Die Dschungel. Anderswelt.

Skrjabin could derail me for days. Every time his name popped into my head I was back on 2nd Avenue, in the rear of some café, surrounded by Russians (‚white‘ ones usually) and Russian Jews. Listening to some unknown genius reel off the Sonatas, preludes and études of the divine Skrjabin.

Henry Miller, Nexus.




Also, in diesem aus dem Geleise werfenden Sinn – einem, der sie ö f f n e t: >>>> Alexandr Skrjabin: Le poème de l’extase, op. 54. Überzimmerlaut zu hören. Wie, sagen wir, Nick Cave.