Berlin, January 2013

Writing an opera – or writing anything, is all about facing truth.

If the truth is not recognised, it all goes wrong. If I lie to myself, I will write badly. If I flirt with myself, all I become is bad writing. If I avoid the truth, the text and subsequently the music becomes elusive and runny.

The truth of music. The truth is music. Music history. The truth of opera. The truth of Peer Gynt. Most important: the truth about myself.

Once I am able to capture this bright, clear sense of truth, which watches oneself, I suddenly write correctly. The sentences are right. The words are as correct – as they are rooted in poetry.

There are stretches of roads, which incline so steep, that one inevitably falls and crawls rather than climbs. I encounter this all over again, every morning. I have to push myself to a clearer image of things, I become intensely sexual, I become incredibly impatient. It’s form appears, but I am also doubtful and restless. Am I taking too many liberties?

It is not convenient. Days glitter in their queues of the limited time, and no one will come and assist me – least of all the birds on the roofs.

Above the roofs I see, right from my writing desk, faraway clouds – below them the choreography of tree branches. And a quodlibet with the mute lights of apartments – switching on and off in a perfect rhythm.