An illustrated story by Rolliwrites. Enjoy.
I’m not in the mood to talk. I don’t feel like talking.
After his breakdown, Dad played the piano when he was drunk, only. When he was too drunk to play Liszt, he played Chopin. I sat under the piano. It was damn loud under there, but I liked it. I was listening to the Ramones, in those days.
Dad was a mad scientist. He was a musicologist. He was a mad scientist. He thought … there was something mathematical about creativity, musical creativity. A formula. There were no geniuses, really, but people, lucky people, who chanced on the formula. Berlioz, Strauss…
“Imposters,” he called them. “Worse than impostors. Romantics.”
The Secret of the Secret. That’s what he named it. His theory of the formula. He spent half his life, trying to prove it.
The Secret of the Secret. That was the book, too. His colleagues… Of course…
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