The moment an artist loses his untamed spirit, he has set foot upon the road to mediocrity. A musician who once stood at the zenith of his field, a genius who once used notes to challenge all the rules, has now draped himself in layers of chains. He has moved himself from Ewigegnade's concert halls to the children's piano room of some pharmaceutical company. The author hates to admit it, but it seems news of the death of legendary musician Czerny's talents is true. Was it to pander to the market? A yielding to reality? Or simply... the drying up of the wellspring of his talent? His recent creations are all, for the most part, mere echoes of his prior paradigms. It is clear he will be hard-pressed to create another piece as stunning as Morgen und Abend. A creative drought is truly a pity, but not something fellow musicians can criticize him too harshly for. —Journal of the Music Society of Leithanien Once more does Czerny stand at the heart of public opinion. Sharp, hypocritical voices. The critics reminisce about the brilliant Czerny who once stood under the spotlight. He may have been somewhat callous, but he interested them far more than the Czerny of today, who teaches piano to children and writes them textbook-style pieces to practice with. As for his naive students, they are aggrieved on his behalf. 'How could they say all that about you, Mr. Czerny?!' In the classroom, the red-faced child stops their performance, unable to stop themself from blurting out their feelings. Czerny does not raise his head, instead continuing to annotate his students' color-splashed score. 'Yes, yes, continue playing.' His voice is calm, yet it carries an unquestionable dignity. 'The arpeggios here are poorly shaped, these three bars are loose and feeble, and as for the tempo of this section... It's almost entirely wrong. Rather than worrying about meaningless noise, you had best focus on your fingers. Are you sure you practiced this week?' The child does not reply. He stops his annotating, looking up at the young face full of grievance, and he sighs. 'The truly useful assessments do not come from the mouths of others, but from here.' The stern teacher points at the metronome, then at the child's ears and chest. 'Do you hear it? This steady back-and-forth—tick, tock, tick, tock. It will not deviate, regardless of who you are, what talents you have, or what mood you are in. Fast is fast. Slow is slow. Wrong is wrong. 'It shall not fawn over you, nor kick you when you're down. 'It asks for absolute focus and consistent practice. 'It serves only music itself, so its assessment is a thousand times more honest than any person. 'Now, from the top!' ... It is late at night, long after the last child has left the piano room. Czerny sits before the piano, alone, with no complicated pieces in mind. He simply turns on the metronome, and to its mechanical tick-tock, meticulous newborn notes ring out from the black and white keys, bound to his heartbeat, bound to the pulse of the music.