1952: American composer John Cage (1912-1992) presented to the public the composition 4 '33''or 4 minutes and thirty seconds of silence. Silence, Cage says, "is that aspect of sound that can be expressed by the sound of her absence, both positively and negatively." "What listening" to 4'33 "some believed was silence, as it ignores how to listen, is full of sounds accidentali.Alla first performance was heard during the first movement, the wind blowing outside. During the second movement drops of rain began to tap on the roof, and during the third produced the same people all sorts of interesting sound or talking out of the room. "
2009: Kripax Italian composer (1982 -), introduces the public the composition 4 '36'', or four minutes and thirty seconds of silence. The silence in the recorded track is complete, digitally generated. The problem for the public is the same: silence can be heard? An 'other issue is the copyright: Kripax can play the silent "Cage", without committing plagiarism? In his defense Kripax says: "My silence is purer than that of Cage, and also has a longer life. This should be enough to say that my silence is more silent in every way to that of Cage."
1952: The American composer John Cage (1912-1992) presented to the public the composition 4.33, or 4 minutes and thirty-three seconds of silence. Silence, Cage wrote, "is that aspect of sound that can be expressed by both the sound of its absence, both positively and negatively." "What you listening to" 4'33 "some believed was silence, because they ignored how to listen, is full of accidental sounds. The first performance was heard during the first movement, the wind blew outside. During the second movement drops Rain began to tap on the roof, and the third during the same people produced all sorts of interesting sounds or talking out of the room. "
2009: the italian composer Kripax (1982 - ), presented to the public the composition 4' 36'', or 4 minutes and thirty-six seconds of silence. The silence in the recorded track is total, digitally generated. The problem for the listener is the same: silence can be heard? Another problem the copyright Concerns: Kripax can play without incurring the silence of Cage to plagiarism? In His defense Kripax says: "My silence is Purer Than Cage's silence, Also Has a Longer duration. That Should suffice to say That my silence is more silent Than Cage in every way."
A writing I learned from friends, but without them. You taught me to love , but without you. Life with his pain teaches me to live, but almost without life, and to work but always out of work. So then I learned to cry, but without tears, to dream, but I do not see dream inhuman figures. no longer limit my patience. I have no patience for nothing more, nothing remains most of our luck. Even I had to learn to hate and friends, and you and the whole life.
There are those who, unlike me, do not despair, that health and strength and virtue and good Fortunately, we've got to die after many beautiful days, filled with many things of this world or another world; or after so many days and the only joy poorer days. I am happy, in this world, only this and hope that I fate confers with his pests and mercy and sorrows a single best day of all these my painful days, or my pain forget for a single day.
(How long was my illness, and much love my life in that was close and crumpled like a rag, and I pale and tired as a world whole should bear all on my back, I struggled so much, I imagined worlds all very mild and more of my birds, so that m'affliggeva and tormented, and ravings of hidden truth and quiet of the skies clear thoughts where more than my soul could be broken dwell, and could not find these things that are not, and suffers)
My ailments have calmed, and I got a job. They are less anxious and more nice, and I'm lucky. 's spring now and spend time free to turn down the street. I look who knew no pain and I remember the lost days. Waste my time with friends and suffer a little for my loneliness. Now I have time to read to write and maybe make a trip, and maybe not. I'm happy and sad. They are distracted and wandering I realize what is lost.
M'innamoro of things near and far, work and are respected, then I also found a slight edge, in this world that you can not escape. Maybe discover a new law universal, and other things and men will learn to love. But I have nostalgia of impossible things, I want to go back . Tomorrow I leave, and I drink and I see chimeras and feel things disappear far and near.
But beyond these truths, and within these empty words I'm fit. Now I only know that I am sitting at this table , for many good reasons time and I hate to spend. And enough for me without even curse. It is not losing the game, and then makes good food. martial art I want to learn, that always can linger to hurt. An abstract theater of shots and thoughts per i giorni neri. E poi le gioie e insieme con gli amici far niente.
