I rewrote what had to be rewritten. I copied for six days, and on the seventh I sat down, looked at it, and saw that it was good—but I had no idea what to do next. I saw plenty of beautiful melodies. Bold, sharp, astonishingly diverse, given the rather limited means. But nothing that would allow me to add anything of my own. I rather had the feeling that whatever I touched here, I would spoil. Destroy, trivialize, make a fool of myself.

And then my eyes fell on the accompanying parts. Not the lead, but the second voice and the bass. Periodically repeated harmonic structures—in the second violins, as double-stops, in the bass, as single notes. Unassuming to the eye, but to the ear magnificent. Supporting the first voice, but not always in the obvious way. Sometimes as if wanting to push it into an abyss, yet catching it at the last moment. With laughter. Cheerful, but a little frightening.

Much of what matters most happens in the background. And in the third plane. That’s what my grandfather would have taught me, if he had ever wanted to teach me anything. Both my grandfathers. And my grandmothers. And probably all the great-grandfathers and great-grandmothers, all the way back to Adam and Eve. To the amoeba.