. . . and Mr. Spitzer, though very mournful, should not consider that his great works were truly lost because no one had ever combed the sea of all its music, these great combers rolling, all its reflected stars and starfish riding at high tide, or delved unconsciousness, fishing for that great pearl—for no great musical composition, not even his great music as yet unplayed, had ever been so explicitly written wave after surging wave that, with all its audible and inaudible sounds and sonorous tonal poems touching the feathery clouds and quivering throat cords and tongues of golden bells burning like fire and chromatic colors pale as the colors of the sentinel dolphin dying on the moth-colored rocks and black notes like blackbirds flying overhead to escort him through seas of glassy clouds and great silver bells and trumpets spilling showers of sound and dead keys like his bones, dead bones singing, and waves surging over the empty boat, it could be played as written . . . for none should sound these depths, and it was the music of beginning, and it was the music of ending never ending
