About
It is widely assumed that I, Nicolas de Lenfent, have been dead for centuries, lost in the widespread flames of the French Revolution, driven to them by madness. What a surprise, then, to be reading my words here, non? While I freely admit to still having intermittent bursts of madness, they are not as frequent as you may have been led to believe. But then, Lestat has quite the penchant for exaggeration, as readers familiar with his Chronicles know, and know very well.While it is true that I am quite jaded and cynical, and seem to have a gift for sarcasm, the darkness that he described is not all that is in me. My passion for the violin runs far deeper than he could ever know, like a river cutting a dense evergreen forest in two, harboring all sorts of life that is left unseen unless you stand in it, waist-deep and allowing yourself to feel it, your feet raking through the sand and being cushioned by smooth river stones, little fish and water creatures brushing past your fingers. I have this passion for the violin, and for music, that supersedes all others. Perhaps my...mental illness, shall we say?...fuels this passion. I find that I am most able to compose and perform, and do it well, when I am in the throes of an extreme emotion: self-loathing, fear, hatred, love. It gives me reason to create the music I cherish so much.
I love big cities and I frequent them, holding properties in many. My favorite is in the capital of the United States, Washington D.C., amidst the cherry trees and the white soaring Greek revival monuments. Listen for the sound of a violin, played with dark fire and the passion of Hamlet's "wild and whirling words", set into liquid music...and then run. Run far and run fast, mortal. My passion for the blood comes a close second to my passion for the violin.
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