Literature is art. So is music.

Literature is art. So is Music. Sep 23, '07 8:24 AM
for everyone

Everyday seems to be a torture to me. To the writer side of me. The days seem to drag me down, pulling the sleeves of my soul, grabbing its shoulders, forcing it to quit the job. Like a detective utterly executing the meanest tactics in the world to squeeze out from the suspect’s, or the “victim’s” mouth—if you may consider—words that would bring access to their lifetime of torment; people, situations, and things around me run amok my mind like a last song syndrome disheartening my hopeful self.



Words and phrases seem to spit at my face the slimes of unworthiness. They’re telling me I shouldn't’t write. Telling me that the pen is going against the paper, and that blotting the ink in neat curves is a waste.



Ah, no. Negative. Impossible. Yet, it’s affirmed.



A friend just reminded me of one writer’s words at the course of defining a writer. “ A writer should be a reader, else, you shouldn't’t dare write…” she told me. This line followed after asking me whether I was a book worm, to which I answered no. For I really am not. Name me laziest reader in the world, to hell would I care. Books hate me, and I hate them, too. Therefore I shouldn't’t write.



I shouldn't write for I don’t read. I shouldn't stroll the pen for I don’t dig the pages. Thus, I shouldn't waste an ink’s drop for a frivolous dream.



‘Course. Why am I writing anyway? To impress? Maybe. Because I’m not a writer. Cause I was never for literature. It was never my dreamer and never my lover. Cause I was wed to music. I was engaged to the piano and not to the pen. I was made to listen, not to write. Molded to sound, not to read. Brought up to strum, not to dig. For notes, not for words.



Therefore I’m a mistress. Literature’s paramour. A traitor to music.



But does anyone hold the difference between Shakespeare and Bach? Or of Poe and Schubert? Or, venturing into contemporary times, Pamuk and Marley? Marquez and Maxim? Oh, now I’m hoping I’m making good pairs.



Aside maybe from the fact that they come from different places, bear different nationalities, or exist in different periods, each one’s passion for their kind of field doesn’t utterly separate them from each other. For who could have known? Shakespeare might have indulged into Bach’s masterpieces as he was creating all his most appreciated sonnets. Or maybe that Schubert’s Goth-weaved pieces motivated E. A. Poe to create more cunning stories of mystery.



There isn’t a handful of similarities. Only a pinch of differences. To me, they aren’t far relatives, but siblings under one root. In other words, literature and music have enough qualities to be relatively close to each other.



Literature is art. And so is music. As always defined by students. And so it is. If not for you, then to me, and to some—as usual—it is. Guess it’s only books that define them differently.