Of Interest To Me Only in the Modern World

Just imagine how perfectly isolated, utterly alone, this makes me!  I'm listening to an 18th century flute concerto on NPR (tuned in in the middle--I suspect--and indeed it is) by Joachim Quantz. Yesterday I tuned in to the middle of another stunningly beautiful flute concerto which turned out to've been written by Friedrich der Grosse Himself.  Even if Mr. Quantz did give him pointers--on its merits, it's an excellent, quirkily original piece of work; I would never have guessed that a mere König could have written anything so wunderschön.   I hear these things; I know, not only that they are beautiful, but I appreciate them.  I guess sometimes correctly who wrote them.  And I am filled with contempt for the witless screaming-nigger-noise that the Modern World imagines Music is, and jerks itself around to the pounding, relentless Beat (beat, beat) of, with an expression of utter, vacant Soullessness.  On the other hand, when I behold these pretty, sad children--tatooed, pierced, mutilated--I can bear to see the visible marks of torture and disfigurement with which they have afflicted themselves, only by knowing--or having reason to believe--that they have not felt them.