I am leading a quiet life in Mike’s Place every day watching the champs of the Dante Billiard Parlor and the French pinball addicts. I am leading a quiet life on lower East Broadway. I am an American. I was an American boy. I read the American Boy Magazine and became a boy scout in the suburbs. I thought I was Tom Sawyer catching crayfish in the Bronx River and imagining the Mississippi. I had a baseball mit and an American Flyer bike. I delivered the Woman’s Home Companion at five in the afternoon or the Herald Trib at five in the morning. I still can hear the paper thump on lost porches. I had an unhappy childhood. I saw Lindbergh land. I looked homeward and saw no angel. I got caught stealing pencils from the Five and Ten Cent Store the same month I made Eagle Scout. I chopped trees for the CCC and sat on them. I landed in Normandy in a rowboat that turned over. I have seen the educated armies on the beach at Dover. I have seen Egyptian pilots in purple clouds shopkeepers rolling up their blinds at midday potato salad and dandelions at anarchist picnics. I am reading ‘Lorna Doone’ and a life of John Most terror of the industrialist a bomb on his desk at all times. I have seen the garbagemen parade in the Columbus Day Parade behind the glib farting trumpeters. I have not been out to the Cloisters in a long time nor to the Tuileries but I still keep thinking of going. I have seen the garbagemen parade when it was snowing. I have eaten hotdogs in ballparks. I have heard the Gettysburg Address and the Ginsberg Address. I like it here and I won’t go back where I came from. I too have ridden boxcars boxcars boxcars. I have travelled among unknown men. I have been in Asia with Noah in the Ark. I was in India when Rome was built. I have been in the Manger with an Ass. I have seen the Eternal Distributor from a White Hill in South San Francisco and the Laughing Woman at Loona Park outside the Fun House in a great rainstorm still laughing. I have heard the sound of revelry by night. I have wandered lonely as a crowd. I am leading a quiet life outside of Mike’s Place every day watching the world walk by in its curious shoes. I once started out to walk around the world but ended up in Brooklyn. That Bridge was too much for me. I have engaged in silence exile and cunning. I flew too near the sun and my wax wings fell off. I am looking for my Old Man whom I never knew. I am looking for the Lost Leader with whom I flew. Young men should be explorers. Home is where one starts from. But Mother never told me there’d be scenes like this. Womb-weary I rest I have travelled. I have seen goof city. I have seen the mass mess. I have heard Kid Ory cry. I have heard a trombone preach. I have heard Debussy strained thru a sheet. I have slept in a hundred islands where books were trees. I have heard the birds that sound like bells. I have worn grey flannel trousers and walked upon the beach of hell. I have dwelt in a hundred cities where trees were books. What subways what taxis what cafes! What women with blind breasts limbs lost among skyscrapers! I have seen the statues of heroes at carrefours. Danton weeping at a metro entrance Columbus in Barcelona pointing Westward up the Ramblas toward the American Express Lincoln in his stony chair And a great Stone Face in North Dakota. I know that Columbus did not invent America. I have heard a hundred housebroken Ezra Pounds. They should all be freed. It is long since I was a herdsman. I am leading a quiet life in Mike’s Place every day reading the Classified columns. I have read the Reader’s Digest from cover to cover and noted the close identification of the United States and the Promised Land where every coin is marked In God We Trust but the dollar bills do not have it being gods unto themselves. I read the Want Ads daily looking for a stone a leaf an unfound door. I hear America singing in the Yellow Pages. One could never tell the soul has its rages. I read the papers every day and hear humanity amiss in the sad plethora of print. I see where Walden Pond has been drained to make an amusement park. I see they’re making Melville eat his whale. I see another war is coming but I won’t be there to fight it. I have read the writing on the outhouse wall. I helped Kilroy write it. I marched up Fifth Avenue blowing on a bugle in a tight platoon but hurried back to the Casbah looking for my dog. I see a similarity between dogs and me. Dogs are the true observers walking up and down the world thru the Molloy country. I have walked down alleys too narrow for Chryslers. I have seen a hundred horseless milkwagons in a vacant lot in Astoria. Ben Shahn never painted them but they’re there askew in Astoria. I have heard the junkman’s obbligato. I have ridden superhighways and believed the billboard’s promises Crossed the Jersey Flats and seen the Cities of the Plain And wallowed in the wilds of Westchester with its roving bands of natives in stationwagons. I have seen them. I am the man. I was there. I suffered somewhat. I am an American. I have a passport. I did not suffer in public. And I’m too young to die. I am a selfmade man. And I have plans for the future. I am in line for a top job. I may be moving on to Detroit. I am only temporarily a tie salesman. I am a good Joe. I am an open book to my boss. I am a complete mystery to my closest friends. I am leading a quiet life in Mike’s Place every day contemplating my navel. I am a part of the body’s long madness. I have wandered in various nightwoods. I have leaned in drunken doorways. I have written wild stories without punctuation. I am the man. I was there. I suffered somewhat. I have sat in an uneasy chair. I am a tear of the sun. I am a hill where poets run. I invented the alphabet after watching the flight of cranes who made letters with their legs. I am a lake upon a plain. I am a word in a tree. I am a hill of poetry. I am a raid on the inarticulate. I have dreamt that all my teeth fell out but my tongue lived to tell the tale. For I am a still of poetry. I am a bank of song. I am a playerpiano in an abandoned casino on a seaside esplanade in a dense fog still playing. I see a similarity between the Laughing Woman and myself. I have heard the sound of summer in the rain. I have seen girls on boardwalks have complicated sensations. I understand their hesitations. I am a gatherer of fruit. I have seen how kisses cause euphoria. I have risked enchantment. I have seen the Virgin in an appletree at Chartres And Saint Joan burn at the Bella Union. I have seen giraffes in junglejims their necks like love wound around the iron circumstances of the world. I have seen the Venus Aphrodite armless in her drafty corridor. I have heard a siren sing at One Fifth Avenue. I have seen the White Goddess dancing in the Rue des Beaux Arts on the Fourteenth of July and the Beautiful Dame Without Mercy picking her nose in Chumley’s. She did not speak English. She had yellow hair and a hoarse voice I am leading a quiet life in Mike’s Place every day watching the pocket pool players making the minestrone scene wolfing the macaronis and I have read somewhere the Meaning of Existence yet have forgotten just exactly where. But I am the man And I’ll be there. And I may cause the lips of those who are asleep to speak. And I may make my notebooks into sheaves of grass. And I may write my own eponymous epitaph instructing the horsemen to pass. Lawrence Ferlinghetti
