The Enchanted Garden of Barganax

This scene finds the Duke painting in the enchanted garden. It introduces Dr. Vandermast, a member of the Duke's court, a philosopher, sophist, and magician, who is gifted in returning unintelligible reply on any manner of subject (although he does not appear in this passage).

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That third morning after that coming of the galloping horseman to Mornagay, Duke Barganax was painting in his privy garden in Zayana in the southland: that garden where it is everlasting afternoon. There the low sun, swinging a level course at about that pitch which Antares reaches at his highest southing in an English May-night, filled the soft air with atomies of sublimated gold, wherein all seen things became, where the beams touched them, golden: a golden sheen on the lake’s unruffled waters beyond the parapet, gold burning in the young foliage of the oak-woods that clothed the circling hills; and, in the garden, fruits of red and yellow gold hanging in the gold-spun leafy darkness of the strawberry-trees, a gilding shimmer of it in the stone of the carven bench, a gilding of every tiny blade on the shaven lawn, a glow to deepen all colours and to ripen every sweetness: gold faintly warming the proud pallour of Fiorinda’s brow and cheek, and thrown back in sudden gleams from the jet-black smoothness of her hair.
‘Would you be ageless and deathless for ever, madam, were you given that choice?’ said the Duke, scraping away for the third time the colour with which he had striven to match, for the third time unsuccessfully, the unearthly green of that lady’s eyes.
‘I am this already’ answered she with unconcern....

She had not stirred; yet, to his eye now, all was altered. As some tyrannous and triumphant phrase in a symphony returns, against all expectation, hushed to starved minor harmonies or borne on the magic welling moon-notes of the horn, a shuddering tenderness, a dying flame; such-like, and so moving, was the transfiguration that seemed to have come upon that lady: her beauty grown suddenly to a thing to choke the breath, piteous like a dead child’s toys: the bloom on her cheek more precious than kingdoms, and less perdurable than the bloom on a butterfly’s wing. She was turned side-face towards him; and now, scarce to be perceived, her head moved with the faintest dim recalling of that imperial mockery of soft laughter that he knew so well; but he well saw that it was no motion of laughter now, but the gallant holding back of tears....

‘Come’ said the Duke. ‘What shall it be then? Inspire my invention. Entertain ’em all to a light collation and, by cue taken at the last kissing-cup, let split their weasands, stab ’em all in a moment? Your noble brother amongst them, ’tis to be feared, madam; since him, with a bunch of others, I am to thank for these beggar-my-neighbour sleights and cozenage beyond example. Or shall’t be a grand night-piece of double fratricide? yours and mine, spitted on one spit like a brace of woodcock? We can proceed with the first to-day: for the other, well, I’ll think on’t.’
‘Are you indeed that prince whom reputation told me of,’ said she, ‘that he which did offend you might tremble with only thinking of it? And now, as hares pull dead lions by the beard—’...

As if spell-bound under the troublous sweet hesitation of the choriambics, she listened very still. Very still, and dreamily, and with so soft an intonation that the words seemed but to take voiceless shape on her ambrosial breath, she answered, like an echo:

Once more, Love, the limb-loosener, shaketh me:
Bitter-sweet, the dread Worm ineluctable.

——E.R. Eddison

Moreno Torroba

This is one of my favorite pieces, and I’m fairly particular about it. This is the second movement, Andante, of the Sonatina in A by Frederico Moreno Torroba. It was first performed in Paris in 1925 by Andres Segovia to a private audience, which included Maurice Ravel; who, it is said, was very impressed by this work. I like the second and third movements best (the Andante and Allegro), although the first movement is definitely worthwhile.

My main complaint with this piece is that most people try to play it too fast. It doesn’t work so well like that. It’s much better played a bit behind the beat, shuffle-style, as one very long cadenza passage. If you try to play it in time, it comes out too dry. It needs to be felt from the heart, expressed tentatively.

The dynamics of the piece are very important, and this is where I have a bit of trouble with it. It’s never quite perfect, and requires a great deal of work.

Here is a video of a fellow from Eastern Michigan University playing it at a recital. It’s one of the best that I’ve heard, and I have heard quite a few. He hurries the first chord a bit (the first D in the D C D), and in a few other places. The dynamics are not observed consistently throughout. But other than that, I would call this an excellent performance; one of the best around.

The performer is Jonathan Edwards, and I’ve never heard of him before. Nevertheless, he shows great promise, and I look forward to hearing more from him in the future.

