The Attempted Aphorisms: On the Pleasure of Music

As one imagines the good exerted into an abstract form, so it bends, warps and coagulates into multitudinous dimensions. It sets, quivers and becomes a coherent structure. The medium however does not matter as beauty – the projection of the good – is solidified. Thus, when it enters one’s ears, that most noble of openings, it allows itself to press its fingers into the mind, bracketed off by the skull of impertinence. It reaches and tugs away at the transgressions one affirms through the reality of discord – because noise is nothing but notes that have yet to be notated. Thus, gathered up, the different noises of the world are set to a horizon of beauty and the dawn of comprehension sets their shadows racing. This is the pleasure of harmonies, chord-progressions, off-beats, time-signatures. If the ultimate place of beauty, some Utopia in an abstract domain, had gates it surely would have to be opened by singing into its locks; if the grounds were paved, they would be covered the most beautiful sound in the world: the harmonised, human voice. As the hands of music close our eyes and touch our lips and enter our veins to pump the heart of the good, so it begins to let our feet walk on a path toward the numinous. A path and never a destination. The pleasure of music is that it might be our universe squeezed into a fist of comprehension, sifted into the auditory nerves, and thus made manifest in the smile and tears that creep across our face as the final chord rings.


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