That’s the kind of song which torments with its caress. And the more we surrender to that caress, the harder it becomes to part from its torment. The sharp edge cuts even deeper; just as steel chains dig more deeply into the body the more it resists.
The finale here is the beginning, nowhere completed, always open. A projection into the unmeasurable. In their initial arrangement these songs cannot ‘end’ at all, and one feels that they ought not to end, to ‘become what they are’. It’s the kind of song that gives that special impression: that ‘after it there is nothing’, no life – an inexpressible and indescribable impression. In their monotony and eternal inner sameness, in their plumbing of eternally the same depths, they become even stronger, deeper, more powerful. That lack of completion is their very essence. And that is why it is inevitable that there should be that constant sense of something ‘remaining’ which can never be experienced but which unavoidably remains.
(Vladimir Dvorniković, The Psychology of Yugoslav Melancholy, 1917)
Blues-urile astea balcanice au ceva de acasă. Și acasă nu se termină niciodată, chiar dacă ești în mișcare. Au contraire.
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