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Literature

  1. Anton: Chapter 4, Part I

    The Moscow composers allowed the visitors from St. Petersburg to have the "first shot," and so Nikolai Andreyvich played a work at the piano. He said it was an orchestral work called "Cappricio Espagnol," and played about half of it.
    "How excellent! How capital!" the young Muscovites began praising it very highly. Anton too praised it, "I wouldn't expect anything less from my beloved teacher." Sergei was still quiet, although he had nodded his own personal
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  2. Anton: Chapter 3

    5 minutes past 8, there was a knock on the door, in the typical signal which the young composers used to identify themselves coming in. In stepped Nikolai.
    "There you are! You have been away for quite a while," Anton smiled, with a slight sneer.
    "Indeed, I got caught up with what's going on. You were right, sir," turning to Sergei, "Something, namely someones, is expected this evening, and almost everyone here was on the look out for them. These visitors arrived
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    Updated Sep-04-2013 at 01:12 by Huilunsoittaja

    Categories
    Non-Classical Music , Personal , Literature , Other
  3. Anton: Chapter 2

    Anton was sitting by himself in the Conservatory courtyard, bent over a manuscript.
    "Hello, my good man! I wish not to disturb you but I've wanted to meet you for a while," a voice said. Anton looked up to see an older man standing over him, his hand outstretched.
    "Oh! Are you then... the famed Piotr Ilyich?" Anton's eyes went wide as he shook his hand.
    "Yes I am. And you... you are Anton Stepanovich?"
    "Yes, sir! Oh, I'm so glad to have
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  4. Anton: Chapter 1

    The days drag on, each moment multiplies
    Within my wounded heart the pain and sadness
    Of an unhappy love and, dark, gives rise.
    To sleepless dreams, the haunting dreams of madness
    But I do not complain - instead, I weep;
    Tears bring me solace, comforted they leave me.
    My spirit, captive held by grief, a deep.
    And bitter rapture finds in them, believe me.
    Pass, life! Come, empty phantom, onward fly.
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  5. Don't Ask Me Why: Epilogue

    A year had passed since that Saturday.

    No one had torn down the music building, but it stood as it always had. Instead, the Orchestra Rehearsal Room's floor was decorated with a mosaic of tiles bearing the names of people who gave their condolences to those affected by the tragedy. Thousands of names, musicians and community members alike, were engraved into the beautiful blue-and-white tiles so that not a single tile in the whole room was left empty. It served as a powerful sign
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