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Elihu Vedder, Memory, 1870

And then, late in the second act, Labelle began an aria ("Regard, O son, my flowing tears") that went through me like light through glass. The spun-silver phrases, the soft tides and surges of the orchestra, one exquisitely wrenching interval all poured in, weightless and shining. It went on and on, and was over before it started. "The unconscious is the ocean of the unsayable," the writer Italo Calvino once remarked. I was out there, afloat. That's all I can really tell you about what happened that night. -- Steven Winn, writing in the San Francisco Chronicle, “What happens to us when art connects to the unconscious,” via ArtsJournal.