Another phantom rule – it is unknown who invented it – that can embitter the act of writing, and who knows if something else, to people of obedient nature, is that idea that circulates around that repeating words is bad. Repeating words is a crucial tool, a life-giving hammer. Repeating words is the heartbeat, of course, the metric of breathing, the simple act of walking as long as the body endures. Repetition, as everyone knows, is a natural resource of human speech or the song of birds that it would be foolish to waste, to submit to the rules of perverse minds, cooked in their cranial cavern. How much individualized resentment, what loneliness, poor guy, whoever invented, one bad afternoon, that intimidating pseudo-norm against repetition. The ditty that perhaps corrodes the spirit of a beardless young writer, who faces blank paper, and buries a trembling thread -perhaps her own voice- under pompous synonyms, for the eagerness to obey this vague principle of authority . Be careful – echoes in her head – repeating words is a bad writer.

Now, for example, tell Brahms to his face that it would have been better if he hadn't repeated notes. Not melodies. Not repeating notes occurred to the twelve-tone people, in their interesting experiment, and we will not say here that when twelve-tone music became institutionalized, the end of so-called art music began. That perhaps men and women fled from his contemporary concerts, in search of sounds from past times that had some relationship with his two legs. Or of popular music that drinks from repetition, natural as the ears, the leaves of the tree, the famous waves of the sea, the tears, the pears, the clocks, the hours, the hands and especially the fingers, being ten . We don't even want to think what would become of us if we had only one individualized finger. If the rule of not repeating words had reached the ears of the hands and they, naturally obedient, had said no, no, no, no, no and no, I do not repeat the finger, which can give the impression that I lack vocabulary so to speak.

What would this very night be, if Keith Jarrett had controlled himself when he improvised the mythical The Köln concert on the piano and his hands found this deep chord like the sea, this soft and penetrating sound that he still repeats feverishly, once and again and thirty more, whatever, like merged with the cosmos or something, to connect with this kind of oceanic emotion that helps us breathe.

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