 

                    20060412.01

     We left Belmont for Konnarock at 10:45 this morning, 45
minutes later than planned.  As we started, the sky was blue,
barely a cloud, and the sun was shining. Later, over central
MA it became overcast, but we missed the rain.  Listened
initially to the first two CDs of Cosi fan tutte.  Then the
first disc of Fischer-Dieskau's complete rendition of the
Schubert songs.  Here the only item of interest was
Schubert's version of "Ich denke dein, ... wann denkst du
mein?" which was so memorably put to music by Beethoven. I
suspect, - but do not know, that Beethovens version was the
earlier; and that Schubert, in competition, was trying to
improve on it.  If so, he didn't succeed, at least to my
hearing.  The other text I recognized was Schillers Taucher'
but I had no access to the text. Had to keep both hands on
the wheel and the eyes, actually only the right eye, the left
doesn't see anything, on the road. I gave up on the Schubert
series, and listened instead to Fischer-Dieskau's
interpretation of Schumann-Heine's Dichterliebe and other
Schumann songs: more ornate than I had remembered or
anticipated. In looking through the CD album, I came upon
Gerhard Huesch's recording of Beethoven's An die Ferne
Geliebte and Schubert's Schoene Muellerin. It took a few
moments to get used to the rolled "r"s and the roundish "O"
coloring of his "A"s. The phrases are sung more slowly,
ponderously than Fischer-Dieskau, without his style and
elegance, but passionately and with dedication. It occurred
to me that Huesch in the 30's may be considered to have
prepared the stage, so to speak, for Fischer-Dieskau; to have
created the artistic environment in which Fischer-Dieskau was
appreciated. But then there were others, Karl Erb, Heinrich
Schlussnus, Lotte Lehman. Perhaps my generalizations are not
very useful.

     I thought about the texts, all of them in the first
person, all of them about the losses which the I, the subject
had sustained; in comparison with Elizabeth Bishop who wrote
about the art of losing as if it were a public rather than a
private, personal individual experience; but here again my
prejudices may be showing.  I wondered also why the amatory
relationship, the search for, the discovery, the loss of, the
mouring for a loved woman should play such a predominant role
in the repertory of the artist.  I thought about the DaPonte
libretti for Mozarts operas, to which the erotic relationship
is central.  Wondered what its was that was wrong with me if
I felt the emphasis was exaggerated or misplaced.

     About ten miles south of Frackville, the right rear tire
blew out.  This was the tire that had just yesterday been
pronounced as usable by the Fresh Pond mechanics. A friendly
young man driving what I believe to have been a kennel truck
stopped to help me change the tire.  I would really have
preferred to do it myself, but thought it rude if I had
turned him away.  In the end I offered to pay him, but he
refused.  The tread of the spare tire which I mounted had, as
Chico's had warned me, begun to separate from the steel
belting.  I drove slowly, expecting another blowout at
anytime, a misfortune which would have left me at the mercy
of the tow truck. But fortunately no such untoward event
occurred, and we arrived without further delay at our motel.
As we turned into the driveway, I saw on the other side of
Route 22 a repair shop of moderate size, advertising Cooper
Tires. There I plan to inquire first thing tomorrow morning
about getting replacements for both rear tires.

     I have also been thinking about the continuation,
Fortsetzung of my novel. Mengs, Susanna and Joachim are
returning from a failed concert tour through Germany; failed
because of Susanna's lapse into Parkinsons Disease.  The
relationships of the trio are in flux.  Now they are flying
back together, but lacking adjacent seats.  Susanna by
herself toward the front of the plane.  Mengs and Joachim
toward the rear.  Joachim has left his seat to check on
Susanna.  Mengs has moved over to the window, leaving a
vacant seat on the aisle; and this vacant seat is occupied
unexpectedly by a stranger who thereby enters into the plot
of the novel.  I haven't a name for him yet.  I visualize him
as a talented musician in his late thirties who has just
conducted - what I don't yet know - and whose preoccupation
with the music has given him a cosmic view of order and
necessity. And it is these that provoke him to comment on the
current political situation.

     As I reflect on this potential commentary, I anticipate
the dilemma of all social critics, that if the criticism is
sufficiently radical, it will be deemed a threat to the
society, and the critic will be persecuted. If the criticism
is so muted that the critic will escape persecution, then he
may rightly be charged, if not by others, then by himself,
woth cowardice or dishonesty or both. On the other hand,
public criticism itself may be construed as an expression of
vanity.



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Copyright 2006, Ernst Jochen Meyer
