When the finger moves but slightly from E to E flat and major slips into minor, everything retires to a distance or disappears altogether. Loves, longings and the lyrical spirit desert me. The Romantic tradition slips like Excalibur beneath the waves. Even the ghosts find my Dies Irae too tedious to bear and retire to a corner like scolded hounds, there to watch and wait until there is something to haunt again. The only companions which stay dutifully by my side are the demons. They sleep quietly most of the time, but they never leave.
I expect there’s a name for it. I expect there’s a pill for it, two of which should be taken three times a day after meals if normal service is to be maintained. Why would I want that? Why walk the level ground when there are heights to be attempted and gorges from which to escape? Why be the King who scorns the peasant when you can be the Fool who scorns the mould?
* * *
Did you know that writing can be cathartic? And did you also know that writers and builders have something fundamental in common? What the builder does with bricks, the writer does with words. The main difference between them is that the writer cares where the waistband of his jeans is situated.