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352 pages, Hardcover
First published October 22, 2026
(There would come a time when John Field would be known as a carouser in Moscow, as an eccentric genius in Saint Petersburg, and, later, in Paris and Vienna, a virtuoso past his prime. All those years he would maintain his practice in the morning. Lovers would die or become other people’s lovers: Emilia, Hildegarde, Estelle, Johanna. A student would become a mistress, then a wife, then a rival: Percherette. Clotilde, a bit on the side, would become a lifelong companion. The unconquerable Grande Armée would melt in the Russian snow. Napoleon the Emperor would become Bonaparte the exile. The present has only one direction to go: to become the past, to be forgotten charitably or to be remembered incompletely, even, wrongly. And yet, in every life, there is bound to be one form of time that remains the present. For John, that was the five undisturbed hours of practice every morning. What did it matter if life outside those hours was never free from follies, disappointments, mishaps, and deaths? Bracketed within were forms to be improved upon, performance to be perfected. When music is life—it was for John, as it would have been for George, had he lived on—it is no longer about life. What’s placed above life has all the right to overwrite an individual’s feelings.)
(…. Percherette and John had, as they discovered, missed each other by only a few months that year in Paris, where he stopped on his way from London to Vienna. They lived, it would occur to her long afterward, as two melodies in a piece of composition. The counterpoint worked at times, and at others created only dissonance, blurring the line between polyphony and cacophony. Yet the two melodies—the two lives—held on to each other. It would not matter that their marriage was the end of their love, or that its dissolution was the end of their collaboration. Some musician—divine or careless, who could tell—had placed them in the same composition. Even John’s death could only be a rest, and after it his melody would continue alongside hers, da capo, da capo. Only her death would put fine in place.)