waving adieu, adieu, adieu

to turn
to the ever-jubilant weather, to sip
One’s cup and never to say a word,
Or to sleep or just to lie there still,
Just to be there, just to be beheld,
That would be bidding farewell, be bidding 
farewell.
My adieu to Paris Transatlantic, Dan Warburton’s labor of love for 13 years (along with, of course, a raft of fellow travelers – proofers, contributors of concert and record reviews, and host of an archive of potent interviews). 
P.T. has been a destination site for me for many years, as well as being the first place I published on-line; Warburton fronts as being an unsentimental, preternaturally acerbic bloke – true as far as it goes – he has also been my email advocate, encouraging me to write and publish for the past 7 – 8 years. I happen to know he has extended the same generosity to a few others, so take his on-line piss-and-vinegar persona with a dose of salt.
Two more things that matter to me about Monsieur Warburton – first, he grips as an imperative one demand of the music and films he loves, and that is that they somehow move him – not, to be clear, via cheap affective devices, but by owning an authentic power to change the listener/viewer; secondly, many years ago he sent me a copy of Radigue’s Adnos I-III, each jewel case cover bearing his young son Max’s crayon line drawings.
Je voudrais vous remercier pour tout ce que vous avez fait pour moi, sir!
 
Wallace Stevens, Waving Adieu, Adieu, Adieu

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