I hope that you enjoy this as much as I do. It would be a rare thing to see any better performance of this wonderful piece (unless, of course, you happen to come to visit).

UPDATE:
I had to put this here, because the comments section would not accept it.

Here's another piece that I find I'm getting a bit particular about, and for the same reasons. I find that noteworthy because it's so ridiculously simple, it seems like it would be difficult to mess it up. But I see a lot of people butchering it. Terrible.



This one is one of this things that's sort of obligatory to the repertoire. Just about everybody does it.

I have two recordings of this one; one by Parkening (which is incredibly fast), and another by Eduardo Fernandez (who does it much better). The fellow in the video does it better than either one of them. As far as recordings, I prefer the Richard Cobo.

I really don't know as much about Brouwer as I would like. There's only a few of his pieces that I'm familiar with.

I've gotten to where I browse through these things because of all of the commercials on Pandora anymore.

Sundog

Zimiamvia

‘Now I’ve angered you,’ said Amaury. ‘And yet, I said but true.’

As a wren twinkles in and out in a hedge-row, the demurest soft shadow of laughter came and went in Lessingham’s swift grey eyes. ‘What, were you reading me good counsel? Forgive me, dear Amaury: I lost the thread on’t. You were talking of my cousin, and the great King, and might-a-beens; but I was fallen a-dreaming, and marked you not.’

——Mistress of Mistresses

Much like the wanderer Lessingham, the prose of E.R. Eddison takes me fallen a-dreaming. With much of his works, I read each paragraph through at least twice; once to enjoy the beauty of the prose, and again to take in the meaning before moving on. Eddison is, by far, my favorite author, but most of his works have been out of print for some time.

I recently acquired the Ballantine edition of the Zimiamvian trilogy (1967 — 1969). I will be sharing short excerpts on occasion as the mood strikes.

A Vision of Zimiamvia

I will have gold and silver for my delight:
      Hangings of red silk, purfled and work’d in gold
With mantichores and what worse shapes of fright
      Terror Antiquus spawn’d in the days of old.

I will have columns of Parian vein’d with gems,
      Their capitals by Pheidias’ self design’d,
By his hand carv’d, for flowers with strong smooth stems,
      Nepenthe, Elysian Amaranth, and their kind.

I will have night: and the taste of a field well fought,
      And a golden bed made wide for luxury;
And there,— since else were all things else prov’d naught,—
      Bestower and hallower of all things: I will have Thee.

—Thee, and hawthorn time. For in that new birth though all
      Change, you I will have unchang’d: even that dress,
So fall’n to your hips as lapping waves should fall:
      You, cloth’d upon with your beauty’s nakedness.

The line of your flank: so lily-pure and warm:
      The globéd wonder of splendid breasts laid bare:
The gleam, like cymbals a-clash, when you lift your arm;
      And the faun leaps out with the sweetness of red-gold hair.

My dear,— my tongue is broken: I cannot see:
      A sudden subtle fire beneath my skin
Runs, and an inward thunder deafens me,
      Drowning mine ears: I tremble. — O unpin

Those pins of anachite diamond, and unbraid
      Those strings of margery-pearls, and so let fall
Your python tresses in their deep cascade
      To be your misty robe imperial. —

The beating of wings, the gallop, the wild spate,
      Die down. A hush resumes all Being, which you
Do with your starry presence consecrate,
      And peace of moon-trod gardens and falling dew.

Two are our bodies: two are our minds, but wed.
      On your dear shoulder, like a child asleep,
I let my shut lids press, while round my head
      Your gracious hands their benediction keep.

Mistress of my delights; and Mistress of Peace:
      O ever changing, never changing, You:
Dear pledge of our true love’s unending lease,
      Since true to you means to mine own self true.—

I will have gold and jewels for my delight:
      Hyacinth, ruby, and smaragd, and curtains work’d in gold
With mantichores and what worse shapes of fright
      Terror Antiquus spawn’d in the days of old.

Earth I will have, and the deep sky’s ornament:
      Lordship, and hardship, and peril by land and sea.—
And still, about cock-shut time, to pay for my banishment,
      Safe in the lowe of the firelight I will have Thee.

——E.R. Eddison

Obstructed by Obscurity

I've been looking for a magazine. So far, I've been unable to find it.

I don't want to read it. I just want to verify some information.

The magazine is 20 - 25 years old. Even when it was new, it wasn't in wide circulation.

