Languages

One of my interests is language - it ought to be plural: I have a great love for languages. Danish - of course, my mother tongue, English is my chief secondary language, I know it tolerably well, read most of my books in English. I can get reasonably by in German, and also likes Swedish - unlike some Danes who tend to think they have to dislike the muscial tongue of our neighbours to the east of Øresund. Is it so they can't forget that the major part of southern Sweden used to be Danish and they can get a sort of revenge by not liking Swedish?

Topping my hit list of languages however is French. I know of no other language, which is so evocative to listen to - I love to tune in to TV 5 from France and just listen to this marvellous language - poetry and music vibrate in every sentence. It is as if all possible sounds one can have in a language is rolled into French in the most charming and titillating way possible. Try to read a poem in French or have it read out to you if you don't know the language that well. This really brings the magic in the language out. I'm not - however - very fluent in French, but I'm working hard on it and enjoy the process a lot. One way I've found to improve my French is via chat-rooms (Second Life of late) - it's not difficult to find Frenchmen eager to pass on knowledge and partake in an education process. I've begun reading in French to augment the learning process. I've set out with Antoine de Saint-Exupéry's wonderful fable "Le Petite Prince" - I know it from way back in a Danish version, to which I can resort if I'm unable to precisely decipher the meaning - it's not that hard though. I'll follow up with other of his works when finished with the prince.

I can't resist the temptation to let you sample a bit from The Little Prince. It's from chapter VIII - the little prince gets to know a beautiful rose, which begins to grow on his tiny planet. Saint-Exupéry describes the rose coming into bloom (a female, of course) thus: "... Elle s'habillait lentement, elle ajustait un à un ses pétales. Elle ne voulait pas sortir toute fripée somme les coquelicots. Elle ne voulait apparaître que dans le plein rayonnement de sa beauté. Eh! oui. Elle était trés coquette ! Sa toilette mystérieuse avait donc duré des jours et des jours. Et puis voici qu'un matin, justement á la heure de lever du soleil, elle s'était montrée".

Concert

Concert time!
Friday night, Odense Koncerthus. The programme was Beethovens 4. piano concert and Shostakovich 14. symphony. Beethoven is invariably for me something special. Many consider Mozart to be the greatest. I don't disagree - his oeuvre leaves nothing to be desired. It is perfect in all respects. Beautiful music just (!) picked out of the skies, borrowed from the gods of music to bring us joy.

Ludwig - is another matter. Beethovens music is a work of extremes: jubilant joy in contrast with the deepest sorrow and bitterness. When he is joyful few other composers match him. His fourth piano concert leaves me almost in tears each time I hear it - ditto for his first violin concerto, I still remember the first time I as a young man heard it. Merely calling to mind bits from the concerto (Wolfgang Schneiderhahn as soloist) still gives me goose-bumps. I've had the fortune of hearing Anne-Sophie Mutters rendition of the sampe piece in Odense a couple of years ago - truly beautiful. I was elated for hours afterwards.

Alas - the concert: The pianist - Herbert Schuch (photo above - no, to the left!) admirably joined the task together with the spirited orchestra of bringing Beethovens melodiuos masterpiece to life - let me say they and he succeded with bravura. His play: subtle, energetic, pensive, joyful. It was all there my friends! We liked Schuchs performance so much he gave the encore of encores: Mozarts Rondo Alla Turca. Suffice it to say he brought the house down - sparks flew from his perfomance, technical brilliance and gusto to his style of play - Wolfi must have been pleased no end in his heavens. Listen out for Herbert Shuch out there, his star is on the ascent!

Shostakovich was an other matter. His symphony is more of a musical cyklus done over poems by Lorca, Apollinaire, Rilke and others, than a symphony in the classical sense. The sombre theme of the poems is death - Shostakovich isn't protesting against death, but death brought about by war, executions and violence. Sombre indeed, but very moving.