Original subtitles

-=Sync&Corrected by Misiek666=-

-=Podnapisi.net=-

Nietzsche famously said that

without music, life would be a mistake.

German philosophers tend to exaggerate.

But he did have a point.

I know that without music

my own life would've been

incomplete in some fundamental way.

Like if I'd had no friends

or no memories.

I even tried to be a pianist for a while

until I realized just how fragile

piano playing really is.

Especially in front of 2,000 people.

The most difficult thing

is to leave your fingers alone,

to just play and not think,

never open that door,

otherwise you won't be making music for long.

You'll be running for dear life.

Fuck.

I'm fine.

Can I have...

Security to the front entrance.

Henry?

Henry.

Just having a smoke.

You don't smoke.

You got the heebie-jeebies?

Do you realize how reckless it is

to play in front of an audience?

It's why they come, you know.

Like those cliff divers I saw the other day on TV.

People enjoy the show but really

it's the looming disaster that makes it special.

May I?

Do you hear that?

Some pianists are cerebral,

others sentimental.

Henry Cole is an existential pianist.

He plays with his whole life.

Of course, being existential about anything

can be complicated.

Henry. Henry, relax, it's just a few reporters.

What made you decide to play again?

Playing is my life.

Happy with your performance?

How'd it feel to give a recital again

after all of these years?

Like a trip to the moon.

Why didn't you give an encore?

- Uh... - -Sorry.

I like...

- Sorry. - I like clean breaks...

the way...

the ocean...

abruptly ends between your feet,

the edge of a dying wave.

And I couldn't think of anything else to play.

The need to share it, isn't that what drives most musicians?

I think what drives most musicians

is not dissimilar from what drives most people.

And what's that?

People want to be appreciated.

- Indeed. - Why the "Fantasie"?

Is it because it is meant as a cry of despair

after the separation from Clara?

When Schumann was asked what he meant by the piece,

do you know what he said? Nothing.

He just sat down at the piano and played it again.

However, some scientists claim

that we owe the "Fantasie"

as well as numerous other masterpieces

to treponema pallidum.

Is she a composer?

She's the syphilis bacterium.

Is it true you didn't touch a piano for three years...

Thank you very much. That'll be all for today.

Thank you so much for coming this evening.

Some say you never even left your room.

- What happened, Mr. Cole? - -Please just one more.

Why would anybody care

if I left my room or not?

Oh, they don't, that was just a kid

trying to get some gossip.

What about you, Paul?

You know what matters to me?

Is that you are here, right where you belong.

Tonight was important, Henry, and you showed an amazing amount of strength.

You were great.

Yes!

Hi.

Sorry about before.

I didn't mean to pry.

I'm Helen Morrison.

I write for The New Yorker.

Music is never about despair.

It's a celebration.

A victory.

And being appreciated is not enough.

Most people want to overcome something.

Were you celebrating a victory tonight?

You're prying again.

Sorry.

I just play the notes.

You had me fooled.

Well, thank you.

I'm sorry, um...

you don't remember me, but...

you changed my life 15 years ago.

I did?

You were giving a masterclass at Julliard

and, um, I had just been cut,

first round of a minor competition.

I lacked the basic talent of...

not shaking.

How unfair.

"What matters most is experience," you said,

"Not performance.

The greatest gift, what truly sets people apart is...

the ability to feel."

I said that?

Yeah, you did.

You know, there was also this...

Never mind.

Well, it's a long story.

Tell me.

Really?

I spent a month

in the Upper Engadine Valley

in the Swiss Alps,

just after my competition disaster.

There's a lake there called Silvaplana

where I would take long walks

every day along the shore,

thinking about what you said.

And by the side of the path

there was this boulder.

You know, nothing special, just a... big old rock.

But every day I would walk by it,

and there it was, the same,

just sitting there quietly

as it had been for 1,000 years.

And there was something comforting about that rock,

like a,

reminder of the world outside myself.

I would like to do an article on you.

Ah...

Something comprehensive.

It sounds unpleasant.

I appreciate it, but there is a lot to be said

for staying at the surface of things.

Well, this would be about music mostly.

Your career.

Could I ask for an interview?

When you have time.

Minimal prying, I promise!

It's not a good idea.

And if you'll excuse me,

I am expected somewhere, thank you.

Good night.

Good night.

Apparently, this rock is where

Nietzsche had his vision of the eternal

recurrence of all things.

