2020-04-25 06:35:06 +00:00
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< p > < span class = "tag" > diary< / span > < span class = "tag" > livejournal< / span > < span class = "tag" > fossils< / span > < / p >
2020-06-24 07:10:07 +00:00
< p > So, Leonard Bernstein’ s 3rd symphony, “ Kaddish,” is probably the most amazing thing I’ ve ever heard. Ever. So long as one hears it with Bernstein’ s own narration, that is. I don’ t think I’ d like it as much with the Holocaust narration: it stands as a ‘ prayer for the dead’ for the holocaust victims, but cheapens the music and changes its meaning.< / p >
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< details text = "The words from the second movement." > < summary > The words from the second movement.< / summary > < blockquote >
NARRATOR
With Amen on my lips, I approach
Your presence, Father. Not with fear,
But with a certain respectful fury.
Do You not recognize my voice?
I am that part of Man You made
To suggest his immortality.
You surely remember, Father?—the part
That refuses death, that insists on You,
Divines Your voice, guesses Your grace.
And always You have heard my voice,
And always You have answered me
With a rainbow, a raven, a plague, something.
But now I see nothing. This time You show me
Nothing at all.
Are You listening, Father? You know who I am:
Your image; that stubborn reflection of You
That Man has shattered, extinguished, banished.
And now he runs free—free to play
With his new-found fire, avid for death,
Voluptuous, complete and final death.
Lord God of Hosts, I call You to account!
You let this happen, Lord of Hosts!
You with Your manna, Your pillar of fire!
You ask for faith, where is Your own?
Why have You taken away Your rainbow,
That pretty bow You tied round Your finger
To remind You never to forget Your promise?
“For lo, I do set my bow in the cloud ...
And I will look upon it, that I
May remember my everlasting covenant ...”
Your covenant! Your bargain with Man!
Tin God! Your bargain is tin!
It crumples in my hand!
And where is faith now—Yours or mine?
Forgive me, Father. I was mad with fever.
Have I hurt You? Forgive me,
I forgot You too are vulnerable.
But Yours was the first mistake, creating
Man in Your own image, tender,
Fallible. Dear God, how You must suffer,
So far away, ruefully eyeing
Your two-footed handiwork—frail, foolish,
Mortal.
My sorrowful Father,
If I could comfort You, hold You against me,
Rock You and rock You into sleep.
SOPRANO SOLO AND BOYS’
Yit’ ’ ’ ’
NARRATOR
Rest, my Father. Sleep, dream.
Let me invent Your dream, dream it
With You, as gently as I can.
And perhaps in dreaming, I can help You
Recreate Your image, and love him again.
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