Flutterings

Mozart is at once my ideal of perfection, my inner voice, and the ancestor who nurtures me. But he is also my rival. What jealousy Salieri was supposed to have had I also have had, and have. It is a station of the cross, an albatross, and I wrestle with it. Probably many composers do, the ambitious parts of them, anyway.

From the gallery of great composers, Mozart, Bach, and Beethoven especially are the ones to beat, and they will beat you every time. Even though the issue is fruitless and constrictive, one still is haunted and tormented by the unimaginable excellence of these musical minds. Why write second-rate music? Why add to the bins of lesser works? There are obvious answers -- your culture needs you; you are not competing with the dead; you are working out your own salvation, etc. -- that assuage reason. But your vulnerable part curls up and whimpers. Surely most composers outgrow these pains, but they are part of the learning game. At some point we want to kill Mozart.