Friday Column: Classical Music in Literature

Classical music, I have been told, is near death. Similarly, I've read in many places (probably written by the same people) of the novel's imminent demise. Strange then how some of the freshest work I've read recently has resulted from the union of these two dying art forms.

Proving that classical music can be as profound and bizarre as anything a novelist can toss into the mix, author Marc Estrin puts the fictitious Insect Sonata by noted maverick composer Charles Ives in his novel Insect Dreams. Here's part of its performance on April 1, 1931:

Without a word of introduction, [the pianist] walked upstage of the Steinway Concert Grand and returned with a large brick and two pieces of two-by-four, one 47 3/4 inches, the other 45 1/2 inches, the longer pained in white, the shorter in black enamel. He put the wood on the piano bench and carefully leaned the cement block on the sustaining pedal. Climbing out from under the keyboard, he retrieved the wood and placed the longer piece, narrow edge down, along the white keys, and the shorter one, wider side down, along the black. He was ready to begin the first movement: "Creation."

Standing over the keyboard, the piano bench behind him, he took a huge breath and crashed his whole body weight, elbows first, down onto the wood. Some in the audience gasped, most jumped. The piano let out a sound such as had never been heard in any concert hall. At no time, ever, had all eighty-eight notes of a Steinway Concert Grand been simultaneously sounded and sustained publicly.

Quadruple fortissimo to start, the opening ultra-chord took a full two and a half minutes to decay into nothingness.

Estrin goes on to gloss this singular opening: it's a musical homage to the (then) recently theorized Big Bang. In addition to being good reading, this performance neatly captures the spirit of the times--the public and artistic infatuation with science, particularly theoretical physics, which was then revealing previously unthinkable realms and inspiring novelists and film directors to unleash visions of ludicrous inventions, like time machines, atomic energy plants, and atomic bombs.

At the other end of the 20th century, in The Gold Bug Variations novelist Richard Powers finds Bach's Goldberg Variations a potent metaphor for our age's version of theoretical physics: genetic biology. The Goldberg Variations (also a piece for piano) are a series of beautifully transformations, each completely distinct, yet all generated from the same simple four-note base. Powers uses it as a metaphor for DNA, which has produced startling diversity out of a modest four-part base.

As usual with Powers, this metaphor has another level to it--the novel's main character, a genetic biologist named Ressler, falls hopelessly in love with the Goldberg Variations. For decades he listens to them again and again, trying to break their code and intuit their meaning. Just as classical music and DNA dovetail in Powers's metaphor, so do art and science. Ressler's fascination with Bach mirrors his fascination with DNA. They both tap into that part of him that loves riddles and decryption, that part of his brain that can't leave a mystery alone once it's been exposed to it. As much as anything, Powers's book is about embodying art's and science's capacity to instill wonder--and both's ability to mirror religion's power of revelation--and in Bach's Goldberg Variations he's found the perfect vehicle:

Ultimately, the Goldbergs are about the paradox of variation, preserved divergence, the transition effect inherent in terraced unfolding, the change in nature attendant upon a change in degree. How necessity might arise out of chance. How difference might arise out of more of the same. By the time the delinquent parent aria returns to close out the set, the music is about how variation might ultimately free itself from the instruction that underwrites it, sets it i motion, but nowhere anticipates what might come from experience's trial run. . . .

The Goldbergs were his closest metaphor to the coding problem he gave his life to studying. Exactly similar, with one exception. Back liked to inscribe his compositions with the triplet SDG, Soli Dei Gloria. To God alone the glory. Even this secularly commissioned soporific possesses the religious wonder at being joyously articulate, alive to extend the pattern.

Although classical music and science do seem to have great synergy, I've also found classical music teaming up in other great ways in novels. Example #1 in this is William T. Vollmann's National Book Award–winning novel Europe Central, in which the music of Dmitri Shostakovich becomes a metaphor for struggle against Soviet oppression, love, and the Iron Curtain that swept in to finish off so many Central European countries after Hitler's war destroyed them.

