Scribbling

How vulgar, this hankering after immortality, how vain, how false.  Composers are merely scribblers of cave paintings.  One writes music because winter is eternal and because, if one didn’t, the wolves and blizzards would be at one’s throat all the sooner.

Bu ölümsüzlük isteği ne kadar bayağı, mağrurca ve sahte bir şey.  Besteciler çalakalem mağara resimleri yapan resamlardır sadece.  İnsan müzik besteler, çünkü kış sonsuzdur; çünkü insan müzik bestelemezse kurtlar ve akbabalar insanın gırtlağına daha çabuk çöker.

David Mitchell, Cloud Atlas

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