In the end, this question: how do the spiritual principles of monasticism dovetail with the aesthetic principles of modern minimalism?
For Samuel Beckett language was a clutter, a fog, an excess to be ground down to a final minimum of what, perhaps, could be honestly said at all. I have that sense as well, listening to a Gregorian chant, the thread-bareness of honesty, of pure, acerbic essence.
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