156 lines
3.9 KiB
TeX
156 lines
3.9 KiB
TeX
% 2025.12.30-TheMusicCritic\\
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\herosection{The Music Critic}{chapters/2025.12.30-TheMusicCritic/image/the-music-critic.jpg}
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\DROPCAP{../../dropcap_c/dropI.png}t was not a talent Lysa was born with.\\
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It was acquired, \\
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the way one acquires a scar or a limp.
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As a child, \\
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her parents had expected her \\
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to become a concert musician.\\
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She knew no other path.\\
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She was offered no other options.\\
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She came to know how conservatory rooms \\
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smelled faintly of dust and ambition.\\
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She knew all too well \\
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how the electric silence \\
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before an audition \\
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felt far longer than the audition itself.
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There was one recital she never forgot.\\
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Not because it was disastrous, \\
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but because it was so — \\
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nondescript.\\
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She simply could not give herself to the music.\\
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Her fingers were there, \\
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but not her heart.
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When it was over, \\
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the audience smiled.\\
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And yawned.\\
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And left.
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She did not quit music.\\
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She stepped sideways.
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Writing music criticism proved safer.\\
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A way to remain near music \\
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without standing naked inside it.\\
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Words that kept emotion at arm's length came easily.\\
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Her reviews were precise, \\
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admired.\\
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Editors trusted her bland restraint.
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On a Tuesday afternoon, \\
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she passed a street musician on her way back \\
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from a small chamber concert — \\
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technically immaculate, \\
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emotionally underwhelming.\\
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She had already composed half the review in her head.
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The street musician's attire and instrument were unremarkable.\\
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Old.\\
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The kind you noticed only because they seemed so inconsequential.
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She slowed despite herself.
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He was not playing \emph{for} the street.\\
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He was playing as though the street \\
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had wandered into something already underway.\\
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The music neither invited nor resisted attention.\\
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It moved forward at its own pace, \\
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leaving small, \\
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inexplicable gaps — \\
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rests that felt less like intention than breath.
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Lysa waited for the hook.\\
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It never came.
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She wrote him off and went home.
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But the next week, \\
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she found herself adjusting her route.
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She continued reviewing concerts.\\
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Yet afterward, \\
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she drifted back to the same corner.
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She tried listening harder.\\
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Didn't help.
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She tried listening analytically.\\
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Worse.
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One afternoon she approached him, \\
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notebook in hand, \\
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and asked an easy question about his training.
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He smiled — kindly, without warmth — \\
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and said he preferred not to talk \\
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while the music was still nearby.
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\emph{What does that mean?} she wondered.\\
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But she did not ask him to explain.
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Over time, \\
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she noticed patterns.\\
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He packed up and left without ceremony \\
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whenever anyone applauded.\\
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He never acknowledged praise.\\
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A few people lingered after he left, \\
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as though waiting \\
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for a sentence to complete itself.
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Once, she brought a colleague. \\
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``Pleasant enough,'' he shrugged, \\
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already walking away.
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That night, \\
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Lysa dreamed of her failed performance — \\
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not as it had been, \\
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but as it had felt.\\
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The forward-leaning hope \\
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that couldn't find its footing.\\
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The terrible generosity \\
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of trying to offer something unarmored — \\
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and falling flat.
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Weeks passed.\\
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Her reviews grew shorter.\\
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Adjectives began to feel excessive.\\
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She began leaving white space in her drafts, \\
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then deleting entire paragraphs.\\
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No one complained.
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One day, standing at the corner, \\
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she realized he was playing a piece \\
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she herself had played at her last recital.\\
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The notes were the same, \\
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but the spacing was different.\\
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The rests were longer.\\
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Almost inconvenient.
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She recognized them.
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They were the places she had rushed through, \\
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years ago, \\
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afraid.
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Without quite deciding to, \\
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she stopped writing reviews.
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Deadlines passed.\\
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The world did not end.
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The street musician disappeared soon after, \\
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without announcement or explanation.
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Then, \\
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one evening, \\
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after years of neglect, \\
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she took out her instrument and played — \\
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slowly, \\
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leaving all the room in the world \\
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for what might arrive — \\
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or not.
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