Another phantom rule - it is unknown who invented it - that can embitter the act of writing, and you know if anything else, to people of an obedient nature, is that circulating idea that repeating words is bad. Repeating words is a crucial tool, a life-giving hammer. Repeating words is the beat, clear, the metric of breathing, the simple act of walking while the body holds. Repetition, as everyone knows, is a natural resource of human speech or the singing of birds that would be foolish to waste, subject to the rules of evil minds, recesses in the cranial cavern. How much individualized resentment, how much loneliness, poor guy, whoever invented, one bad afternoon, the intimidating pseudo-norm against repetition. The song that perhaps erodes the mood of a beardless young writer, who faces the blank paper, and buries a trembling thread - perhaps her own voice - under pompous synonyms, for the sake of obeying this vague principle of authority. Alert - he echoes in his head - repeating words is bad writing.

Now, for example, tell Brahms in the face that it would have been better not to repeat notes. No melodies. Not repeating notes, the dodecaphonics came to mind in their interesting experiment, and we will not say here that when dodecaphonism was institutionalized, the end of so-called cultured music began. That maybe men and women ran away from their contemporary concerts, looking for sounds from past times that had something to do with their two legs. Or the popular music that drinks from the 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, which there are ten of them. We don’t even want to think about what would happen to us if we had a single individualized finger. If the rule of not repeating words had reached the ears of the hands and they, naturally obedient, would have thought no, no, no, no, no and no, I do not repeat saying, that can make the effect I miss vocabulary so to speak.

What would that night be like if Keith Jarrett had controlled himself as he improvised the legendary The Köln concert on the piano and his hands found this chord as deep as the sea, that soft, penetrating sound that still repeats feverishly once and for all. another and thirty more, the ones that are, as if it were with the cosmos or something, to connect us with that kind of oceanic emotion that helps us breathe.