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362 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1892
Below medium height, he had a swarthy face with curiously dark eyes and a sensitive, effeminate mouth. On one finger he wore a plain ring of lead or iron. He was very broad-shouldered and might be twenty-eight or, at most, thirty years old. His hair was turning gray at the temples.
Why do I meddle in other people鈥檚 affairs? Why did I come to this town in the first place? Was it because of some cosmic disaster, because of Gladstone鈥檚 cold, for example? Heh-heh-heh, God help you, child, if you tell the truth: that actually you were on your way home but were suddenly so deeply moved at the sight of this town 鈥� small and miserable as it is 鈥� that you almost wept with a strange, mysterious joy when you saw all those flags.
It鈥檚 not at all a question of creating an uproar among a crowd of lawyers, journalists or Galilean fishermen, or of publishing a monograph on Napoleon le petit. The important thing is to affect and educate power, the superior, chosen few, the masters of life, the great ones, Caiaphas, Pilate, and the emperor. What good would it do to create a stir among the rabble if I were to be nailed to the cross, in spite of everything?
Det minder mig litt om en nat p氓 Middelhavet, p氓 kysten av Tunis. Det var vel hundrede passagerer ombord, et sangkor som kom fra Sardinien et sted. Jeg h酶rte ikke til selskapet og kunde ikke synge, jeg sat bare p氓 d忙kket og h酶rte p氓 mens koret sang nedenunder i salonen. Det varte n忙sten hele natten; jeg skal aldrig glemme hvor det lydde godt i den lumre nat. Jeg trek i smug alle d酶rer til salongen i; t忙ttet sangen inde, s氓 氓 si, og s氓 var det som lyden kom fra havsbunden, ja som om skibet skulde g氓 ind i evigheten med brusende musik. Tenk Dem noget i retning av et hav fuldt av sang, et underjordisk kor.And later, in the scene which I think explains the title:
Fr酶ken Andresen som satt Nagel n忙rmest sa uvilk氓rlig:
Ja Gud hvor det m氓tte v忙re deilig!
It reminds me a little of a night I once experienced on the Mediterranean, off the coast of Tunis. There were a hundred or so passengers on board, a choir who came from somewhere in Sardinia. I wasn't in their party and I couldn't sing myself, I just sat there on the deck and listened while the choir sang underneath me in the saloon. They sang nearly all night; I will never forget how wonderful it sounded in the warm darkness. I sneaked down and closed all the doors; concentrated the essence of the song, as it were, and it was as though the sound came from the bottom of the sea, as though the ship was sailing into eternity on the music. Imagine something like a sea full of singing, an underwater choir.
Fr酶ken Andresen, who was sitting closest to Nagel, said involuntarily:
"Oh my God, it must have been so beautiful"
Stemmen er en farlig apparat. Forst氓 mig ret: jeg mener ikke netop stemmens materielle lyd, den kan v忙re h酶i eller lav, klangfuld eller r氓, jeg mener ikke det stemmestofelige, tonetillv忙relsen, nei jeg holder mig til mysteriet bak den, den verden som den utg氓r fr氓n ... Til helvete forresten med denne verden bak! Altid ska det v忙re en verden bak! Hvad fan raker det mig?I'm not sure what this means, to be honest, but I feel it's saying something important. Maybe someone can explain it to me. Mostly, I feel relieved to have escaped intact from the Imaginarium.
The voice is a dangerous instrument. Understand me correctly: I don't mean simply the material quality of the sound, whether it's high or low, melodious or harsh. I don't mean the acoustic or prosodic properties. I'm talking about the mystery behind it, the world it comes from... Oh, never mind, fuck the world behind it! There's always supposed to be a world behind things! What's it got to do with me?