(An edge-of-your-seat experience. Vaughan Williams's sixth symphony. I like the dramatic descriptions in concert programs. This one - "its forceful energy, its sense of menace, and the desolation of the final pages." People thought it reflected the tumultuous post-WWII time it was composed in, but it didn't. Williams was just that way.)
For fun try an out-loud dramatic reading:
"The first movement opens in unmistakable conflict with its violent clash of adjacent minor keys: F minor hammered out in the opening three notes, then E minor thrust in beneath it, like a dagger to the stomach. These warring neighbors make appearances throughout the movement in different disguises. But lest anyone should think the symphony offers no glimmer of joy, no light in a darkened world, the work's lighter moments should not be overlooked. A galumphing rhythm has its humorous side..."
The performance did it justice (the words, and the hall).
That's the last of three days in Boston spread out over several weeks' posts. I went not for fun but for a literature conference (which was fun too, actually). The highlight - a Harvard professor lecturing on why vampires (e.g. Twilight) are so popular today. As the photos evidence, my professor graciously made the trip much more than a conference. The Atlantic and the symphony were my favorites.
Next week in Kentucky at a back-to-back conference:
Here I spoke on two things: "Do Professors Grade International Students Differently?" and "Poetry for the Average Joe." I valiantly tried to convince my listeners that everyone should make a habit of reading and writing poetry (yes, you). I don't think I persuaded my fellow Dordt comrades to write their own, but they must have been persuaded that I do. Every time I was writing anything on the 16-hour ride home (a letter to Granny, edits on friend's story), someone asked, "Oh hey, are you writing poetry?" Every time I had to say guiltily, "Um, no, not this time."
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