Un des poèmes du dernier livre de Viggo a été posté sur la page d'accueil de Perceval Press :
SONATA IN FA MINOR, OPUS 6, BY SCRIABIN for Sabina Spielrein
The iridescent bones of your contained struggle remain, shards of landscapes you reduced to fit in your fragile left hand, flower of simplicity, ash of implosion. Dawn painted you slowly wandering under your private deluge, stopping every three or four steps to keep ideas from asphyxiating, to fix in your mind their resounding rhythm. Some of those who strolled sure of their umbrellas and plain purposes saw you as arrogant, impious, ungrateful. Their disdainful glances must have annoyed you, but obviously not enough to heed them, sacrifice your adventure, or taint the surliness of your pride. You washed your head and went out early to kill, erasing the movements that sought to name you and keep you from dreaming. You renounced paths, methods, all established and celebrated consolations. Did you end up dizzied by so much imperfection, austere tool, flight, by your complete freedom?
What difference is there between belonging in every place and belonging in none, or in just a few, in one lone face, house, homeland, hand, crevice, syllable, refrain, season, illness? We are separated by our inheritance of skin, topography, climate, cultural traditions, historical moments, upbringing, and perhaps by not wanting or being able to choose for ourselves. Can we attribute equal value to all points of view, to the ways of seeing and not seeing? What is not lost persists, and so does what is lost. Have I not incorporated something of yours in my own dreaming—the quality of your silences, the green that unites, the blue that opens my eyes, the red that crushes the truce of the final chord?
Even as I partially admire and identify with your contentiousness, I wonder if it was worth making such a fuss, wasting so much energy. Did you deprive yourself of music only you could have found? Did so much harm have to be done to those who loved you unconditionally? Is there remorse, nostalgia, did you push away an abundance of beautiful orphan melodies with your angry wind? It seems that you continued insisting that this was in fact your exact mess, the easiest music, the melody most yours, the precise and hermetic echo of your unchained intuition.
You come to sing in the night, waking me with your innocent voice, lying beside me as if for the first time, perhaps believing me to be another man, woman. The wind is no longer blowing, and we distinguish the whisper of waves perishing on the shore. You tell me that people prevent you from crossing the roads, that their voices distract you. I repeat without flourish your unmistakable cadence to see if you find it familiar. You correct me without anger, attentive as the delicate boy you still are, forgiving this clumsy tampering with your pure invention. Idleness is priceless, you say, being the seed of our solitude.
I don't know when the song ends. By and by I begin to realise that I am doing nothing, that I am seated alone in the kitchen, with cold fingers, cloaked in the shadow that occasionally is cut by the window's and the blonde piano's reflections of taxis keeping their promises down below. I taste the chill breeze that awakened me, savour the absence of longing and anxiety. Little by little the church and its trees appear, the bicycles and the lovers on the far side of the square. I believe I've heard you well, and have delighted once more in imagining your wingbeats and glides. As always I've been surprised by the daring of your composition, the impeccable pauses that underline the ephemeral quality of the tune, the resonance of each drop of inspiration.
—V.M.
Une traduction peut-être plus tard.
