The Music of Silence

I have always been interested in artists' rise to fame and a blind opera singer was more intriguing than the rest. Andrea Bocelli voice is mesmerizing to me. I love the fact that he had a dream and never gave up on it even if at times he felt like there was no way that they would ever take flight.

In the foreword of his autobiography, Andrea Bocelli states the reason that he wanted to note his life. It reads as the following:

I feel slightly embarrassed by the idea of attempting an autobiography at this point in my life, although I spent many pleasurable hours writing in my youth. Then, my writing was almost always confined to school assignments, but occasionally I sent letters to faraway friends, composed poems, or indulged in other similar adolescent endeavors. My intention now, if this can be a sufficient justification for a man of my age who suddenly decides to become a writer, is only that of passing some of my free time recounting the story of a very simple life.

My main worry is not that the reader might yawn over these poor scribbled pages or put the book down and go to sleep. Instead, it is that I seem to be observed by two eyes that read my thought while I write. They are the eyes of an old man with a kind face, a watchful expression, and the barely perceptible smile of one who knows the comedy of life so well that he now feels a sense of boredom and detachment. One cannot read the face of such an old man, whose passions are cancelled forever by the inexorable forces of time, and the tenacious work of thought. And yet that serene face, illuminated still, perhaps, by the fire of ideas, seems to judge me severely. Beneath that gaze, I feel ridiculous, intimidated, incapable of anything, while a moment ago I was presumptuous and deluded, like students who believe themselves to be custodians of absolute truths because of a few philosophical notions they have picked up in lectures. With the passing of time, I seem even to see a sense of irony emerging on the face of the old man. I ask myself then, why is he not indulgent with me, as he seems to be with everyone else? Why does he have to take me so seriously?

The reader, who perhaps has by now identified the inquisitor as myself as an old man, knows that his implacable gaze is always fixed upon me, at every moment of the day, and is at the root of my every act, my every decision.

(Foreword, pages v – vi)

He goes on in the introduction and says:

I am in one of my many cells: three yards square, two small couches, a sink, a small table, a closet against the wall. The small room is illuminated by a window that looks out onto the road. It is two in the afternoon and I have to stay here until the show begins. Soon they will call me for a rehearsal; later, for makeup; in the meantime someone will have brought me a cup of coffee. But for the moment I don’t have anything to do.

I forgot: in the small room there is a computer. I think about how it might be able to help me pass the time. I could write, maybe tell a story: my life, for example. But as soon as it forms, this thought fills me with embarrassment. I haven’t written since I was a boy. Writing seemed a pleasant pastime to me then. Who knows what effect it would have on me today? I warn myself about being distracted from the performance I must give in a few hours. It’s not easy, but one cannot live waiting to walk onstage. I get up and pace up and down the small room, in search of memories, nostalgia, people distant images…

And unexpectedly a young boy in shorts comes to mind with nervous legs, a bit twisted, always covered in bruises and scabs, pitch-black hair, a face with regular features, and a knowing expression, unpleasant according to one’s point of view. I believe I can describe him as a normal young boy, or rather one with a common enough mixture of virtues and defects.

Normal in spite of a physical impairment, on which I must necessarily linger for a moment, if I want to speak of him.

Am I that young boy?

In some ways yes, but in others no, considering that I have changed so much since then. To speak of him as “me” somehow feels false, something I’d be embarrassed to do. I will pretend, therefore, that this book deals with someone else.

I speak as though I am speaking of Amos. Amos is the name I have given him. I have also given him a family name: Bardi.

(Introduction, pages vii – viii)

Those thoughts alone were sufficient enough to capture my attention. But as I went on and read about his extraordinary childhood and rise to stardom I gained a deep respect for Andrea Bocelli and what he had to go through in order to obtain his dreams. While submerging myself into the Tuscany sun that I imagined while reading I felt a calm and peace that I have not felt in a very long time. My dreams are on hold and struggling to be set free and I realized that no matter what I think about myself or what others think about my ideas they deserve to be tested and tried. My self-happiness would be greater, I believe, if I just let myself go.

I really enjoyed this book and am very glad that I own a copy of it. You should read it. If not to learn more about Andrea Bocelli's life, but to "pass the time" as he says.