All my life, Bach has been my favourite composer. My first albums were The Brandenburg Concertos - 2, 4 and 5 on one disc, and 1, 3 and 6 on the other. Decca. Whilst my friend Rowan was carving Donny Osmond's name into the lid of her desk with remarkable precision and dedication, I was dreaming of extending my collection to include the Double Violin Concerto.
For the last year, my son has been working his way through the set of Beethoven Piano Sonatas I bought for him last summer. He tells me that Saint-Saens could play them all by the age of ten.
Earlier this week, in retaliation for an impossible question about which waterborne disease I would most like to catch, I asked my son why he prefers Beethoven to Bach.
He told me that Bach doesn't have Beethoven's wild passion, that Bach is too perfect, that Beethoven takes him by surprise: breaks the rules. "Bach wrote like a machine," he said.
The world did not end but it shifted. I felt a loss of innocence. I felt my heart switch allegiance in an instant. Felt the guilt of betrayal. And in that moment I changed my ideas about the tattoo I have been thinking of getting.
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