I want to record with my new guitar. I determined that the first piece I would record would be the second air of Turlough O'Carolan's "Planxty George Brabazon." This is one piece that I happen to play better than anyone else.


The arrangement that I am familiar with is in an alternate tuning; an open G, I believe.

I need to verify that. It makes a lot of difference.

And it's in that magazine.

While searching for the verification of the alternate tuning to the second air of Turlough O'Carolan's "Planxty George Brabazon," I have trouble recalling the tune.

I have a piece by Carlo Calvi running through my head. It won't stop. [Note: The piece linked to here is played a bit fast.]

O'Carolan was a harpist from Ireland in the late 17th century.

Calvi was an Italian guitarist from the early 17th century.

No relation.

Just the tune is somewhat similar.

And so, my quest for a little-used tuning to play an obscure piece by a little-known composer to be found in some old and little-circulated magazine (in excellent condition!) is hampered now by another obscure composer with an even more obscure piece.

Darn the luck!

Maybe I'll just play "Blackbird" (another piece that I play better than anyone else)....

EDIT: Mystery solved! This is actually an open G tuning that's been down-tuned by a major-minor interval: B E B E G# B.
It took a lot to get to that point.
The old down-tuned open G.
I should have known....

The Other Syntax

Did the universe really begin?
Is the theory of the big bang true?
These are not questions, though they sound like they are.
Is the syntax that requires beginnings, developments
and ends as statements of fact the only syntax that exists?
That’s the real question.
There are other syntaxes.
There is one, for example, that demands that varieties
of intensity be taken as facts.
In that syntax nothing begins and nothing ends;
thus birth is not a clean, clear-cut event,
but a specific type of intensity,
and so is maturation, and so is death.
A man of that syntax, looking over his equations, finds that
he has calculated enough varieties of intensity
to say with authority
that the universe never began
and will never end,
but that it has gone, and is going now, and will go
through endless fluctuations of intensity.
That man could very well conclude that the universe itself
is the chariot of intensity
and that one can board it
to journey through changes without end.
He will conclude all that, and much more,
perhaps without ever realizing
that he is merely confirming
the syntax of his mother tongue.

——Carlos Castaneda
from The Active Side of Infinity

Parkening

All emphasis is the author's.

“I suggest that you pursue a commitment to personal excellence rather than success, based on your own God-given potential. Success and excellence are often competing ideals. Being successful does not necessarily mean that you will be excellent, and being excellent does not necessarily mean that you will be successful. Success is attaining or achieving cultural goals, which elevates one's importance in the society in which he lives. Excellence is the pursuit of the quality of one's work and effort, whether the culture recognizes it or not. I once asked Segovia how many hours a day he practiced. He responded, "Christopher, I practice 2 1/2 hours in the morning and 2 1/2 hours every afternoon." I thought to myself, "If Segovia needs to practice five hours every day, how much more do I need to practice?"

“Success seeks status, power, prestige, wealth, and privilege. Excellence is internal-- seeking satisfaction in having done your best. Success is external-- how you have done in comparison to others. Excellence is how you have done in relation to your own potential. For me, success seeks to please men, but excellence seeks to please God.

“Success grants its rewards to few, but is the dream of the multitudes. Excellence is available to all, but is accepted by only a few. Success engenders a fantasy and a compulsive groping for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Excellence brings us down to reality with a deep gratitude for the promise of joy when we do our best. Excellence cultivates principles, character, and integrity. Success may be cheap, and you can take shortcuts to get there. You will pay the full price for excellence; and it will never be discounted. Excellence will always cost you everything, but it is the most lasting and rewarding ideal. What drives you-- success or excellence?”

---Christopher Parkening

Pumpkins

A friend of mine does three or four of these each year.

Syntax

A man staring at his equations
said that the universe had a beginning.
There had been an explosion, he said.
A bang of bangs, and the universe was born.
And it is expanding, he said.
He had even calculated the length of its life:
ten billion revolutions of the earth around the sun.
The entire globe cheered;
They found his calculations to be science.
None thought that by proposing that the universe began,
the man had merely mirrored the syntax of his mother tongue;
a syntax which demands beginnings, like birth,
and developments, like maturation,
and ends, like death, as statements of facts.
The universe began,
and it is getting old, the man assured us,
and it will die, like all things die,
like he himself died after confirming mathematically
the syntax of his mother tongue.

——Carlos Castaneda
from The Active Side of Infinity