Opera, Francis Crick and futility of existence

I hope I do not miss anything this time...

I'm listening to opera: Wagner, Puccini and Mascagni. I've heard this cd almost a million times. It was the first cd I bought in life. Sure, I liked classical music before, but there were no cds, and I listened to LPs. So once I bought my stereo with a cd reader, I bought this "The Best of Opera," a collection that gradually I learned to love it.

Do not know music more powerful and brighter than the overture of "The Master Singers of Nuremberg," by Wagner. It is absolutely perfect. And has many other beautiful pieces in this album. Excuse me, but who does not know classical music, does not know the true beauty in form of sound. It is a kind of person who has not experienced in musical terms the best that humanity can offer.

But there are more: Francis Crick died, one of two fathers that discovered the DNA molecule. Who does not know a little about science does not give a damn about it, but for many people his dead is a great loss. Crick is one more of the great men of twentieth century. He was great not only in genetics, where he worked little. He was particularly great in areas such as neurology, where he sought to understand the human brain, a long research career.

Thinking about Wagner, Crick, operas and books, and works and researchs, about time and memory, I wonder about the futility of life. For billions of people on this damn planet, for the most part, Wagner and Crick did not mean anything. Wagner had spent months composing each note carefully, grinding his work, researching his mythological theme, and all that could be a composer, he left a legacy that can only be enjoyed in a small portion of a small human group. All admit that he was great, that Wagner was a monster of the nineteenth century, but nobody knows anything about his work. Nobody heard anything about him. And if someone heard, turned the nose up. And about Crick, nobody knows, and all his work, the result of thousands of hours of reading, research, thoughtfulness, wit and intelligence, distilled in the form of books and articles, are relegated to a handful of privileged peolple who have the chance to meet a small part of what a great man thought,  a lind of man which there is not one in a hundred million. Brazil, with its mass of humanity,

I feel privileged.

I feel a healthy jealousy to be like the greats.

That a century from now someone might say: humanity does not know the works of Rosenvaldo, but those who know are privileged because they have the best that humanity can produce about that topic.

I wanted to be the reason for this privilege. Just do not know how ...

But wait a time...