Thursday, October 20, 2011
A 1787 dirt road in the winter is no guarantee of a trip forward on one's hackney. Sometimes it means standing still, or even going backwards. For now, Jens assumed Beethoven truly was at least standing still, and probably moving forwards.
Jens, however, was always moving forwards. He was moving forwards now, had been moving forwards when Constantine turned Europe to the Cross, had been moving forwards when he received his curse in Greece, would be moving forwards when the names of Beethoven and Mozart were long forgotten, failing some merciful act from above. For now, he still had his sanity and morals, but he feared that he only had one or two more sane centuries left in him.
He envied his master and this Beethoven fellow that they could reach the happy medium of mere cultural immortality. How he wished he could be reduced to the same. Reduced? Elevated!