The Lamentations of Morgana Neri, 

            Soprano, late of the 

       Metropolitan Opera


  Morgana Neri

         “Chi sono? che faceste Che debbo  

fare ancora?

Tomba essausta fra le tenebere?”

Not on you life!

No, No giammai.

From this day forth, nessunm’m’ avra 

Tutto questo e finito

No, not on your life, and not on my 

life neither.

        My life, my life. You want my story

 – they all do, but unlike the others 

Morgana non mente.  Io sono l’umile 

ancella del geni creator, and that’s it.


Except to say confession behooves the 

soul  – and here we come to my 

“confession” and all the mendatrici tell-

alls referred to above. As my confessor  

Dom Gesualdo Svelato put it, “Remember, 

Madame, there are saints called 

confessors, not because they told their  

sins to the priest – of course they did – 

but because they were examples of the

higher sense of the word confession, –

which anybody could look up in the

Catholic Encyclopedia –  for a Confessor 

of the Church is that one who bears 

witness to the truth of the one true  

religion – ours –  and you, as a Confessor 

of the highest art, music – to whose 

condition somebody once said all the

others must aspire, do the same.

How foolishly we think we have all

the time in the world.”