Arvo Part

Arvo Part has a scraggly beard that strings to the bottom of his neck, like a bunch of little twigs; the top of his bald head is surrounded by a coarse curtain of wavy black hair. Though well-dressed, he looks unkempt, troubled and distant. If you were to look at him, you'd guess he wouldn't make eye contact with any one person for very long, though his eyes would continue to twist in their sockets, darting around the room, until they found you.  Then your insides would twist. He looks like a brilliant professor, or a wizard, whose wisdom is far beyond society's. He's 73 now, and arguably one of those most profound composers of our time. His music is hypnotic in its simplicity, intricate in its design, and esoterically distant and complex in its emotional sentiments. In a recent splurge on amazon.com, I purchased his album Tabula Rasa. In the notes found in the booklet, Part tells this story:

"In the Soviet Union once, I spoke with a monk and asked him how, as a composer, one can improve oneself. He answered me by saying that he knew of no solution. I told him that I also wrote prayers, and set prayers and the texts of psalms to music, and that perhaps this would be of help to me as a composer. To this he said, 'No, you are wrong. All the prayers have already been written. You don't need to write any more. Everything has been prepared. Now you have to prepare yourself.' I believe there's a truth in that. We must count on the fact that our music will come to an end one day. Perhaps there will come a moment, even for the greatest artist, when he will no longer want to or have to make art. And perhaps at that very moment we will value his creation even more - because in this instant he will have transcended his work."

This story can transcend its surface topic. The monk says one thing, and Part replies in his language--music. What does this mean to you--in your language?