4:05 On the page, just a pulse, like a rusty squeeze box, and then suddenly, high above it, an oboe—a single note hanging there, unwavering, until a clarinet took it over, sweetening into a phrase of such delight, filled with such unfulfillable longing, it seemed I was hearing the voice of God.
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Comment by Maximussy
4:05 On the page, just a pulse, like a rusty squeeze box, and then suddenly, high above it, an oboe—a single note hanging there, unwavering, until a clarinet took it over, sweetening into a phrase of such delight, filled with such unfulfillable longing, it seemed I was hearing the voice of God.