Let it be said that novels can be a great place to find out about new music. Before Europe Central I had, of course, heard of Shostakovich's great Seventh Symphony, but that was about it. Vollmann's book encouraged me to find out about many of Shostakovich's other works--there is his Eighth Symphony (in my opinion, one of the 20th-century's greatest), which Vollmann reads as a tribute to war-ravaged Leningrad; Opus 40, a sonata for piano and cello, certainly the most romantic thing Shostakovich ever wrote and one of my favorite pieces of music; the Eighth String Quartet, which in my opinion stands far above Shostakovich's 14 others, and which Vollmann uses as a metaphor not only for the ravages of totalitarianism (as Shostakovich intended), but as a dark, dark eulogy for Central Europe.

Throughout Europe Central Vollmann does two things with these pieces: 1) he gives very interesting readings of all them, and 2) he uses them as motifs. Much like motifs in classical music, which are returned to again and again (usually transformed in interesting ways) throughout a piece, throughout Europe Central Vollmann invokes these pieces of music, and each time he does so, we look at them slightly differently. In this way, not only does Vollmann's novel include classical music, but it also (partly) is shaped by it. (And it should be noted here that Powers's Gold Bug Variations, consisting of 32 chapters of 3 parts each, does the same thing.)

In a similar way, Julio Cortazar gives us a clue to his intentions by invoking the music of Alban Berg. One of Hopscotch's "expendable" chapters is an "anonymous" commentary on the works of Berg:

Another significant analogy with the Violin Concerto consists in the strict symmetry of the whole. In the Violin Concerto the key number is two: two separate movements, each divided into two parts, as well as the violin-orchestra division in the instrumental grouping. In the Kammerkonzert, on the other hand, the number three stands out: the dedication represents the Maestro and his two disciples; the instruments are grouped in three categories: piano, violin, and a combination of wind instruments; its architecture is the building up on three linked movements, each of which reveals to a greater or lesser degree tripartite composition.

What a great clue, for a close look at Hopscotch also reveals a tripartite construction. There are the three sections: "From the Other Side," "From this Side," and "Expendable Chapters." Each section has a principal character--La Maga, Horacio, and (perhaps the maestro) Morelli.

Or we could take the Violin Concert as our key and do it by twos: the nonexpendable chapters versus the expendable ones (each divided into two sections, the former between The Other Side and This Side, the latter between those labeled Morelliana and those not), the books dualities (male-reader versus female-reader, Horacio's two key relationships with women, France versus Argentina).

And on yet another level Cortazar's book parallels the music of Berg. Although he worked within the formalistic confines of the 12-tone scale, Berg nevertheless made very evocative, sensuous music (of which the Violin Concert is a great example). Similarly, Cortazar used formulistic devices--for instance giving us instructions of in what order to read the chapters, and making over one-third of the book expendable (these are only the two most blatant examples, as there are many more within the text itself)--as a means of demonstrating very difficult-to-grasp thoughts about humanity: the search for transcendence, the way our paths through this world develop.

There seems to be something about classical music and novels that works well together. Perhaps it is that the best examples of both are built on very complex, painstakingly created structures that nonetheless are all but invisible to someone in the midst of enjoying either. Or, perhaps related, it is that both have the capacity to evoke very human emotions while at the same time exploring realms like history, science, and mathematics. Whatever it is, I don't think it is a coincidence that some of my favorite novels from my past year of reading have drawn heavily on the world of classical music. Perhaps this is just something peculiar to myself. Perhaps, but I doubt it. I think there is something substantial here, and I encourage anyone reading this to try out some of the above-mentioned works, or any other novels that deal in some fundamental way with classical music.

Because I have found that my readings of the works mentioned in this column were enhanced by actually listening to the music, here are some recommendations of recordings of the works discussed here.

Unfortunately, there is no Insect Sonata (How I wish there was, as Estrin's description temps me!), but Insect Dreams does mention Ives's Fourth Symphony, so I will recommend this recording of it (which also contains Ives's first three symphonies and his great work Three Places in New England). A word of warning--you might want to see if you can borrow some Ives from your local library before you purchase. I like his music, but he is unarguably an acquired taste, so it's probably best to know what you are getting into before you plunk down some cash.

For Bach's Goldberg Variations, the obvious recordings are those made by Glenn Gould. (I'll leave it to you to choose between his more hopeful, youthful recording, or the one he made on the eve of his death, after drugs and life had ravaged him. There's also both.) There's a ton more recordings, if you're adverturesome.

