Before I go
I'll leave you with a bit of something that feels beautiful to me.
He would often use an analogy from nature. "Ja, Peekay, always in life an idea starts small, it is only a sapling idea, but the vines will come and they will try to choke your idea so it cannot grow and it will die and you will never know you had a big idea, an idea so big it could have grown thirty meters through the dark canopy of leaves and touched the face of the sky." He looked at me and continued. "The vines are people who are afraid of originality, of new thinking. Most people you encounter will be vines; when you are a young plant they are very dangerous." His piercing blue eys looked into mine. "Always listen to yourself, Peekay. It is better to be wrong than simply follow convention. If you are wrong, no matter, you have learned something and you will grow stronger. If you are right, you have taken another step toward a fulfilling life." ... Doc never talked down. Much of what he said would take me years to understand, but I soaked it up nevertheless, storing it in my awkward young mind where it could mature and later come back to me. He taught me to read for meaning and information, to make margin notes... In the process of keeping faith with my mother, Doc instilled in me an abiding love for music. What my clumsy hands could never play, I could hear quite clearly in my heaed. A love of music was, among his many gifts to me, perhaps the most important of them all...
Just then Doc tugged me on the sleeve. "The flask, Peekay." His hand was outstretched. I handed the flask of whisky to him and he unscrewed the cap, took a slug, and handed it back to me. "When I make my head like so, you must turn the page." He turned to the score in front of him and paged quickly to the beginning of the fortissimo movement, which in Beethoven's Fifth occurs at the end of the second movement. Then he started to play. The microphone had been knocked down, and its head now rested over the upright section of the piano. It picked up the music, which now thundered across the square.
Almost immediately the crowd grew quiet and the fighting stopped. The flattop cleared, and the men around the apron slipped back into the crowd. The mayor squeezed out from under the Steinway, and he and the kommandant were helped down the replaced stepladder. Even the sobbing ladies soon grew quiet.
On and on Doc played, through the second into the third movement and, hardly pausing, into the fourth, his head nodding every time he wanted the page turned. It was a faultless performance as he brought the recital to a thunderous close.
Intellectually the audience had probably understood very little of it. It was not, after all, their kind of music. But emotionally they would remember Doc's performance for the rest of their lives. Mrs. Boxall was weeping and clutching her hands to her breast and the other ladies also pretended to be swept away by it all. Lieutenant Smit shouted at several of the warders, who began to clear a way for the truck. Lifting the microphone off the back, he shouted for Klipkop to get into the truck and drive away. Then he jumped into the passenger side of the cabin as the big Diamond T started to move. Doc, who had been bowing to the crowd, fell back onto his seat. With a flourish of the keyboard, he began to play Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata."
I had never seen him as happy. He played all the way back to the prison, not stopping when we got to the gates and reaching the final bars as we drew up outside the administration building. Then he took a long swig from his flask, rose from the piano, and looked out over the prison walls to his beloved hills.
I quickly opened the piano stool and put the flask into it, together with the score for the "Pathetique." I locked it and slipped the key into my pocket.
Doc rubbed his hand through my hair. "No more wolves. Absoloodle," he said quietly, and then he looked up at the hills again.
- The Power of One, by Bryce Courtenay
I cried through that last part. I don't think it carries the same heft out of context. I don't think it's as beautiful, either, but I can't tell since I'm reading it in the book. I haven't finished yet. I don't really expect everyone to read all that, but maybe someone will and maybe it will mean something. Goodnight.
He would often use an analogy from nature. "Ja, Peekay, always in life an idea starts small, it is only a sapling idea, but the vines will come and they will try to choke your idea so it cannot grow and it will die and you will never know you had a big idea, an idea so big it could have grown thirty meters through the dark canopy of leaves and touched the face of the sky." He looked at me and continued. "The vines are people who are afraid of originality, of new thinking. Most people you encounter will be vines; when you are a young plant they are very dangerous." His piercing blue eys looked into mine. "Always listen to yourself, Peekay. It is better to be wrong than simply follow convention. If you are wrong, no matter, you have learned something and you will grow stronger. If you are right, you have taken another step toward a fulfilling life." ... Doc never talked down. Much of what he said would take me years to understand, but I soaked it up nevertheless, storing it in my awkward young mind where it could mature and later come back to me. He taught me to read for meaning and information, to make margin notes... In the process of keeping faith with my mother, Doc instilled in me an abiding love for music. What my clumsy hands could never play, I could hear quite clearly in my heaed. A love of music was, among his many gifts to me, perhaps the most important of them all...
Just then Doc tugged me on the sleeve. "The flask, Peekay." His hand was outstretched. I handed the flask of whisky to him and he unscrewed the cap, took a slug, and handed it back to me. "When I make my head like so, you must turn the page." He turned to the score in front of him and paged quickly to the beginning of the fortissimo movement, which in Beethoven's Fifth occurs at the end of the second movement. Then he started to play. The microphone had been knocked down, and its head now rested over the upright section of the piano. It picked up the music, which now thundered across the square.
Almost immediately the crowd grew quiet and the fighting stopped. The flattop cleared, and the men around the apron slipped back into the crowd. The mayor squeezed out from under the Steinway, and he and the kommandant were helped down the replaced stepladder. Even the sobbing ladies soon grew quiet.
On and on Doc played, through the second into the third movement and, hardly pausing, into the fourth, his head nodding every time he wanted the page turned. It was a faultless performance as he brought the recital to a thunderous close.
Intellectually the audience had probably understood very little of it. It was not, after all, their kind of music. But emotionally they would remember Doc's performance for the rest of their lives. Mrs. Boxall was weeping and clutching her hands to her breast and the other ladies also pretended to be swept away by it all. Lieutenant Smit shouted at several of the warders, who began to clear a way for the truck. Lifting the microphone off the back, he shouted for Klipkop to get into the truck and drive away. Then he jumped into the passenger side of the cabin as the big Diamond T started to move. Doc, who had been bowing to the crowd, fell back onto his seat. With a flourish of the keyboard, he began to play Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata."
I had never seen him as happy. He played all the way back to the prison, not stopping when we got to the gates and reaching the final bars as we drew up outside the administration building. Then he took a long swig from his flask, rose from the piano, and looked out over the prison walls to his beloved hills.
I quickly opened the piano stool and put the flask into it, together with the score for the "Pathetique." I locked it and slipped the key into my pocket.
Doc rubbed his hand through my hair. "No more wolves. Absoloodle," he said quietly, and then he looked up at the hills again.
- The Power of One, by Bryce Courtenay
I cried through that last part. I don't think it carries the same heft out of context. I don't think it's as beautiful, either, but I can't tell since I'm reading it in the book. I haven't finished yet. I don't really expect everyone to read all that, but maybe someone will and maybe it will mean something. Goodnight.