The idea that every event and every life

will repeat itself infinitely.

But if I can't recall having been here before,

what difference does it make?

Unless he meant something else,

like fate.

Or simply that life is a challenge.

If there is anything you need,

please don't hesitate.

My name is Felix.

Thank you.

In the folder there is a map of

all the hiking trails in the region.

I highly recommend the experience.

I'll make a note of it.

These just arrived for you, sir.

Ah.

Thank you.

Lovely.

How's the man this morning?

You look like the cat that got the cream.

- Have you seen the papers? - Nope.

"A trip to the moon."

"The bewitching return

of Britain's grand master of the keyboard."

I've been on the phone all morning.

Everyone is asking for interviews, including the BBC.

And they're gonna run an hour long special

before the London concert.

It is everywhere

on social media.

And the whole world

will be able to watch your recital

live on the internet, Henry.

You're really reaching out to the younger crowd.

Well, I like that. That makes me happy.

- Mm-hmm. - Um...

anything from The New Yorker?

No, nothing so far.

Oh, those are nice flowers.

Did you know that some of the loveliest flowers

mimic the smell of fecal matter,

so as to attract dung insects?

Why not attract other insects?

I got to go. I got to meet the guy at DDI Classics.

Now, I'll see you later this afternoon, around two.

Oh, and, uh, don't forget you have to try out that new Steinway tonight.

- Oh, I know, I know. - Yeah.

Paul?

Yes, Henry.

No reporters tonight,

right?

Right. No reporters. Just a manager and a technician.

Here.

Read for yourself.

Yeah, hello.

Yeah, Paul.

Sorry to disturb you, Mr Cole.

Could I ask for your autograph?

I was at the concert last night.

Magnificent!

I drove all the way from Boston.

Oh, you didn't have to drive all that way.

I'll be playing in Boston a week from now.

- I know. I'm taking my son. - Ah.

Well, that automatically qualifies you for an autograph.

-What's your name? -Maya. But it's not for me, it's for my son.

- Daniel. - Uh-uh.

- How old is he? - 12.

Music is everything to him.

I mean, it's all he cares about.

Tell you what,

bring him backstage after the recital next week.

- I'll sign it for him then. - Really?

He has a poster of you in his room, you know.

- A poster. - Yeah.

- I hope it doesn't give him nightmares.

You should put those in water.

Yes, I should.

- Maya... - Yes.

Did you really enjoy the recital?

Of course!

- Thank you. - Thank you.

You play the piano?

Yes, a little bit.

You?

Yeah.

Mostly by ear.

I can pick up pretty much any tune.

I've got a soft spot for the oldies, though.

- So do I. - Mm.

I like classical too,

but I find some pieces are a little long.

Ain't that the truth.

Have a good evening.

You too.

Do you like flowers, Mr. Cole?

I like all quiet forms of life.

Fish?

Them too.

I'm sorry, I haven't eaten all day.

I'm a little surprised to see you here.

I was in the neighborhood.

Actually, my friend told me you would be here.

Ah.

Did you like my flowers?

I did, thank you.

You didn't write a review.

I'm working on something else.

What?

You have something here.

No the other side.

May I?

Gone.

We made all the adjustments. I think you'll be pleased.

Thank you.

Ah, let's see.

The mind is where it all happens.

It's best not to wander in there too long.

You never know when it's going to turn on you.

Move over a little, will you?

Do you still want that interview?

London concert, sold out.

They're even putting extra seats on the stage,

-including one for the Prime Minister. -Come on through.

Sit down, Paul.

It's not going away.

It's not going away!

What's not going away?

That thing the...

That happened to me during the Beethoven.

Oh, you know what I remember

from that evening,

is like just what everyone else remembers,

was that you played marvelously.

Despite the enormous pressure

of a long-awaited return.

- And not only that... - No!

Yesterday I froze in front a dozen people,

for God's sake!

I'm sorry.

Oh, no, no, no.

Helen saved me.

- Helen? - Morrison, the journalist.

I couldn't play.

She saw something was wrong

and she bailed me out.

How?

She sat down beside me

and we played together.

What's wrong with me, Paul?

I know this is difficult for you.

And it feels real.

And, and, and of course

it is, but...

We all have that voice inside our head.

I mean, I hear it every day,

that little neurotic bugbear,

"What if?

What if I forget?

What if I miss the shot?

