Normally, things are viewed in these little segmented boxes.

In the words of Jerry Lee Lewis, firebrand of the piano and voice of rebellion, there is uttered a truth that stretches far beyond music: “Normally, things are viewed in these little segmented boxes. There’s classical, and then there’s jazz; romantic, and then there’s baroque. I find that very dissatisfying. I was trying to find the thread that connects one type of music—one type of musician—to another, and to follow that thread in some kind of natural, evolutionary way.” These words are not only about sound; they are about the folly of human division, and the deeper wisdom of unity that lies beneath.

The ancients knew well the temptation to divide. They named things, classified them, sought to understand by separating. Yet the wise among them always returned to the truth: that beneath the many is the one. The philosopher Heraclitus said, “The hidden harmony is stronger than the visible.” And so it is with music. To place it in rigid boxes—classical, jazz, romantic, baroque—is to miss the eternal harmony that flows through them all. Lewis, wild though his spirit was, spoke here with the voice of a sage: the music of the world is not a puzzle of fragments, but a great river that changes shape yet never loses its source.

Consider the story of Bach, the master of counterpoint. Though he lived in the baroque age, his works became the seedbed of the classical. Mozart studied him, Beethoven revered him. Later, jazz musicians, too, drew upon his intricate harmonies. From the organ lofts of Leipzig to the smoky clubs of Harlem, the thread is unbroken. Those who look only at the surface see separation; those who listen deeply hear the same heartbeat carried across centuries.

So too in life itself: people divide themselves by nation, by creed, by generation. They say, “This is old, this is new. This belongs here, that belongs there.” But those who seek the thread find that all things are bound together in an evolutionary arc, each shaping the next. Just as jazz borrows from blues, which borrows from African rhythms, which echo the drumbeats of ancient rituals, so too do we borrow from our ancestors, even when we do not know their names.

Lewis’s dissatisfaction with the “segmented boxes” is the dissatisfaction of every soul that longs for unity. For true artistry does not live by boundaries—it seeks the roots beneath. He sought not merely to play, but to find the fire that passed from one musician to another, whether centuries apart or worlds away. In this, his vision was prophetic: that art is not a set of rooms with locked doors, but a single hall, endless and echoing, where each voice adds its note to the eternal song.

The lesson, then, is clear: do not be deceived by labels. Whether in music or in life, look for the hidden thread that connects, not the walls that divide. The divisions are useful to scholars, but they can blind the heart. To live wisely is to see that the spirit which animated the romantic also animated the baroque, that the spark in a jazz riff is kin to the spark in a symphony. And so too, the love in one heart is kin to the love in another, even if they seem worlds apart.

Therefore, O listener, take up the task of the seeker. Whether in song, in story, or in the great music of life, search always for the thread. Do not settle for fragments, but weave them into wholeness. For the world is not a collection of boxes, but a tapestry—and only those who see the connections will behold its true beauty. In this way, you will not only hear music, but feel the harmony of existence itself, which has always been, and always will be.