There are still faint glimmers of civilization left in this barbaric slaughterhouse that was once known as humanity.

My latest for CiRCE is a brief retrospective (and appreciation) of Harold Budd, who died this week at the age of 84.

“The perfect novel has three parts. In the first part, you describe everything you have ever learned about people. In the second part, you describe everything that has happened since the French Revolution began. In the third part, you offer readers a little perspective.”

-advice given to me on writing the perfect novel from Michael Mann in a dream last night

At the age of 84, my favorite living musician, Harold Budd, has died. I was listening to his record The Plateaux of Mirror when I received a text from a friend informing me of his repose.

For the last several years of my life, Harold Budd has been a regular fixture of my days. His The White Arcades (1988) and Lovely Thunder (1986) have been my regular companions while writing more than a hundred essays and a good portion of Something They Will Not Forget was invented while Abandoned Cities (1984) played on headphones. Budd began his career in the avant garde, but quickly became a close observer of nature and made music which modeled the serenity and sublimity of the Earth.

He was a mild man who created mild and contemplative music for a tumultuous period of human history. I admire him deeply and mourn his passing. Memory Eternal, Harold Budd, servant of the Lord.