j.s.bach spent all his life and his 200+ cantatas trying to communicate with god, trying to portray the divine … but he failed miserably. because what he did –prelude after prelude after sonata after suite after cantata– was actually to portray the human. there is nothing divine in his music, nothing from another world. his music hurts so much, because everything in it is human, all too human.
the same happens with the rigid architecture of his compositions; each of his pieces are pure form, an equation that always resolves by itself, which doesn’t even requires to be formulated. pure maths. patterns and formulas… however, using such a rigid and formal shape he was able to distillate every from of bliss and human suffering. he dried the human being, drop by drop.
all his work is a giant musical encyclopedia of human passions, dissected and displayed each one of them in jars filled with formalin, with their sticked labels, sorted and rigorously placed by their scientific names, with their hundreds of variations and different meanings assorted.
bach prodded us with a pin in his collection of rare insects, and he left away with his butterfly net.