musicians of old

Chapter 894 Night Walk (Part Two): The Void Realm

At this moment, Fanning finally made up her mind.

Even if time may be running out, even if it may be gone forever.

"An artist born with melancholy."

"But I want to go and see, I must go and see."

Take a look at the entire history of music, and even the history of art, which is broader than "personal reflections on the past," and see the indomitable spirit that shines forth when faced with the limitations of their respective eras, the mockery of fate, and the eternal perplexity of creation itself.

Let's go and see if those lights really exist.

Having made up his mind, Fan Ning took a step forward without hesitation.

Instead of going forward along the riverbank, he turned to the side, facing the rushing, dark river, and jumped straight in!
"thump--"

Under the morbid light, the splashed water droplets looked like bizarre little balls of paint.

The icy river water once again submerged Fanning's knees, waist, and neck.
He stepped onto an invisible staircase leading to a deeper level, and descended step by step.

In fact, the path before this is exactly the same as the first "Night Pilgrimage".

The people and things that constitute a "moment of recollection" reappear before my eyes.

At first, he was surrounded by the familiar, colorful scenes of the "river of history," with countless fragments of eras gliding by like fish. He saw the stained-glass windows of St. Lenía Cathedral reflecting the setting sun, heard the rustling of palm leaves in the wind of a southern dream, and heard the brilliant lights of the Turner Art Centre mingling with the smell of turpentine in his father's studio... He smiled and clinked glasses with his teacher and classmates, while his teacher Anton and Sir Viardrin, who were walking and talking, helped carry his briefcase from behind. He watched Caplund, Walter, Sheeran, Roy, and Joan playing with the children in the choir. But this time, Fanning had no lingering feelings. He let the dreamlike images flow and shimmer, without looking back.

Everything was quickly left behind, fleeting like a broken rainbow reflected on the river.

In the cool river water, he quickened his pace slightly, continuing down the non-existent, illusory staircase, circling and turning countless times, almost losing his way.

Night falls once more, and the whispers of all the fountains grow ever brighter. My spirit is also a fountain.

Night falls once more, and only then do the songs of all lovers awaken. My spirit is also a song of lovers.

Fan Ning softly recited a poem about "night" by another philosopher from the long river of history.

During the composition of his Third Symphony, he was so captivated by it that he selected one of its movements to set to music for Miss Nightingale.

Nietzsche's *Thus Spoke Zarathustra*.

The poem that Fanning quoted in the "Mankind Tells Me" movement was a round poem sung by a philosopher after he had become intoxicated; the one he sings for now is another, more lucid and pure "Song of the Night".

“An unquenchable, ineffable force stirs within me, yearning to be heard.”

"A longing for silence stirs within me: a yearning for light, a demand for freedom with the tongue of night."

As she softly chanted, Fanning's fingers plucked the strings of the guitar, from F to an octave higher. The notes were like particles thrown into water, creating ripples of the stringed instrument's timbre.

This is almost a replica of the violin solo "Looking up to the sky and asking the motive" in the final movement of the "Tragedy" symphony, grand yet poignant, with the vibrato sound filled with sorrow.

But this retrospective is only a brief moment in the true sense, a short four-bar introduction, after which the melody enters a warm fountain played by the woodwind section.

This can be considered another "antidote".

As Nietzsche said, this is the song of lovers.

The fountain is naturally interwoven and splashed, and so is the contrapuntal and interwoven form of the theme. The most recognizable part is the clarinet's aphoristic repetition of musical patterns, which somewhat functions like the "fixed bass" in Baroque music. It relies on repeated repetitions and limited variations to determine meaning, in order to resist the encroachment and assimilation of the "nothingness" that follows. Of course, its position in the high register is not low. Having mastered the root of the "secret of the endless," Fanning can no longer be limited by any superficial compositional formulas, nor does he necessarily need an "instrument" to produce sound.

Against its perfectly complementing beat, the silken strings, the tremolo of the wind instruments, and the more pronounced gait-like melody all converge to form a complete theme that flows forth.

The second "Night Pilgrimage" truly began. The illusory steps stretched downwards, the "density" of the water thinned, the bizarre and colorful scene gradually became murky, and the color saturation was rapidly lost.

