"How vulgar, this hankering after immortality, how vain, how false. Composers are merely scribblers of cave paintings. One writes music because winter is eternal and because, if one didn't, the wolves and blizzards would be at one's throat all the sooner." Cloud Atlas, David Mitchell.
Rereading Cloud Atlas as a security blanket, as a gift. This book cracks me open. I keep having to put it down because I feel unworthy of the words.
Also, this song, a whole bunch.
I'm heading to Maine this week to watch two of my nearest and dearest hitch their lives to each other. I'm wearing the bridesmaid hat for the first time. Turns out I'm a really shitty bridesmaid, which is perhaps not surprising. Still, I'm all glory and agog and eager, ready to stand up there and witness this, the grandest of gestures.
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