The book remained on my shelf, maturing, as September and October passed. Meanwhile, the will of the composition itself gradually grew stronger, until in late October, it suddenly felt as though the progress of the quartet had come to a halt. I didn’t know how to end it — what to make of all the swirling music, the waves, and the unruly rhythms. Frustration and futile attempts piled up until one afternoon, I collapsed onto the bed and glanced again at Montale’s work. Absentmindedly, I crawled along the bed toward the shelf, picked up the book, and began reading from around Chrysalis. I don’t know what it was — perhaps the accumulated repetitions, gestures, chords, or the tension of pauses from the past weeks echoing in my head — but as I read, I heard the bubbling and sighing sounds of saxophones in Montale’s words:

“Each moment brings new leaves to you (…) a backwash of memories reaches / your heart and almost drowns it.”

(”Ogni attimo vi porta nuove fronde (…) una risacca di memorie giunge / al vostro cuore e quasi lo sommerge.”)

Perhaps Montale’s poem had been working within me all this time — who knows? The most extraordinary thing, however, was that the poem showed me how the composition should end:

“I then think / of the silent sacrifices that uphold / the homes of the living.”

(”Penso allora / alle tacite offerte che sostengono / la case dei viventi”)

The final part is like a gaze cast far back into the past: all prior life received and weighed, glowing faintly in its own diminishing light.

- Olli Moilanen 2024