well have once heralded the entire creation, and the chaos of the finale which really signifies a prelude, seems to give birth to new stars.
Above the frowning abyss of despair, above the dark streams of tears and blood, above the broad-boughed willows, which weep by the graves of heroes and enclose an immeasurable graveyard, the king-spirit of the nation whose gaze is fixed rigidly upon its resurrection, gloomily broods in proud and sombre power.
Every paraphrase whatsoever of Chopin's work would, I clearly realise, be meaningless, if it were a question of emphasising its beauty and greatness,—my only object, when I ventured to transpose Chopin's tone into words, was to extract therefrom the true primordial tone of the Polish soul which has become embodied in Chopin's music. . . .
In Chopin's music the foreigner will gain the clearest insight into the most significant factor of Polish culture.
The astonishing synthesis of the subtlest culture of the West with the infinitely profound emotional culture of the Slav. Synthesis of the eminent spiritual culture, which centuries had built up, with the sublime culture of the heart, which to this degree is peculiar only to the Slav; a culture of the heart, which is so saturated with profoundest, darkest emotional excess, that it is sometimes lost in the dusk of mystical ascensions,
