If we must use words to describe the indescribable in music, then Proust in Swann’s Way (it seems to me) got it about as right as is humanly possible:
…those long sinuous phrases of Chopin, so free, so flexible, so tactile, which begin by reaching out and exploring far outside and away from the direction in which they started, far beyond the point which one might have expected their notes to reach, and which divert themselves in those fantastic bypaths only to return more deliberately …to clutch at one’s heart.
Marcel Proust: Du côté chez Swann
and, whilst I can’t ever (ever!) dream of approximating to the quality of Proustian prose, I too have – in an earlier blog entry – written a little on the subject of Chopin [Chopin] and his influence on subsequent generations of composers.
But there’s nothing like the real thing; so here, to whet your appetite for next Wednesday, is Alexandre Tharaud playing all 24 Preludes Opus. 28:
plus those (useful!) hardy perennials:
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