Antioksüdandid pooltahketes ja parenteraalselt manustatavates ravimvormides

Gustav is a composer. For months he has been carrying on a raging debate with
Säure over who is better, Beethoven or Rossini. Säure is for Rossini.

“I’m not so much for Beethoven qua Beethoven,” Gustav argues, “but as he represents the German dialectic, the incorporation of more and more notes into the scale, culminating with dodecaphonic democracy, where all notes get an equal hearing, Beethoven was one of the architects of musical freedom—he submitted to the demands of history, despite his deafness. While Rossini was retiring at the age of 36, womanizing and getting fat, Beethoven was living a life filled with tragedy and grandeur.”

“So?” is Säure’s customary answer to that one. “Which would you rather do? The point is,” cutting off Gustav’s usually indignant scream, “a person feels good listening to Rossini. All you feel like listening to Beethoven is going out and invading Poland. Ode to Joy indeed. The man didn’t even have a sense of humor. I tell you,” shaking his skinny old fist, “there is more of the Sublime in the snare-drum part to La Gazza Ladra than in the whole Ninth Symphony. With Rossini, the whole point is that lovers always get together, isolation is overcome, and like it or not that is the one great
contripetal movement of the World. Through the machieries of greed, pettiness,
and the abuse of power, love occurs. All the shit is transmuted to gold. The
walls are breached, the balconies are scaled—listen!”

It was a night in early May, and the final bombardment of Berlin was in progress. Säure had to shout his head off. “The Italian girl is in Algiers, the Barber’s in the crockery, the magpie’s stealing everything in singht! The World is rushing together….”

This rainy morning, in the quiet, it seems that Gustav’s German Dialectic has come to its end. He has just had the word, all the way from Vienna along some musicians’
grapevine, that Anton Webern is dead.

Shot in May, by the Americans. Senseless, accidental if you believe in accidents —some mess cook from North Carolina, some late draftee with a .45 he hardly knew how to use, too late for WW II, but not for Webern. The excuse for raiding the house was that Webern’s brother [NB: actually W's son-in-law] was in the black market. Who isn’t? Do you know what kind of myth that’s going to make in a thousand years? The young barbarians coming in to murder the Last European, standing at the far end of what’d been going on since Bach, an expansion of music’s polymorphous perversity till all notes were truly equal at last…. What was there to go after Webern? It was the moment of maximum freedom. It all had to come down. Another Götterdämmerung —”
(…)
“What’s wrong with Rossini?” hollers Säure, lighting up. “Eh?”

“Ugh,” screams Gustav, “ugh, ugh, ugh, Rossini,” and they’re at it again, “you wretched antique. Why doesn’t anybody go to concerts any more? You
think it’s because of the war? Oh no, I’ll tell you why, old man—because the halls are full of people like you! Stuffed full! Half asleep, nodding and smiling, farting through their dentures, hawking and spitting into paper bags, dreaming up ever more ingenious plots against their children—not just their own, but other people’s children too! Just sitting around, at the concert with all these other snow-topped old rascals, just a nice background murmur of wheezing, belching, intestinal gurgles, scratching, sucking, croacking, an entire opera house crammed full of them right up to standing room, they’re doddering in the aisles, hanging off the tops of the highest balconies, and you know what they’re all listening to, Säure? Eh? The’re all listening to Rossini! Sitting there drooling away to some medley of predictable little tunes, leaning forward elbows on knees muttering, ‘C’mon, c’mon then Rossini, let’s get all this pretentious fanfare stuff out of the way, let’s get on to the real good tunes!” Behavior as shameless as eating a whole jar of peanut butter at one sitting. On comes the
sprightly Tancredi tarantella, and they stamp their feet in delight, they pop
their teeth and pound their canes—’Ah, ah! that’s more like it!’ ”
“It’s a great tune,” yells Säure back. “Smoke another one of these and I’ll just play it
for you here on the Bosendorfer.”

From Thomas Pynchons "Gravity's rainbow" something interesting.

And with next song I'd like to send my gratitude and hello's to Mr William Gibson for his great work for the title of this song reminds me his books..not the contents though.