I guess the two Manifesto, Communicating Vessels, Mad Love, and

The words of Trevor Dunn carry the resonance of one who has wandered through many worlds of expression: “I guess the two Manifesto, Communicating Vessels, Mad Love, and some of his poetry made a significant mark on me but as far as bringing a literary element into the music I see it as a much broader assimilation.” In this reflection, Dunn speaks of influence and transformation, of how literature and poetry seep into sound and rhythm, not as mere decoration, but as part of a larger merging of arts. His words remind us that no single work, no single voice, defines the artist’s path; rather, art is a great river of assimilation, fed by countless streams of inspiration.

The ancients, too, knew this truth. In the days of Greece, the lines between art forms were not rigid but fluid. The plays of Sophocles were at once literature, music, and ritual. The verses of Sappho were both poetry and song, inseparable from the lyre’s melody. Dunn’s insight belongs to this lineage: the recognition that the literary element in music is not the borrowing of a single phrase, but the weaving together of many voices into one broader fabric of meaning.

He names specific works—Manifesto, Communicating Vessels, Mad Love—all tied to the Surrealist André Breton, whose writings sought to open the unconscious, to break barriers between reality and dream. For Dunn, these works were sparks, leaving their mark upon his imagination. Yet he is careful to say they are not the whole fire. They are part of a greater assimilation, for the true artist is not a disciple of one master, but a wanderer who gathers fragments from many, and transforms them into something new.

History provides examples of such assimilation. Consider the great composer Beethoven, who was influenced not only by music but by literature, philosophy, and the revolution of his time. His Ninth Symphony, with its choral finale set to Schiller’s Ode to Joy, became not just music but a vessel of literary and political vision. Beethoven did not simply “borrow” from poetry; he assimilated it, blending words and sound until the two were inseparable, creating something larger than either alone. In the same way, Dunn suggests that true artistry emerges when influences are merged, not merely referenced.

The deeper meaning of his statement is this: art is never isolated. The poet may be influenced by music, the musician by literature, the painter by philosophy. These elements, once drawn in, are transformed, assimilated, made part of a broader vision. To speak of a “literary element” in music, then, is not to point to one text or one influence, but to honor the vast network of inspirations that shape the artist’s soul. The greatness lies not in imitation, but in integration.

The lesson is clear: do not confine yourself to one stream of inspiration. Do not cling to a single voice as though it were the entirety of truth. Instead, open yourself to the many vessels—books, music, dreams, conversations, even sorrows—and let them flow into you. But do not stop there: assimilate them, transform them, so that what emerges is not a copy of others, but an original work infused with many spirits. This is how an artist creates something living, something greater than the sum of its parts.

Practical actions follow: read broadly, listen widely, explore disciplines beyond your own craft. If you are a musician, read poetry; if a writer, study painting; if a philosopher, listen to song. Let these influences enter you, but do not be a servant to them. Instead, digest them as the body digests food, turning them into strength of your own. In this way, your art will not be narrow, but expansive, and like Dunn, you will find that what shapes you is not a single work, but a vast and living assimilation.