from A Million Miles in a Thousand Years, by Donald Miller
“If I were to play you a recording of a garbage truck backing up, with a jackhammer or something in the distance, that wouldn’t be music. That would just be noise, right? I mean you wouldn’t exactly get those noises stuck in your head and be humming them a week later.”
“Right,” I said, wondering if I’d swallowed some of the plastic wrapper around the star crunch.
“But music is different,” Steve continued. “Music obeys form and structure. There are scales and harmonics; there are principles a musician adheres to, in order to make music. If he doesn’t, it’s just noise. It’s the same with story. If you don’t obey certain principles, the story doesn’t make sense. Without story, experiences are just random.”
“Experiences are random,” I repeated.
“Noise,” Ben said.
“Noise,” I repeated.
“That’s brilliant, right?” I asked Ben.
“Probably,” Ben said.
“Are we still taking about the movie?” Steve asked.
“I don’t know,” Ben said after a moment of silence.