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For The Twentieth Century

 Bound, hungry to pluck again from the thousand
technologies of ecstasy

boundlessness, the world that at a drop of water
rises without boundaries,

I push the PLAY button:—

Callas, Laurel & Hardy, Szigeti you are alive again,— the slow movement of K.
218 once again no longer bland, merely pretty, nearly banal, as it is in all but Szigeti's hands * Therefore you and I and Mozart must thank the Twentieth Century, for it made you pattern, form whose infinite repeatability within matter defies matter— Malibran.
Henry Irving.
The young Joachim.
They are lost, a mountain of newspaper clippings, become words not their own words.
The art of the performer.

by Frank Bidart
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