Most people can't tell now who wrote what. I like that blurring

Hear the words of Thurston Moore, whose life was spent weaving sound into art: “Most people can’t tell now who wrote what. I like that blurring of identities within the band, because it becomes a unified thing that can’t be related to other forms of historical poetry.” In this saying, there lies a deep truth about the unity of creation. For while men often crave glory for themselves, Moore teaches us that true artistry is born when the self dissolves, when the boundaries between “I” and “you” fade, and all voices join into one great chorus. This is the essence of harmony: not the domination of one, nor the separation of many, but the mysterious blending that creates something new, greater than the sum of its parts.

The ancients too spoke of this mystery. In the building of temples, no single mason could claim the cathedral’s grandeur as his own. Each stone was laid by countless hands, each carving shaped by unknown craftsmen, yet together they raised monuments that still pierce the heavens. Their names may be lost, but their unity remains. So too with Moore’s vision of the band: when identities blur, when ego yields to shared creation, the art ceases to be tied to the hand of one author and becomes a living spirit of many.

Consider the story of Homer. For centuries, men debated whether he was one poet or many, whether the Iliad and the Odyssey were written by a single genius or by generations of singers whose voices merged over time. Yet the power of the poems does not rest in authorship, but in the unity of song itself, carried by countless tongues until it became immortal. Moore’s words echo this same principle: when art is truly alive, it transcends the need to know who began the line, for all are joined in the final chorus.

The origin of Moore’s teaching comes from the world of music, where collaboration dissolves the self. In a band, riffs and rhythms flow like rivers into one sea. No listener can say which hand first struck the chord, nor which mind first shaped the lyric, for in performance it is all one. Moore delights in this blurring of identities, for it breaks the old ways of historical poetry, where authorship and ego reigned supreme. Here, instead, the band becomes a single organism, a voice too vast to be traced to one mouth.

This wisdom has power beyond music. It speaks to the life of community, of family, of nations. When each insists on being known, honored, and exalted, unity falters. But when all labor together, content to let their identities merge into something higher, then greatness is born. Just as a choir produces not the sound of individuals but the majesty of harmony, so too can human efforts create glory when egos are set aside.

The lesson is thus: Do not cling too tightly to authorship, to credit, to the hunger for recognition. Instead, rejoice when your work becomes so interwoven with others that no one can tell where yours ends and theirs begins. This is not the death of identity but its fulfillment, for you have joined in a creation greater than yourself. And what survives is not the name of the maker, but the beauty of the work.

Practical steps follow from this truth: In your collaborations, seek not to shine alone but to lift the whole. Do not boast of what you contributed, but rejoice in the wholeness that none could achieve alone. Practice humility in creation, seeing yourself not as the sole author but as one thread in a grand tapestry. And when your identity blurs into the greater unity, know that you have touched the secret of lasting art and enduring community.

Thus, Moore’s words become a teaching for the ages: when identities blur, when the “I” dissolves into the “we,” what emerges cannot be compared to the art of a single hand. It becomes like a river whose source cannot be traced, a song whose author is all and none, a living testament that unity, not ego, is the highest form of creation.