The first gods must have been born while we slept.
I went to a 700-year-old church on Sunday morning and the service was purely tonal because I don’t understand Finnish. It was the most moving sermon I’ve ever heard.
Now begins the season of Arvo Pärt, of private hymns and gloom and trees that look like old gentlemen.
A brief note on seeing Barnett Newman’s portrait of “the agony that is single, constant, unrelenting, willed—world without end.”