What if I suddenly turn the steering wheel?"

That's not reality.

You were born with a gift, Henry.

And you have dedicated your entire life to it.

And it has been tested

and approved

and unanimously praised.

I mean, you've played enough scales

and arpeggios and trills

to circle the earth 10 times.

I mean, your whole freaking brain is wired to make music.

Believe me, it would take a massive amount of work

to derail all that.

And that is the truth.

So, the next time,

you start imagining things,

I mean, if there is a next time,

you just take a deep breath,

you remember who you are

and you tell that bugbear to fuck off!

Carol, it's me.

I need Helen Morrison's phone number.

Hi.

- Sorry. - Oh.

Hello there.

Am I interrupting?

I, I was,

just complimenting him on his excellent posture.

Actually,

he reminds me of my first piano teacher,

Mrs. Groffus.

What is it with gorillas?

I don't know.

They seem upset about something.

Maybe about being gorillas.

The curse of self-knowledge.

Or maybe they're afraid of death, they're endangered.

Or perhaps they just don't like being watched.

I can't tell you how grateful I am,

Sir Henry.

No, please.

Just Henry.

Okay, Henry.

I can't even remember my last interview.

I remember mine.

He had a heart attack the next day.

Well, you do ask difficult questions.

Music is a dangerous business.

People don't realize.

I knew this Spanish singer once,

great mezzo.

She was playing Carmen

in an open-air production at the Alhambra.

And in the final scene,

as she gasped as Don Jose stabbed her,

a wasp flew into her mouth and stung her.

She collapsed,

went into anaphylactic shock.

No.

Nobody really knew that she was dead

until the third curtain call.

Do you ever think what your life would've

been had you done something else?

It wouldn't have been my life.

It must be a great feeling

knowing that there's nothing arbitrary

about what you do.

Now, I have a friend like that.

He's also a pianist.

He's unique.

Being unique,

is a desirable attribute for stamps or landscapes.

In a pianist,

it usually spells trouble.

No one plays like you, Henry.

Well, thank you, Ms. Morrison.

It's kind of you to say.

The pianist's duty is to serve.

His personal contribution

belongs to the realm of small differences.

That Beethoven walked the face of the earth,

now that's something.

The, um,

the verse on your car,

where did you find it?

In your book.

It has been out of print for years.

Do you still write?

Henry?

Mm?

You just seemed far away for a second.

- I did? - Yeah.

I'm sorry.

What did you say?

Success often conceals a flaw,

a wound,

some deep-seated doubt.

It might be forgotten for a while,

but it's always there,

operating in the background,

lurking behind the mask.

Are you sure you're allowed to do this?

What about your hands? What if you fall?

Falling has to be learned at an early age.

And if you're a pianist,

the left side of the face is best.

Oh.

Thank you.

Usually I wear cycling tights.

I bet you look sexy in them.

I like to think so.

Thank you.

Henry.

All right, lead the way.

Okay.

I'm still a little shaky.

Do you ever get lonely up there in your world?

German composers are good company.

Right.

I couldn't have survived my teenage years

without Schumann.

I depended on him.

I felt...

he understood me more than anyone.

And now of course, not a day goes by without

it's bless by Bach or Beethoven.

I did have somebody.

Prague in spring.

It's,

it's a delightful place.

The sounds, fragrances, the light...

sparkles with energy.

And everywhere you go, music.

Elizabeth was radiant that day.

We must have walked

nearly five miles

through the Mala Strana and the old town,

talking and talking and talking

about music and our life together.

How we were grateful, both of us

for being there.

And, uh, we made plans.

We decided we would spend more time

in our little farmhouse in the south of France.

And the next morning she was gone.

I've never felt anything so cold.

That's how people die...

while someone else is eating or opening a window.

Or,

while their companion is dreaming at their side.

It's one thing you can say about dead composers,

they don't suddenly disappear on you.

Oh, God, I must get back.

Um, please...

do you mind?

I, um...

Symphony Hall, sir.

Keep driving.

Just drive.

Henry, you just had a little memory slip.

You know, it happens to everyone.

Paul, we both know I didn't forget.

It's just music, it's not the 10 Commandments.

How about you use a score for the second half.

Richter did it.

Slightest nudge that's all it takes.

Not now, please.

- 10 minutes, sir. - -Thank you.

Paul, I'm not going out there again.

Okay.

Okay, you don't have to.

