An Instrument
of the Devil
The sound of the violin, said Proust, is like
"the devil immersed in a stoup of holy water,"
Which is why, listening to Shaham play Teufeldanz
With its exciting agony, its crackling heat—
Bow and strings barely keeping up—
I know the attraction of that desperate, scalded
rebel.
He may live now only in the violin. He may rise up
Only in the listener. But who can say,
Swept up in those hopping, twisting, mocking notes,
He doesn't exist? That, no longer at the crossroads,
He has stopped bartering—a talent for a soul—
From within the soul itself, from the scrape of
catgut?
Copyright © 2005 Robert Champ