Noise has one advantage. It drowns out words.

Milan Kundera :: Nesnesitelná lehkost bytí / Neznosna lahkost bivanja / Unbearable Lightness of Being

Za Franza je glasba umetnost, ki se še najbolj približuje dionizijski lepoti, pojmovani kot opoj. // Franz ne razlikuje med tako imenovano resno in zabavno glasbo. Takšno razlikovanje se mu zdi staromodno in licemerno. Enako rad posluša rock in Mozarta. Glasbo ima za osvobajajočo: osvobaja ga samote, zaprtosti in knjižničnega prahu, iz njegovega telesa širom odpira dveri, skozi katere duša izstopa na pot vesoljnega bratenja. // Povečerjala sta, se povzpela v sobo, se ljubila, potem pa so se Franzu na pragu sna začele razpletati misli. Spomnil se je bučne glasbe pri večerji in prešinilo ga je: “Eno prednost pa hrup le premore; v njem ni slišati besed.” Domislil se je, da že od mladosti ne dela drugega, kot govori, piše, govori, predava, si izmišlja stavke, išče pravšnje izraze, jih popravlja, tako da navsezadnje nobena beseda ni več zanesljiva, njihov pomen se razkraja, izgubljajo in se drobijo v smeti, plevel, prah, pesek, ki mu blodi po možganih, mu povzroča glavobol in nespečnost, da je že ves bolan od tega. In v tistem trenutku se mu je nejasno pa neodjemljivo zahotelo neznanske glasbe, absolutnega hrupa, čudovitega in radostnega trušča, ki bi vse preplavil, prepojil, zatrl, hrumota, v katerem bi za vselej utonile bolehnost, nečimrnost in ničevost besed. Glasba je zanikanje stavkov, glasba je antibeseda! Zahotelo se mu je, da bi se združil s Sabino v nikoli končanem objemu, da bi molčal in nikoli več, ne izgovoril niti stavka, da bi se mu naslada prelila v sladostrasten vrisk glasbe. In v tem blaženem namišljenem hrušču je zaspal.

For Franz music was the art that comes closest to Dionysian beauty in the sense of intoxication. No one can get really drunk on a novel or a painting, but who can help getting drunk on Beethoven's Ninth, Bartok's Sonata for Two Pianos and Percussion, or the Beatles' White Album? Franz made no distinction between classical music and pop. He found the distinction old-fashioned and hypocritical. He loved rock as much as Mozart.
He considered music a liberating force: it liberated him from loneliness, introversion, the dust of the library; it opened the door of his body and allowed his soul to step out into the world to make friends. He loved to dance and regretted that Sabina did not share his passion. // After dinner, they went upstairs to their room and made love, and as Franz fell asleep his thoughts began to lose coherence. He recalled the noisy music at dinner and said to himself, Noise has one advantage. It drowns out words. And suddenly he realized that all his life he had done nothing but talk, write, lecture, concoct sentences, search for formulations and amend them, so in the end no words were precise, their meanings were obliterated, their content lost, they turned into trash, chaff, dust, sand; prowling through his brain, tearing at his head, they were his insomnia, his illness. And what he yearned for at that moment, vaguely but with all his might, was unbounded music, absolute sound, a pleasant and happy all-encompassing, overpowering, window-rattling din to engulf, once and for all, the pain, the futility, the vanity of words. Music was the negation of sentences, music was the anti-word! He yearned for one long embrace with Sabina, yearned never to say another sentence, another word, to let his orgasm fuse with the orgiastic thunder of music. And lulled by that blissful imaginary uproar, he fell asleep.