The Greeks considered music as an artistic expression of mathematics; according to Pythagoras, the Sun, the Moon, and other planets rotate harmoniously around the Earth, and the distance between the celestial bodies corresponds to musical intervals: this is the great music of spheres. In the Middle Ages, music is one of the arts of the quadrivium, along with arithmetic, geometry and astronomy; i. it is part of the sciences. Yet in the sixteenth century, a composer named Zarlino said, "The music is sounding." So until yesterday, this art was considered an essential element of the universe, a strict and prior knowledge of life. But later, society increasingly focusing on the utilitarian and the technological, not the scientific, casts out the music (and all the arts in general) into a place that is more tangible, more decorative, more surrogate, while to create this aberration called "ecological music," noise pollution that falls into your ears in elevators, waiting or stores and suggests that according to various investigations it serves to induce some psychological reactions: to make you buy and consume more, to say, or reassure you in a moment of tension, as in the dentist, although a friend, the writer Miguel-Anxo Murado, often says that every time he hears these cheerful and stupid words that sound at take-offs and landings of planes, for example, hairs are at the top , because they are indicative of a certain danger.
To me, music is something essential, just like reading. I do not know if I can live without both of them. But there are people who, for my absolute awe and mistrust, reject this art. The most famous is the great writer Vladimir Nabokov, one of my literary masters. In her beautiful autobiographical book Habla, the memoir states: "The music, I am sorry to say, only affects me as a random sequence of more or less irritating sounds." He continues to deal with several more phrases with his proverbial pedanticity, which means that the whole of mankind makes the mistake of continuing to enjoy this tedious noise. Poor Nabokov: Maybe his hostile character came from there, from this brutal lack, from this trouble. How can we not love music if our whole existence is related to the primary rhythm of blood ripples.
I already say that I like so much that when I listen to music I can not do other things (except walking or driving) because I concentrate too much on it. Of course, I can not write. Writer Clara Sanchez told me she was working before listening to her favorite recordings. "But I stopped doing it because I realized that I thought I was writing exciting and beautiful pages that when I re-read them the next day without the soundtrack, I thought they were really bad." What a great and wise comment: music is like a drug, it takes us and hypnotizes us. This leads us, for better and worse, to a parallel state of reality: military music that stifles and entrains generations of young people with a smile on their lips; this is the romantic music that makes you believe that you are in love, from which serious consequences can be derived; or melancholic music prompts you to sit under the bed and start crying for three days. Yes, music can manipulate us, but it also has the great effect of making us bigger and better than us. Pythagoras was right: these lofty sounds unite us with the universe and save us from our weak personality. How many times did I feel on the verge of discovering the secret of life while listening to a particularly emotional passage. And many of the scenes from my novels come from light knots that happened to me during a concert. Music is something so essential human, in short, that it has all the ingredients of what we are: beauty, violence, peace, joy, pain, feeling. My last moment will be accompanied by the last heartbeat.