By Domenico Scarlatti
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Additional resources for 12 sonatas. Transcribed for guitar by Leo Brouwer
And so his sons would do after him, and his sons' sons, to the final generation. I listened, huddled in the darkness, tormented, mistrustful. I knew them, had watched them; yet the things he said seemed true. He sent to far kingdoms for woodsmen, carpenters, metalsmiths, goldsmiths--also carters, victualers, clothiers to attend to the workmen--and for weeks their uproar filled the days and nights. I watched from the vines and boulders of the giants' ruin, two miles off. Then word went out to the races of men that Hrothgar's hall was finished.
I hooted. I thought of my mother's foreign eyes, staring at me from across the room: I thought of the cool, indifferent eyes of the others. I shrieked in fear; still no one came. The sun was up now, and even filtered as it was through the lacy young leaves, it made my head hurt. I twisted around as far as I could, hunting wildly for her shape on the cliffs, but there was nothing, or, rather, there was everything but my mother. Thing after thing tried, cynical and cruel, to foist itself off as my mama's shape--a black rock balanced at the edge of the cliff, a dead tree casting a long-armed shadow, a running stag, a cave entrance--each thing trying to detach itself, lift itself out of the general meaningless scramble of objects, but falling back, melting to the blank, infuriating clutter of not-my-mother.
Nevertheless," I whispered crossly--but I couldn't go on, too conscious all at once of my whispering, my eternal posturing, always transforming the world with words--changing nothing. I still had the snake in my fist. I set it down. It fled. "He takes what he finds," I said stubbornly, trying again. "And by changing men's minds he makes the best of it. " But it sounded petulant; and it wasn't true, I knew. He sang for pay, for the praise of women--one in particular--and for the honor of a famous king's hand on his arm.
12 sonatas. Transcribed for guitar by Leo Brouwer by Domenico Scarlatti