Heard The Last Rose Of Summer on Radio Swiss Classic the other day (this being the radio station I happily discovered when the CBC acquired a permanent case of dysentery a little over a year ago). I remember being at the piano while an aging mezzo demolished that one. Renee Fleming, with orchestra, was much more palatable. However, I object strenuously to the lyrics, the gist of which is, that the poet sees a rose blooming alone on the bush after all the others are dead, and to save it from being lonely, he rips it apart and throws it down. This horrifies me. Suppose that rose wanted to bloom by itself, without any competition? Suppose it had been saving itself all summer long, waiting for just the right moment to be the final crowning glory of the blooming season - and along comes this gumbooted halfwit who trashes it, then goes and makes flimsy excuses on paper. A horrific and senseless act, justified in the mind of the perpetrator.
Come to think of it, that sounds like most of humanity.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
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