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”August 18, 1848. We are old cymbals, on which time and circumstances have played their little unhappy trills. La table d’harmonie is perfect, only the strings are torn, some pegs are skipped. The only misfortune is that we are the work of a famous violin maker, a Stradivario sui generis, which is no longer here to fix us. We do not know how to emit new sounds under incapacitated hands and we suffocate inside all that for the lack of a violin maker no one will know how to draw from us anymore.”

In the life of nature there is a role that is creative of humanity. it’s genius. Genius is a highly social charisma, more acute than others, and men feel more expressed in their creativity than if they were to express themselves. Thus, we feel our melancholies better expressed by the rhythms of Chopin or by the verses of Leopardi that even if we ourselves put ourselves to articulate notes or words on the subject. For example: we are melancholy, you and I are melancholy. Let’s put on a Chopin record. A third melancholy friend arrives too, who is whistling a sad little dart invented by him. As soon as Chopin begins , his friend is silent, because Chopin expresses the sadness that unites us so much better than the whistled air extemporaneously. (Luigi Giussani)