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Bellini Near Paris (1835)

Bellini Near Paris (1835) Vincenzo left us in an autumn rain that came to Puteaux with the equinox. It washed all blue from the season, even the skies of his eyes which closed as he rode the summer light home. They said his beauty was like a sigh. They said he was young as dawn, hair soft as song and the color of corn, his voice sweet as the angels. But Vincenzo only trusted the beauty of sound, notes in perfect order, without the adornment of words. Here we saw him, a year past thirty, ravaged by the loss of his vital waters. His hair was lank, skin already chalk, salt crusting the deeply dimpled chin and each breath an aria of agony. We saw his melancholy was full darkness, not sunset as they liked to say. But at first he told stories of lovers on Lake Como, whispering names as sleep came on. Giuditta, Turina, Clelia. He spoke of summer dusks drifting alone in his boat, hearing women from the mills croon from a ferry's bow. Their love songs tangled like weeds in his memory while the shore and hills darkened together into night. Near the end Vincenzo was too worn to toss and turn. He lay all day in a sheet of blood as the doctor cupped him and wept. We carried on the usual business of fall while at the cottage door his friend from the city whispered to the lintel that it was the end of music and sank to his knees in mud. Wind like a mourning chorus rose in place of the missing stars. http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png JAMA American Medical Association

Bellini Near Paris (1835)

JAMA , Volume 283 (20) – May 24, 2000

Bellini Near Paris (1835)

Abstract

Vincenzo left us in an autumn rain that came to Puteaux with the equinox. It washed all blue from the season, even the skies of his eyes which closed as he rode the summer light home. They said his beauty was like a sigh. They said he was young as dawn, hair soft as song and the color of corn, his voice sweet as the angels. But Vincenzo only trusted the beauty of sound, notes in perfect order, without the adornment of words. Here we saw him, a year past thirty, ravaged by the loss of his...
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Publisher
American Medical Association
Copyright
Copyright © 2000 American Medical Association. All Rights Reserved.
ISSN
0098-7484
eISSN
1538-3598
DOI
10.1001/jama.283.20.2633
Publisher site
See Article on Publisher Site

Abstract

Vincenzo left us in an autumn rain that came to Puteaux with the equinox. It washed all blue from the season, even the skies of his eyes which closed as he rode the summer light home. They said his beauty was like a sigh. They said he was young as dawn, hair soft as song and the color of corn, his voice sweet as the angels. But Vincenzo only trusted the beauty of sound, notes in perfect order, without the adornment of words. Here we saw him, a year past thirty, ravaged by the loss of his vital waters. His hair was lank, skin already chalk, salt crusting the deeply dimpled chin and each breath an aria of agony. We saw his melancholy was full darkness, not sunset as they liked to say. But at first he told stories of lovers on Lake Como, whispering names as sleep came on. Giuditta, Turina, Clelia. He spoke of summer dusks drifting alone in his boat, hearing women from the mills croon from a ferry's bow. Their love songs tangled like weeds in his memory while the shore and hills darkened together into night. Near the end Vincenzo was too worn to toss and turn. He lay all day in a sheet of blood as the doctor cupped him and wept. We carried on the usual business of fall while at the cottage door his friend from the city whispered to the lintel that it was the end of music and sank to his knees in mud. Wind like a mourning chorus rose in place of the missing stars.

Journal

JAMAAmerican Medical Association

Published: May 24, 2000

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