# A short story about a deluded composer



## clavichorder (May 2, 2011)

The great composer Emmanuel “Manny” Rochester had never been so furious. For this occasion, he chose the most derisive language he could think of. If he had a secondary gift to musical composition, it was in the art of invective.

“It was never my intention to try to please anyone with my work. And ultimately the climax of my magnum opus was to be the musical analogue of a rorschach test. These tests, whether they actually reveal something about the psyche or are just amusing to think about, are not made to coddle you. Sparing you some of the musical jargon, it would not be my fault if the harmonies(harmony is not a relevant term, but for your benefit...) in the woodwinds represented to you the degeneracy of modern art, nor would it be my problem if the tuba interlude reminded you of your grandmother’s farts. I’m simply not responsible for that kind of schizophrenic interpretation. Unfortunately I don’t do musical psychoanalysis, but I’ll make exceptions here. You gentlemen, are certified philistines.”

“Maestro, do you level that accusation at your audience as well?” said a dull looking committee member named Joshua Tangle. 

“Surely you must realize it didn’t exactly receive a standing ovation.” said another fellow of the committee, Ralph Barkley. 

“Beethoven’s Eroica symphony didn’t exactly make a positive first impression. And we all know of the Rite of Spring riots. Such is the nature of great art.” countered a fuming Manny. 

“Maestro Rochester, you are deluded, plain and simple. And your conduct during the rehearsal was nothing short of outrageous. The lack of tact you displayed has offended more than a few of our professional musicians. You are only digging your hole deeper. This brings me to my next point; you are no longer welcome here.” said Tangle. 

“You are philistines, who don’t recognize the work of genius. History will remember Emanuel Rochester, and I will make sure to cite this petty incident in my memoirs.” And he stormed out of there. 



“And that is how I came to live under these circumstances.” said Manny to his rapt audience. He closed his copy of his memoirs and jumped down from the park bench. 

“How much does it cost, man?” 

“Its Manny, and I’m selling them out for eight dollars each.”

“Sounds good. I wish you luck with life and all.” 

“Would you like a recording of my magnum opus, “The Fog of the Present Day?”

“Nah man, I think I’ll pass if that’s okay, but good luck to you and thanks for the book.”

“Philistine” he whispered as the young man walked off.


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