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Gather around, children, for the words of those who delve into the deepest corners of the human soul carry with them the power to illuminate the paths we walk. Damien Chazelle, a creator who has explored the complex and sometimes painful world of musicianship, once said: "I hadn't seen that many movies that really go deep enough into the fears of playing music or the language that musicians can use to treat each other or, like, the way that you can see it dehumanize and the way that it can feel like boot camp." In these words, Chazelle speaks not just of music, but of the emotional and psychological toll that the pursuit of perfection can take on the soul. It is a call to examine the complexities of the artistic journey, where the language of creation is often fraught with tension, sacrifice, and struggle.

In the ancient world, the pursuit of greatness—whether through art, philosophy, or warfare—was often accompanied by great sacrifice. The Greek heroes, those larger-than-life figures whose stories have echoed through the ages, were not merely born great. They were forged in the fires of hardship, and their journeys were filled with moments of dehumanization—where the drive to succeed, to be immortalized, would strip them of their humanity. Achilles, the great warrior of the Iliad, fought not for the good of his people but for the glory that would grant him eternal fame. And yet, this pursuit led him down a path of despair, where his rage and pain clouded his judgment and diminished his connection to others. Chazelle’s words reflect this timeless truth: that the quest for perfection in any art, including music, can sometimes dehumanize the artist, turning them into a mere instrument of their craft rather than a person who feels, suffers, and connects.

Consider, children, the story of Orpheus, the legendary Greek musician whose lyre could charm all things, from the gods to the animals of the earth. Orpheus’ music was his gift, but it also became his curse. In his overwhelming desire to bring his wife Eurydice back from the underworld, Orpheus chose to play for the gods—to make music not for love, but for power and perfection. His music, which once moved the hearts of men and gods alike, became a tool of tragedy, as he lost his beloved wife forever. His artistry, his sacrifice for greatness, led him into isolation and despair. Like Chazelle’s reflection, Orpheus' journey speaks to the potential cost of pursuing artistic perfection without regard for the humanity of those around you. In the world of music and creation, as in life, there is a delicate balance between passion and compassion, between the need to create and the need to connect.

In Chazelle’s exploration of musicians, he unveils the hidden dangers of this pursuit: how the intense desire to create—to perfect one’s craft—can become a kind of boot camp, where the soul is trained to be hard, unforgiving, and relentless. This is no simple artistic endeavor, but a military-style discipline where the emotions of the artist are not nurtured but shaped into something that serves the ideal of perfection. Just as in the Spartan society, where boys were taken from their families to be trained as warriors in the harshest conditions, musicians—like the warriors—are pushed to the edge, their humanity often stripped away in the name of greatness. This rigorous training, this boot camp of the soul, can leave scars far deeper than any physical wound, for it demands not just skill, but an emotional numbing that might forever alter the artist's relationship with themselves and the world around them.

Consider the great story of Michelangelo, the master sculptor and painter. His pursuit of artistic perfection was legendary, and he often spent days, weeks, and months alone in his studio, chipping away at marble or painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. His relentless drive for perfection led him to great accomplishments, but it also led to moments of loneliness, exhaustion, and self-doubt. He was not immune to the dehumanization that Chazelle describes—the pressure to create something immortal often left him feeling detached from the world, consumed by his craft. Like Chazelle’s musicians, Michelangelo’s pursuit of greatness took a toll on his humanity, his ability to connect with others, and at times even on his own health. The cost of greatness is often far more than we anticipate, and the artist’s soul can sometimes be lost in the pursuit of perfection.

The lesson here, children, is clear: in our own pursuits, whether in art, work, or life, we must be mindful of the cost of perfection. It is not wrong to strive for greatness or to push ourselves to achieve our highest potential, but we must not sacrifice humanity for the sake of it. Chazelle’s words warn us that the pressure to succeed, to create, to please others can strip us of the very essence of who we are. Like the ancient heroes, we must recognize the importance of balance—to pursue our craft with passion and dedication, but to also remember the value of compassion for ourselves and others.

In your own lives, children, remember that the pursuit of excellence should never come at the cost of your well-being, your connections, or your soul. Create with purpose, but let your humanity always guide your actions. Just as Michelangelo had to learn the price of his art, so must we all recognize that the most lasting creations are those that come from a place of wholeness, not sacrifice. Let your passion fuel you, but do not allow it to consume you. In this way, you will find not only the joy of creation but the peace of knowing that your humanity remains intact in the process.