Listening to his music, one does not forgive
him for what he may or may not have been. It is not a matter of
forgiveness. It is a matter of being dumb with wonder that his poor
brain and body didn't burst under the torment of the demon of creative
energy that lived inside him, struggling, clawing, scratching to be
released; tearing, shrieking at him to write the music that was in him.
The miracle is that what he did in the little space of seventy years
could have been done at all, even by a great genius. Is it any wonder
that he had no time to be a man?
闻之音，无有不谅其过者也。然，此非原谅与否的问题，是一种难以言喻的惊叹：他可怜的头脑与弱孱的身骨居然没有因寄生于他如恶魔般折磨他，对他抓挠啃咬，在胸腔中挣扎尖叫来寻求释放，还要求他白纸黑字写下孕育中的迸发搏裂的音乐的创造性而爆炸！即便是伟大的天才，也难以在短短七十年里有如此成就，而他却创造了这样的奇迹。那么，他无暇与常人一般，又何足为奇呢？
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