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Saturday, September 22, 2012

Coromo, End of Chapter 2, parts 644 - 647


644. The fact that the tourists of the resort loved the local musicians playing their homemade instruments, and had no interest in the great classics the restaurant manager kept slipping into the program was puzzling to Coromo.
Weren't the local musicians just like him.  He knew them all, Joe learned to play the bass guitar a year ago after he found one in the trash, Phillipe could play the penny flute even though nobody ever taught him. 


645. This obvious fact that struck him, the native music was vastly superior to anything else, and so much more alive than the great classics of Western civilization, played with great precision and accuracy by stuff old men in tuxedos.


646. "If you compare the music of Bob Marley to Beethoven, then Marley is the better, and if you compare my little paintings to the great pictures of Rembrandt, and that other person, Bouguereau, then mine are better," he thought to himself. He felt for certain this was true, he did not know exactly why it was true, and neither do I.

647. On the way home that night Coromo's mind was full of new images that passed in succession in his mind's eye. First he was going to do a painting of himself on a horse, then one of the third sister also on a horse so far in the distance she looks like a speck. Then a picture of the two of them under a tree, and then a picture of himself alone, painting a picture of himself alone.

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