The analogy between literature, painting and music, so close in so many
respects, suggests that the modern custom of making a whole scene, act or
even drama into a single, unbroken movement without subdivision is like
making a book without chapters, or a picture, like Bernardino Luini’s
great Lugano fresco in which a long subject is treated within the compass
of a single piece. Better advised, as it seems to me, Gaudenzio Ferrari
broke up a space of the same shape and size at Varallo into many
compartments, each more or less complete in itself, grouped round a
central scene. The subdivision of books into chapters, each with a more
or less emphatic full close in its own key, is found to be a help as
giving the attention halting places by the way. Everything that is worth
attending to fatigues as well as delights, much as the climbing of a
mountain does so. Chapters and short pieces give rests during which the
attention gathers renewed strength and attacks with fresh ardour a new
stretch of the ascent. Each bar is, as it were, a step cut in ice and
one does not see, if set pieces are objected to, why phrases and bars
should not be attacked next.