And the gesture of flight is present throughout his music. Throughout
it, one hears the beating of wings. Sometimes, it is the light flutter
of glistening ephemeridae that wheel and skim delightfully through the
limpid azure. Sometimes it is the passionate fanning of wings preparing
themselves for swift sharp ascents. Sometimes, it is the drooping of
pinions that sink brokenly. For all these pieces are "Poemes ailes,"
flights toward some island of the blest. They are all aspirations "vers
la flamme," toward the spiritual fire of joy, toward the paradise of
divine pleasure and divine activity. The Fifth Sonata is like the
marshaling of forces, the mighty spring of some radiant flyer launching
himself into the empyrean. White gleaming pinions wheel and hover in the
godlike close of the "Poeme divine." Impotent caged wings poise
themselves for flight in the mystic Seventh Sonata, beat for an instant,
are ominously still. Sometimes, as in the Eighth Sonata, Scriabine is
like a gorgeous tropical bird preening himself in the quivering river
light. Sometimes he is a seraphic creature outspreading his mighty
pinions to greet some tremendous spirit sunrise. And in those last,
bleeding, agonizing preludes, there is still the breath of flight. But
this time it is another motion.
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