Op.1 No.2 “Valse Andante Con Fuoco”

Op. No.1 “Finale” Concerto for Flute Movement Three

Op.1 No.9 “Nocturne”

Op.1 No.8 “Mid-Summer suite for Cello and Piano”

“The coldest fire” For Préludes before the cold

Theme and Variations “The Goose”

Portrait No.1

Portrait No.2

Scherzo for Orchestra

Mass

The City of God for Orchestra and Piano

All of God’s power willed upon the endless cries, many not knowing they had even begun weeping. My marriage was a deep, symbolic one—to music. I remember the days I toiled over the thought, gazing through my room’s windows as I began to watch the world fall into chaos. The Geist of chaos was born, the god leaving his trail upon us, while the snow blew dunes and the world lay quiet. My talent, my pity, my life, my way. The disgust of my own pleasure, my own deepest wish, now brings me to the greatest comedy ever conceived.

I looked out and told the world that I would be alone, so that I might become a great composer and achieve everlasting, eternal love. Thus, I have never truly lacked a friend. The shallow, simple, sweet love—the animal I was and loved so much—has entirely pervaded me. I watch others stare through me, like apes confined to their shallow enclosures. Never could I retract what God has given me. The hell I am in is far from damnation, but it is nowhere near the promise held in the tight hands of God’s everlasting drift.

I looked upon Him. My will is dragged from my hands as my weak heart falters behind bagging eyes and the horrible spite of man. The feeling of talent rushes over me like a baptism, only to become the darkest of sins. And I ask: must this marriage be one of divinity? Perhaps all marriages are—the nasty, horrid, abusive, disgusting marriages. Alas, this love is bonded in blood. For me, this is my own—the most dangerous affair of all. Something most men will never even begin to question, let alone understand.

I’ve seen the animal, and I recollect freedom. Who wouldn’t? I feel my greatest piece of music as though it were willed to me—beautiful. I rejoice in ecstasy and feel the deep love go far beyond nights of shallow whores. All at the cost of youthful wishes. The latter has arrived to stay; its cold embrace watches as everyone I called a friend fades from memory. In times of freedom, to some extent, it was apparent—but all great friends must be forged in quarrelsome war. For what is a friend without war and blood? The same blood in my very own testimony of divine marriage and ritual madness, given by the brothers—the spirit of humanity, the essence of their freedom, and once mine, and maybe His.

This becomes the birth of sacrifice and creation. I separate myself from my own blood, scared of my very marriage becoming an illusionary freedom. That may be purgatory—falsifying romances to become free, when my own inner brilliance must, it must, be the tool to set me beyond freedom. My music, my love, my life—my way.
 
Rhapsody Written December 8th

Otto von Berga

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