“That slimy tune,” I said, and got a laugh, In the middle of old Franck’s D minor thing: The dotted-rhythm clarinet motif.
Not always slimy. I thought, at fifteen, It went to show that real love was found At the far end of the right country lane.
I thought that, like Keats and the rest of them, Old Franck was giving me a preview of The world, action in art, a paradigm.
Yes, I know better now, or different. Not image: buffer only, syrup, crutch. “Slimy” was a snarl of disappointment.
