Amadeus

On the page it looked, nothing. The beggining simple, almost comic. Just a pulse. Basoons, basic horns,... like a rusty squeeze box. But then, suddenly, high above them, an oboe. A single note, hanging there, unwavering. Until the clarinet took it over. Sweetened it into a phrase of such delight... This was no composition by a performing monkey. This was a music I had never heard! Filled with such longing, such unfulfillable longing. It seemed to me that I was hearing the voice of God.

Astounding! It-it was actually be unbelieve. These were the first and only drafts of music, but they showed no corrections of any kind. Not one. He had simply written down the music already finished in his head. Page after page of it, as if he were just taking dictation. And music, finished as no music is ever finished. Displace one note and there would be diminishment. Displace one phrase and the structure would fall. It was clear to me that sound I have heard in the archbishop's palace had been no accident. Here again, was the very voice of God. I was staring from the cage of those meticulous strokes at an absolute beauty.

The restored third act was bold, brilliant. The forth, was astounding. I saw a woman disguised in her maid's clothes hear her husband speak the first tender words he has offered in years. Simply because he thinks she's someone else. I heard a music of true forgiveness filling the theatre confering all who sat there perfect absolution. God was singing through this little man to all the world. Unstoppable. Making my defeat more bitter with every passing bar.