These days, Shostakovich has no shortage of interpreters. The range of recordings available is truly dazzling. For the Eighth Symphony, I recommend Haitink's version (and if you are interested in more of Shostakovich's symphonies, then by all means check out more of Haitink's interpretations--he did the whole symphonic cycle, and they're great). For the Eighth String Quartet, Borodin's recording is the one to go with, by a mile. For Opus 40, I recommend Han-Na Chang's sensual cello.

For Berg, there aren't too many choices. Isaac Pearlman did a nice recording of the Violin Concerto, but I have read (but not heard) that there are other, better ones available. best of luck finding them.

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Comments

[idylld]

Thanks for the column. I often get to know and love pieces I was previously unfamiliar with, that are described in novels. Two other recent novels that, if not based on, certainly make reference to classical music:

Hollinghurst - The Line of Beauty
Murakami - Kafka on the Shore

[Andrew]

Fantastic column, Scott. I personally think Andre Gertler's recording of the Berg is the one to find:

http://www.amazon.com/Bach-Bart%C3%B3k-Berg-Concertos-Sonata/dp/B0000030B4/sr=8-1/qid=1172246412/ref=sr_1_1/102-7097289-5342534?ie=UTF8&s=music

And don't miss Andrew Crumey's novel MUSIC, IN A FOREIGN LANGUAGE.

[Jim L]

Great column! I might add two more side trips into the classical repertoire to what you've added. There is an Insect Symphony by the
Finnish composer Kalevi Aho: "The six-movement suite-like 'Insect Symphony' (1988) is based on Aho's opera 'Insect Life' (1987). Each of the six movements of the symphony is named after an insect, and every single movement constitutes a separate micro world of its own." It's got some very interesting effects.

Also, Shostakovich's 48 Prelude and Fugues for piano are fascinating to listen to after listening to Bach's Well Tempered Clavier.

[ellen]

To second the commenter above, Murakami's Kafka on the Shore mentions classical music in some depth, and all his works reference music. Murakami's website includes a section on music referenced in his books, broken into jazz & misc, popular, and classical and with page references to the Vintage paperback editions. There's even a Murakami mix.

[jon]

Voss was apparently penned by Patrick White while continuously listening to Berg's Concerto. I went back and reread certain sections, the domestic ones, while listening to my budgie Naxos and I can sense (to my amateur ear) some symbiosis.

[Elizabeth]

More Murakami music quotes are also available at the Murakami dictionary from the fall Quarterly Conversation: http://esposito.typepad.com/Murakami_Dict/MD_ClassicalMusic.html

[Kit Stolz]

Actually, classical music recording sales are showing signs of life. According to Nielsen Soundscan, sales were up over 20% last year, more than any genre. Some say this was due to "crossover" artists, some say not:

http://www.therestisnoise.com/2007/02/brendan_kroener.html

[Derek Henderson]

For the Berg Violin Concerto, I heartily recommend the Anne-Sophie Mutter recording.

[mike]

I liked Richard Ford's novel "The Student Conductor," about one piece of music: the Brahams Second Symphony.

[mike]

Sorry, I mean ROBERT Ford.

[Osbert Parsley]

A bit late to this party, but thought you'd be interested to know that the description of the Ives Insect Sonata is in fact almost identical to a real organ piece by Iannis Xenakis. Titled Gmeeoorh, the work requires the organist to pull out all the stops and press wooden boards over all the black and white keys of the three manual keyboards and the pedal keyboard. Because the organ, unlike the piano, can sustain notes indefinitely, the effect is unbelievably powerful, especially as the boards are supposed to be held in place for two to three minutes.

Unfortunately, to my knowledge there is no recording of this work currently in print.

[SamT]

Books and music, a couple for the mix:

Steinbeck - East of Eden listening to Stravinsky. In his notebooks he informs that the book's structure is derived from that of a symphony.

Huxley - The Island - describes the protagonist's experience of listening to Bach Brandenburg concertos on mescalin.

Richard Skinner's - POD only - novel about the death of Erik Satie. (Who also features in Delillo's Cosmopolis - Packer's lift music!)

[A. Tassinari]

I am happy to see classical music stretching into literature. It a great avenue to open up the generation out there today to be exposed to a wider knowledge of art, even if its read in a book. I am a published author with similar types of references in my work, more along the scale of operas by composers such as Puccini. I hope more books are written with this approach and in time people will come to appreciate classical music on all scales.