Symphony No. 6; Ludwig van Beethoven, Funk and Wagnalls

Symphony No. 6; Ludwig van Beethoven, Funk and Wagnalls


And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white

With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all

Shining, it was Adam and maiden,

The sky gathered again

And the sun grew round that very day.

So it must have been after the birth of the simple light

In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm

Out of the whinnying green stable

On to the fields of praise.

(Fern Hill, Dylan Thomas)

boy oh boy, I can’t begin to fucking even. this album was the very first vinyl I ever purchased, four years ago, even before i was sure I knew how to operate the possibly working turntable the previous tenant had left behind at the new apt on Palmerston. it was bought in a bit of a panic: I wanted a record and it had to be something obvious and indispensable—beethoven was the expedient choice. most of the 52 records that make up this collection, including this sixth symphony, were purchased at Kops Record on Bloor (praise be!), booties of the deepest dollar-bin dives (shop owner, who looks like a living bust of socrates,  was never keen on me paying $1.35 for my 5 records with a debit card..)

it’s been all shining, there are days indeed when I’m both adam and maiden—it’s the blessing of my life twice over when those days have the pastoral symphony as soundtrack. if one converted the heights soared by ralph vaughan williams’ ascending lark to more terrestrial tors and distances, one could end up with the spread of the pastoral scenery of the first half of this symphony.

it’s the first intimations of spring that come about in the first half, the first cracks of hoarfrost long endured; the stretching yawn after months of the curling sleeping fortifications one erects against winter. my grand tour through beethoven began in february with the 7th, 9th and 11th quartets; i had placed the sixth symphony at the end of the stretch as a sort of banner for spring. and now (suddenly!) here we are. the second half takes the whole week to warm up to, there’s very little of a pastoral scene in it: mostly there’s frolicking and leapings and something of a gagliarda napolitana. the dubliners have a song about dublin called ‘dirty old town’, there’s this line in it: spring’s a girl on the streets at night. that’s the image i have in mind through the second, livelier, half—running barefoot across cobblestone and grass; leaping softly above moss and wild fern.

-To be alone in winter is death!

But when the spring comes

the sun is our companion.

-What do you mean? What do you mean?

-Nobody's lonely in April.

(Mimi and Rudolfo, La Boheme)

anyways. fuck this week. deleted tinder again (last time, this time)—partly cuz it’s spring, partly cuz i ain’t got money to splurge on ‘Hey last night was fun, you're really funny and interesting to talk to. To be honest I felt more of a friend vibe so if you want to hang out as friends I'd be down’ (ffs...). elsewhere, our raptors got shellacked more by the american sports media moreso than the léBron we lost to by just 3points. perhaps i’ll never be able to say why it is exactly i so resist acknowledging léBron's dominance in the league, and i suspect this attitude is in the majority. one can never forgive him completely for that hour-long special on taking his talents down south. nevertheless, there persists the burgeoning and ever indomitable population of bronsexuals that swear he’s in the same conversation as mj and kobe (eh em ‘count to five’). perhaps i spoke too harshly of tyron lue last week, one has the most sincere wishes for his health and speedy recovery, etcetera. in the meantime, their new coach has his work cut out for him: it sure ain’t easy being coach and the best player on the team as well...