Everything blended into a monotonous, slowly flowing, dim yellow, like a long river exhausted from carrying too much silt.

Fanning approached the "downstream" and stepped into the "riverbed".

But this illusory staircase continues to extend downwards.

“Ah, I abhor the plunder of light, I yearn for the breath of the abyss—but this is my destined predicament, my eyes nailed to the eternal pillar of fire.”

“You darkness that creeps beneath my feet, drink in the pain of this excessive sanctification—I hurl my golden spear at you, and tear open the veins of your swamp with my light.”

In a fleeting moment, Fanning felt as if all the sounds around her had been uprooted.

This includes the sound of oneself reciting Nietzsche's poems.

Hearing is the first to die; the eardrum becomes a useless ornament. Next, color begins to fade, saturation dissipates, and color blocks themselves crumble into gray and white. The shapes and angles of things soften into blurry outlines, and even the concept of temperature begins to be forgotten.
Such behavior is tantamount to self-abandonment for anyone.

Even the most powerful order enforcers in history.

But Fanning continued to descend step by step, while striving to depict and confirm the ever-evolving fixed patterns of the "aphoristic motif." He gradually rediscovered this part of his musical hearing, with the voices nestled together, drawing gentle arcs in a distorted world.

However, the reading of the Psalms can no longer be heard clearly; only the inner hearing remains.

"Night has spread its palms, and the weight of all longing begins to fall; my planet is sailing into the harbor of nothingness. I am eternally condemned to death by the light, yet I burn with a longing for the night, standing like a monument in the embers of my own self-sacrifice."

At one point, the tactile sensation of stepping on the steps finally disappeared.

Fanning felt as if she were falling into an enormous, all-encompassing wad of cotton.

Looking around, the field of vision is filled with a uniform, suffocating gray-white background, like an infinitely spread canvas of despair that refuses any smearing.

The virtual world is cold, a graveyard of meaning, and the final destination of everything outside the timeline.

My feet felt as if they were stepping on a patch of fine, even ash or saline soil.

Or perhaps, it's more like incredibly fine and soft ashes accumulated over millions of years.

There was no sound.

It was quite comfortable and peaceful.

Fanning felt that the soft touch of the soles of his feet was very similar to the woodland paths he had walked in the countryside of Teolain and the outskirts of the southern city-states, such as the lakeside town of Mertraun. The woodlands were usually planted with hazel and birch trees, and as dusk fell, shadows and silver spots would intertwine to capture the last lingering rays of light on the earth.

Sometimes, when the time for field trips and walks was expected to be far away, Fanning would make an appointment in advance with the driver at the Schwints' small hotel. Around 6:30 in the afternoon, the sound of the wheels would rise from the distant hills, gradually melting him into the honey-like sunset, like the melting bells seeping into the veins of the earth.

In the southern suburbs, the colors and sounds are richer. The most unique memory of twilight is when your heartbeat gradually synchronizes with the first song of a nightingale. Those singers hidden in elderberry thickets are skilled at weaving trembling silver chains of starlight. As you listen, something begins to migrate in your blood.

Once, Fanning played a "boring" game with her most adorable student, Miss Nightingale. They walked one after the other along the stone path, each humming a two-part invention. Fanning imagined her footsteps might disturb the slumbering moss in the cracks of the stones, those tiny, velvety green creatures stretching and releasing the damp memories accumulated throughout the day. Later, they pushed open the oak door, twilight climbing along the vines. Little Luna was diligently kneading rice balls on the table, and in the distance, wisps of cloud, bathed in the glow of sunset, hung down. At mealtime, the wind brought from the west the unfinished song of the shepherd; a few scattered notes were caught among the thorns of the rose bushes, slowly condensing into amber teardrops.

"Carol, what are you doing!?"

Suddenly, several fragmented female voices, each with slightly different accents, overlapped and came from the same source.

Fan Ning suddenly looked up, and for a moment, he was stunned and blank for a few seconds as he faced the gray earth.

A strong sense of disorientation washed over him, and for a moment he forgot what he had been "thinking" about or why he had ended up in such an inexplicable place!