Okay.

I want you to lie down here.

Close your eyes

and just try to relax.

Don't think about anything just

breathe.

Focus on that, okay?

And, uh, I'll go find the promoter,

we'll see what we can do.

Helen, there you are, finally.

I'm sorry. They kept us waiting for like 30 minutes at the gate.

- How's it going? - Not good.

He doesn't want to continue.

- You have to talk to him. - What happened?

Everything was fine. Everything was good

and out of nowhere he botched the coda.

He's in there.

Please go and see him.

He needs you.

- I'll try but... - Thanks.

You have five minutes.

Helen!

What are you doing here?

I was in the neighborhood.

I'm happy to see you.

I heard you had a little hiccup.

I don't know what's happening to me.

I...

I can't keep up.

It's, it's like I am

paddling at the top of a waterfall.

I'm so sorry.

I feel...

exposed.

Scared.

You're scared.

Okay.

I don't think you should run from it.

All these people, Henry,

you make them happy, you know?

That's why they come to hear you play.

So, just play,

Henry.

Play for them.

On the flight over I sat by the window

brooding, as usual, over the wiring, the hydraulics

and all those sheets of metal stitched together

thinking that flying required a continuous miracle.

But flying is what a plane does of course.

The real miracle is that I can still torment myself like this.

Sometimes you just have to let it fly.

You deserve these more than I do.

Helen...

thank you.

Yes?

Oh, hello there.

You must be Daniel.

I'm, I'm glad to see you. Come on in.

Daniel, this is Helen.

And, uh, this is Daniel's mother, Maya.

So, your mother tells me

that you are quite a music lover.

Do you play?

I want to be like you.

Is that right?

Well, thank you.

You've just made my day.

Do you play these?

I find them awfully difficult.

I can play the second one.

A little bit.

Really?

I would love to hear you play.

Mrs. Walker says I'm not allowed.

Is she your piano teacher?

I think that Mrs. Walker

would be happy to make an exception for tonight.

Come with me.

One minute.

Some pianists think that walking on stage

is the scariest part of the evening

and they're right.

Okay.

Come.

Uh...

before sitting down a pianist must smile

and bow,

but modestly because

he hasn't earned it yet.

Good.

Take a seat.

- What do you think? - -Pretty.

For me?

You smell like chlorine.

It's common for people of my age.

I'm sorry, tell me your name again.

I'm Jessie.

Ah, I'm Henry.

How do you keep such good concentration, Jessie?

A smile, Sir Henry, please.

Why don't we just use a Kandinsky

or Frank Stella.

Perfect.

No, the other hand was good, on top.

The other one can be on it, though.

Other way round.

Thank you.

And if you could look at us. Please.

No, I think I, I like him

being like that, it's nice.

All right.

Jessie...

come.

Come.

What's he doing?

There's a signed picture of Eisenhower in the bathroom.

He was a musical president.

- Really? - Mm-hmm.

What makes you write, Helen?

You said the ability to feel is what matters.

I agree.

But unless I put words to those feelings,

I don't exactly know what they mean.

What they are.

So writing, I guess,

it helps me understand myself...

my life.

How's that working out?

I still have more writing to do.

This place used to be called the 341 Club.

Every week, for one hour, the stage belonged to

a young graduate student of mathematics

with a gift for improvisation.

People used to say that

my father could pluck music out of thin air,

so complete that it was hard to believe

that nobody had ever thought of it before.

His biggest night came

when he was asked to accompany a young singer from Paris.

They fell in love, he took her back to England,

I was born.

After a few years, I became too much for her.

She wasn't cut out to enter ordinary life.

So, I was sent to boarding school.

My father got a job in New York.

She went with him.

I was left behind.

When I got into high school,

I came back here.

And that first summer

we went to Cape Cod.

There was long walks on the beaches with my parents.

It's strange how...

a single good memory

can sometimes erase years of bad ones.

Baseball.

You know the name of this team?

They're called the Orioles.

I love that name.

I know the Orioles

and the Cardinals and the Cubs.

And all the other critters.

You think you're the only pianist who likes baseball?

Someone told me once,

that whenever Horowitz

was under pressure from his wife, Wanda,

to perform his conjugal duties,

he used to take her to Yankee Stadium.

Where did you hear that?

Oh, from Vladimir himself.

No way.

So, how is the article going?

Is it any good?

