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204 pages, Paperback
First published April 22, 1999
I repeat: I find it an impossible book today. I declare that it is badly written, clumsy, embarrassing, with a rage for imagery and confused in its imagery, emotional, here and there sugary to the point of effeminacy, uneven in pace, lacing the will to logical cleanliness, very convinced and therefore too arrogant to prove its assertions, mistrustful even of the propriety of proving things, a book for the initiated, ‘music’ for those who baptised in the name of music, who, from the very beginning, are linked to one another by shared, rare experiences of art, a sign by which blood-relations in artibus could recognise one another—an arrogant and wildly enthusiastic book which, from the outset, shuts itself off from the profane vulgus of the ‘educated’ even more than from the ‘common people’, how also one which, as its effect proved and continues to prove, knows well enough how to seek out its fellow-enthusiasts and to entice them on to new, secret paths and places to dance. —An Attempt at Self-Criticism