered by silence. When silence is louder than music.

So, every song, every concert seemed nothing more than a continuous warning to me. I
was being told repeatedly that beauty and magic are temporary. That after them silence would
follow. That those wonderful sounds I listened to would turn into silence, into ash. Music would
die. During the concert, we cannot run back through the thicket of sounds to the moment when,
drunk on the music, we parted our lips and started murmuring.

As you get deeper and deeper in the emotion, you come close to its end. Nothing can
save you. All there is is ephemeral beauty. Permanent is only silence. The concerts that interrupt
the silence do nothing but trouble it for a few seconds, like a stone that hits the stone-still
surface of a lake. Thats how long music lasts. It lasts as long as do the concentric circles that
are found on the shiny surface of a lake. Everything else, yes, everything else, is silence. No
matter what we do. Concerts are like us, accidents of the silence. Oh, if only we could go back
to the half of a concert and then back to its beginning! But its impossible.

A song grows older while were singing it. It starts off as a song thats young, bright, filled
with faith and hope. It matures, it goes on pensively, and then, all of a sudden, it grows old.
Sometimes it grows old solemnly, other times it grows old melancholically. This is irrelevant.
What matters is that it gets closer to its end and to death. A sumptuous death is no less than
an ordinary death... If we tried to go back...but no, we cannot. We cannot stop either. You
know how a song that is played when the needle that rotates on the disc doesnt go any
further sounds like... You think that a concert can be revived every time you want to. Its
not true.

Every time its a different concert. Something is changed. Something, tiny maybe,
is changed inside you. The disc is the same, but youre not the person you were before.
Youre another person, always another. Thus, if you listen to the same concert your
whole life, youre actually listening to other concerts. Just like how we cant read the
same book over and over again, no matter how much we want to do it. No, that is a

Even if we read the same book over and over again, we have to admit, in the end, that
we have read countless books. Its always a different book, because every time I read it, I wasnt
the one I was before. I was another person, changed by it a little or a lot. Only that when it
comes to books its easier for you to fall under the illusion that you can stay on the same page.
Even if that is also an illusion. A lie. Because if you stay on the same page, youre actually
reading a new page as you grow older... But books are a little more compassionate with our
illusions. We can read them slowly, we can be late, we can put things off, we can come back,
we can lie to ourselves, we can forget about the fatality of the end, while when we listening to a
concert its impossible to do these. Here is why I also gave up on music.

Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having
nothing to do; once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no
pictures or conversations in it, and what is the use of a book, thought Alice, without pictures or
conversations? So she was considering, in her own mind (as well as she could, for the hot day
made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of making a daisy-chain would be
worth the trouble of getting up and picking the daisies, when suddenly a White Rabbit with pink
eyes ran close by her.

There was nothing so very remarkable in that; nor did Alice think it so very much out of
the way to hear the Rabbit say to itself Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be too late! (when she
thought it over afterwards, it occurred to her that she ought to have wondered at this, but at the
time it all seemed quite natural); but, when the Rabbit actually took a watch out of its waistcoat-
pocket, and looked at it, and then hurried on, Alice started to her feet, for it flashed across her
mind that she had never before seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat-pocket, or a watch to take
out of it, and, burning with curiosity, she ran across the field after it, and was just in time to see it
pop down a large rabbit-hole under the hedge. In another moment down went Alice after it,
never once considering how in the world she was to get out again.

The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly
down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found
herself falling down what seemed to be a very deep well. Either the well was very deep, or she
fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her, and to wonder
what was going to happen next. First, she tried to look down and make out what she was
coming to, but it was too dark to see anything: then she looked at the sides of the well, and
noticed that they were filled with cupboards and bookshelves: here and there she saw maps
and pictures hung upon pegs. She took down a jar from one of the shelves as she passed: it
was labeled ORANGE MARMALADE, but to her great disappointment it was empty: she did
not like to drop the jar, for fear of killing somebody underneath, so managed to put it into one of
the cupboards as she fell past it.

Alice in Wonderland Lewis Carroll

Alice incepu sa se plictiseasca stand cu sora ei pe malul raului, neavand nimic de facut;
o data sau de doua ori si-a aruncat privirea in cartea surorii sale, dar aceasta nu avea nicio
poza si niciun dialog in ea, si care este rolul unei carti, gandi Alice, fara imagini sau
dialoguri?. Asa ca incepu sa ia in considerare, in mintea sa (pe cat de bine putea, avand in
vedere ca ziua caniculara o facea sa se simta foarte somnoroasa si prostuta), daca placerea de
a face o coronita din margarete ar merita efortul de a se ridica si a culege margaretele, cand,
dintr-odata, un iepure alb cu ochii roz alerga aproape de ea.

Nu era nimic remarcabil in acest lucru; nici Alice nu credea prea multe despre asta pana
cand a l-a auzit pe Iepure spunandu-si Vai! Vai! Vai! Voi intarzia prea mult! (cand Alice s-a
gandit la asta, mai apoi, si-a dat seama ca poate s-ar fi mirat de acest lucru, dar la acel moment
parea ceva normal); dar, cand Iepurele a scos , de fapt, un ceas din buzunarul vestei sale si s-a
uitat la el, iar apoi s-a grabit in continuare, Alice isi reveni, realizand ca niciodata nu mai vazu un
iepure fie cu un buzunar, fie cu un ceas pe care sa il scoata din acesta, si, arzand de curiozitate,
a alergat pe camp dupa el si ajunse la timp pentru a-l vedea intrand intr-o mare viezuina de
iepure, sub gardul viu. Intr-o fractiune de secunda, Alice a intrat dupa el, neluand in considerare
nici macar odata cum ar mai putea iesi de acolo.

Viezuina era dreapta, ca un tunel si apoi cobora dintr-odata in jos, atat de neasteptat
incat Alice nu apuca a se gandi nici macar o secunda sa se opreasca, fiindca s-a trezit picand in
ceea ce parea a fi o fantana foarte adanca. Fie fantana era foarte adanca, fie ea cadea foarte
incet, pentru ca dura destul de mult sa cada si avu timp sa priveasca in jurul ei, intrebandu-se
ce urmeaza sa se intample. Intai, a incercat sa priveasca in jos si sa isi dea seama unde
ajunge, dar era mult prea intuneric ca sa mai vada ceva: apoi s-a uitat la marginile fantanii, si a
observat ca erau pline de dulapuri si etajere: ici si colo vazu harti si tablouri prinse cu carlige. A
luat de pe raft unul dintre borcane in timp ce trecea pe langa: pe eticheta scria MARMELADA
DE PORTOCALE, dar spre marea ei dezamagire, era gol: nu lasa borcanul sa cada de frica sa
nu omoare pe cineva dedesubt, asa ca reusi sa il puna intr-unul din dulapuri in timp ce era in