I don't know, I haven't finished it yet.

Well, I'm really looking forward to it.

And...

You will show it to me, won't you?

I mean, I know that's not customary but, uh...

as it's about me, uh.

Well, that would ruin the surprise,

wouldn't it?

Precisely.

I leave for Europe in a few days.

I know.

Come with me?

I mean, if you can.

If...

if you want to.

I'd like that.

The classical market is a lot like the wine market.

It survives

by creating the illusion of meaningful diversity.

There will always be the demand

for the opportunity to distinguish oneself

by pretending to see a world

where others see nothing.

Sometimes there really is a world.

Well, the fact that you perceive a difference

doesn't necessarily make that difference meaningful.

Are you calling me a snob?

No! No!

Oh, but seriously. Do we actually need another recording

of "The Goldberg Variations"?

- Or another pianist maybe?

Yeah, exactly.

Sturgeon's law,

90% of everything is crap.

- That's a lot. - Yes!

Did you know you were managed by the enemy, Henry?

So long as he keeps getting me gigs,

I'll let the philistine speak his mind.

Can I give you a hand?

Oh, no, I got it.

Most pianists can't boil an egg.

- Did you know that? - Well, I used to be a pianist,

just so you're warned.

Oh.

I can't tell you how much it means

to Henry for you to be here.

It's everything, actually.

After his wife died he barely spoke for two years.

Let alone give recitals

or even go near the piano.

What was she like?

She was beautiful,

graceful, smart.

There was something moving about her.

You know, she didn't go out much.

Pretty much depended on him.

That made things difficult.

He couldn't have cared for her more.

He'd constantly look after her.

He played fewer recitals.

Canceled at the last minute,

when, uh,

she didn't feel well.

He did everything he could.

She took her life anyway.

You didn't know?

I shouldn't be surprised.

Nobody does.

He's still protecting her, I guess.

She had tried it,

once before, actually, when he was on tour.

That's why this time he decided

to take her to Europe with him.

She used his sleeping pills.

The concert in London,

there has never been anything like it.

It will be an exclamation point to his career.

I hope so.

Yeah.

- Merci. - Okay.

This is somewhat experimental.

I got the recipe from an Ian McEwan novel.

Why not? I once learned how to milk a camel from Hemingway.

Now that could come in handy with global warming.

You never know

- Paul? - Yes, please.

You know one of the few good things about getting old?

Uh-oh.

You become a pragmatist.

You're not searching for meaning anymore.

You're just searching for words or sleep

or the reason you're staring into an open drawer.

And you're not worried about the future just...

you want the present to last.

The heart and the mind

finally get along.

Anyway.

What I wanted to say was,

I'm so happy to see all of you here.

- Cheers. - Santé.

- Santé.

Bon Appétit.

Bon Appétit.

- Well. Hmm. - Hmm.

- This is interesting.

Oh, yes, I see.

What did you say that novel was about again?

Is there something wrong?

It's just a simple bouillabaisse.

Richard?

Francine?

It... it's hard to describe.

Fish certainly comes to mind.

And a Wagner.

Wagner.

- Rienzi.

- It's that bad? - No, no.

It, it, it's just a little difficult to swallow,

the first time around, you know.

- No, actually, it's terrible. - Oh, it's that bad!

- It's that bad!

I don't know what happened.

I must have missed a chapter or something.

- What should we do, Henry? - Do you have a camel?

Well, monsieur.

I have some tomatoes. I can make a tomato salad.

I'd really like to come with you to Turin.

A deadline is a deadline.

Plus,

you know, I think it will be good for me

to do one on my own.

And I'm ready. I'm...

Nothing to worry about.

"Sir Henry, recognized by piano aficionados

as a master of sound and nuance,

is widely considered

one of the greatest virtuosi of the 20th century.

Proceeds from the tour will be donated to the Nona Center for Mental Health."

Virtuosi or virtuosos?

I think both are correct.

Oh.

The Nona Center, that your idea?

There's nothing worse than losing your mind.

Do you remember the story I told you about

the Swiss Alps?

Oh, yes.

Something else happened when I was there.

I had a boyfriend at the time,

a pianist from Ukraine.

- The unique one. - Right.

He's the reason I went to Switzerland, actually.

Every summer he plays there, just

one concert at a hotel in the Upper Engadine.

People come from all over

just to hear him play Beethoven's last piano sonatas.

