They remind us of the facades of the palaces of
Vicenza, which, designed by the pompous and classicizing Palladio, are
executed in stucco and other cheap materials.
And yet, the many works in which you do not show yourself the artist
reveal the plenitude of your powers almost as much as the few in which
you do. The most empty of your many ostentatious orchestral soliloquies,
the most feeble of your many piano-pyrotechnics, the iciest of your
bouquets of icy, exploding stars, the brassiest of your blatant
perorations, the very falsest of your innumerable paste jewels, declare
that you were born to sit among the great ones of your craft. For they
reveal you the indubitable virtuosic genius. The very cleverness of the
imitation of the precious stone betrays how deep a sense of the beauty
of the real gem you had, how expert you were in the trade of diamond
cutter. Into the shaping of your bad works of art there went a
temperament, a playfulness, a fecundity, a capriciousness, a genius that
many better artists have not possessed.
You were indeed profusely endowed, showered with musical gifts as some
cradled prince might be showered with presents and honors. Everything in
your personality was grand, seigneurial, immense in scale. You were born
musical King of Cyprus and Jerusalem and Armenia, titular sovereign of
vast, unclaimed realms.
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