Until we’ve all taken siestas
on each of the seven continents,
nobody will have the authority
to say what should and shouldn’t
be called opera. Just try to take
a nap in Antarctica without any
shelter, I dare you. About midway
through attempting to drift off,
you’ll lose function in your extremities,
with your limbs not too far behind.

Only at that moment will you say
to yourself that an opera can be
anything that involves conflict and
some sort of singing. The language
doesn’t even have to be grandiose!
You admit to yourself that this
proposition on the origin of art
is silly anyway, and you die
a cold, enlightened individual.

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