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718 pages, Paperback
First published April 11, 2017

DO AS YOU LIKE,
WHATEVER SUITS YOU BEST—
I WILL BURY HIM MYSELF.
— Sophocles, Antigone
“He told me once that although he had never talked about himself enough, the story of his life could be found in his music. I understood what he meant—I often think the same way of my paintings. When Stoyan Lazarov played his violin, it sounded exactly as I think his own voice would have, if he had talked more. He said the violin should be able to tell the truth and it should be able to cry.”
“He told us about Rome, where his father met him on holiday a few years before, and had bought him his violin—this one, the best he’d owned—a gleaming piece of wood shaped by Giuseppe Alessandri. Allesandri, he said, was born in 1824 and was a student of the great Lorenzo Storioni of Cremona. Stoyan’s violin had been made in the 1860s, during the turmoil that formed Italy.”
“The violin sang ‘Romano o morte,’ and it wailed for the mountains of dead in an American Civil War across the sea, and for Paris glittering with the Second Empire. It rose and fell with voices reading Victor Hugo aloud by whale oil, and it sang about dynamite, about Ottomans and Englishmen falling under their horses in the Crimea, and the feet of crowds shuffling through international expositions.”
“What is the meaning of such suffering?