He never plays them anywhere else.

- Why not? - -He feels that that place

and that music belong together.

That's odd.

I thought so too.

Until I went.

And?

I had worked so damn hard for that competition

and I failed

in such a way that...

the dream was over.

I didn't know where to go,

who I was,

where to turn to.

I didn't even know where to begin to look for answers.

But all that was suddenly appeased

by a few wistful bars of absolute tenderness

and understanding.

It was like waking up from a bad dream.

Suddenly, the fog had just lifted.

And that feeling stayed with me for days.

It just opened me up.

Invigorated me.

It's like when I heard you play, Henry.

Well, I could use some invigoration myself.

He's playing there next month.

Let's go together.

You won't regret it.

It will be good for you.

How so?

I don't know, just a feeling.

All right then. I'll see you tomorrow.

Do you have everything you need?

Yes, I've got my toothbrush, my Advil, my lucky socks.

I'm all set.

I am an old man.

What's the matter, you have something against

younger women?

No.

I'll be listening.

I'll be playing for you.

I love you, Henry.

Perhaps what eternal recurrence means

is not that our life will actually repeat itself forever,

but rather that we should not rest content

until we have reached a point

where we love it enough

just as it is,

to wish it were indeed so.

Play it again, I say.

Excuse me, sir, there is somebody who wants to talk to you.

He says it's urgent.

Who is it?

Ah.

How did you find me?

I'm your agent.

It's good to see you, Henry.

It's really good to hear your voice.

How are you?

Fate doesn't approve of convertibles.

Did you know that?

Paul...

I won't be needing an agent anymore.

Don't say that. Give yourself some time.

You've always been good to me.

I couldn't have asked for a better agent

or a better friend.

But my time is up.

Henry, Henry, people love you.

Do you have any idea how many letters and emails I answered for you...

You didn't cancel London.

I canceled everything else.

But this one, there's never been anything like it.

I mean, so many people are looking forward to it,

so many young people.

You could dedicate it to her.

Play through the pain,

like, lay it out there.

You'd not only be giving them music,

you'd be giving them courage and hope.

It's over.

Look, I understand. You can stay there as long as you like,

- I'll take care of everything. - Goodbye, Paul.

- Henry?

Most people want to overcome something.

Until they don't anymore.

Hopefully, overcoming isn't just a matter of will,

but what life does naturally with time...

if you're lucky.

One of my favorite poems.

It began as a graffiti, you know.

Goethe scribbled it on the wall of a hunter's cabin.

Some people find it sad.

I think it's rather soothing.

What keeps you awake at night, Felix?

I am the night porter.

Didn't you show me to my room the other day?

Yes, I requested the privilege.

My wife and I used to run a small pension

here in the valley.

Welcoming new guests was what I enjoyed most.

Of course, we never had one quite like yourself.

May I ask what brings you to Sils?

A dear friend...

felt I could use the fresh air.

Well, you must have rounds to finish, Felix.

Can I bring you anything, sir?

No, I'm fine, thank you.

It's always a treat

when an insomniac checks in the hotel.

Hmm. Good night, Felix.

Good night, sir.

I love you, Henry.

My wife loved this piece.

Your move, I think.

Check.

Shit.

That's not possible.

My queen.

How did I not see this?

There's no shame in conceding, Felix.

You see, at this point

it's like, the reasonable thing to do

is what I would do.

What?

Check.

Huh.

Check.

Oh, no, no, no.

Can't be.

Felix. No.

Are you okay, maestro?

Yes.

Yes, I'm fine, Felix.

That was quite some move.

You dropped me straight to the canvas.

We never know what's coming, do we?

It's been said that over the music

of Beethoven is spread the twilight

of eternal loss and eternal hope.

The same goes for life, I suppose.

Except for the eternal part.

German composers are good company.

It's hard to explain how I felt

as Henry Cole played that night.

What does great music feel like?

Like a form of knowledge, maybe, or even wisdom?

But it isn't wisdom of course,

nor anything else I can put into words.

The best I can do is to say

that it's somehow about

what it feels like to be alive.

That music was filled with grief and longing

and dogged resolve.

And as I listened, I felt suddenly richer,

more compassionate.

And I wanted to share the moment with the whole world.

I guess the word I'm looking for is gratitude.

Gratitude for Schumann, Bach, Beethoven.

Gratitude for Henry Cole

and all those who celebrate the music of life.