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The Alchemist, v. 1, issue 5, February 1941
Page 29
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Rhythm Of The Spheres 29 philosophers or scientists his strangely shaped mechanisms could bring before him, changing the words into phantoms real as though living. He was the last and greatest of the poets-but also he was the last and greatest of the musicians. He could bring back the songs of ancient Egypt, or the chants of more ancient Ur. The songs that came from Moussorgsky's soul of Mother Earth, the harmonies of Beethoven's deaf brain or the chants and rhapsodies from the heart of Chopin. He could do more than restore the music of the past. He was the master of sound. To him the music of the spheres was real. He could take the rays of the stars and planets and weave them into symphonies. Or convert the sun's rays into golden tones no earthly orchestra had ever expressed. And the silver music of the moon-the sweet music of the moon in Spring, the full throated music of the harvest moon, the brittle crystalline music of the winter moon with its arpeggios of meteors-he could weave into strains such as no human ear had ever heard. So Narodny, the last and greatest of poets, the last and greatest of musicians, the last and greatest artists-and in his inhuman way, the greatest of scientists-lived with the ten of his choosing in his caverns. And, with them, he consigned the surface of the earth and all who dwelt upon it to a negative Hell- Unless something happening there might imperil his Paradise! Aware of the possibility of that danger, among his mechanisms were those which brought to eyes and ears news of what was happening on earth's surface. Now and then, they amused themselves with these.
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Rhythm Of The Spheres 29 philosophers or scientists his strangely shaped mechanisms could bring before him, changing the words into phantoms real as though living. He was the last and greatest of the poets-but also he was the last and greatest of the musicians. He could bring back the songs of ancient Egypt, or the chants of more ancient Ur. The songs that came from Moussorgsky's soul of Mother Earth, the harmonies of Beethoven's deaf brain or the chants and rhapsodies from the heart of Chopin. He could do more than restore the music of the past. He was the master of sound. To him the music of the spheres was real. He could take the rays of the stars and planets and weave them into symphonies. Or convert the sun's rays into golden tones no earthly orchestra had ever expressed. And the silver music of the moon-the sweet music of the moon in Spring, the full throated music of the harvest moon, the brittle crystalline music of the winter moon with its arpeggios of meteors-he could weave into strains such as no human ear had ever heard. So Narodny, the last and greatest of poets, the last and greatest of musicians, the last and greatest artists-and in his inhuman way, the greatest of scientists-lived with the ten of his choosing in his caverns. And, with them, he consigned the surface of the earth and all who dwelt upon it to a negative Hell- Unless something happening there might imperil his Paradise! Aware of the possibility of that danger, among his mechanisms were those which brought to eyes and ears news of what was happening on earth's surface. Now and then, they amused themselves with these.
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