Subject: [Fwd: November 27, 2011 (CB)] From: Ernst Meyer Date: Fri, 02 Dec 2011 19:02:59 -0500 To: undisclosed-recipients:; X-Account-Key: account2 X-UIDL: 11e1-1d42-1794c402-92a8-00212814a2f0 X-Mozilla-Status: 0001 X-Mozilla-Status2: 10000000 Status: U Return-Path: Received: from mx-pigeons.atl.sa.earthlink.net ([207.69.195.28]) by mdl-glean.atl.sa.earthlink.net (EarthLink SMTP Server) with SMTP id 1rwD3L6xs3Nl34L0; Fri, 2 Dec 2011 19:02:29 -0500 (EST) Received: from elasmtp-curtail.atl.sa.earthlink.net ([209.86.89.64]) by mx-pigeons.atl.sa.earthlink.net (EarthLink SMTP Server) with ESMTP id 1rwD3J1Et3Nl34g1 for ; Fri, 2 Dec 2011 19:02:27 -0500 (EST) DomainKey-Signature: a=rsa-sha1; q=dns; c=nofws; s=dk20050327; d=earthlink.net; b=oPPDMdrHzPj0AH6ylVnCML49jrBe9Zx6FuJ035043E58aYc7/fc1/NGS6A3EYgbL; h=Received:Message-ID:Date:From:User-Agent:MIME-Version:To:Subject:Content-Type:X-ELNK-Trace:X-Originating-IP; Received: from [108.1.141.247] (helo=[192.168.0.6]) by elasmtp-curtail.atl.sa.earthlink.net with esmtpa (Exim 4.67) (envelope-from ) id 1RWd3R-00028c-PB for ernstmeyer@earthlink.net; Fri, 02 Dec 2011 19:02:27 -0500 Message-ID: <4ED96733.3040209@earthlink.net> User-Agent: Mozilla/5.0 (X11; U; Linux i686; en-US; rv:1.8.1.18) Gecko/20081113 SeaMonkey/1.1.13 MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: multipart/mixed; boundary="------------050007080709010904020703" X-ELNK-Trace: 6bf6b9ecace9557dc8ad50643b1069f8239a348a220c2609f7db18a426fcced609825b8b6b8ef3a6350badd9bab72f9c350badd9bab72f9c350badd9bab72f9c X-Originating-IP: 108.1.141.247 X-ELNK-Received-Info: spv=0; X-ELNK-AV: 0 X-ELNK-Info: sbv=0; sbrc=.0; sbf=00; sbw=010; -------- Original Message -------- Subject: November 27, 2011 (CB) Date: Sun, 27 Nov 2011 14:33:31 -0500 From: Ernst Meyer To: cynthia behrman Dear Cyndy, Thank you for your letter. Over the past few days, with the accumulation and dissipation of Thanksgiving concerns, Hilliard has turned into a magnetic pole for my thoughts, I ask myself how you might be faring among your guests, with all the domestic duties, with the music and with the anticipation of the impending ordeal, - reminding me of times past when it was my duty to perform the surgery. Perhaps by now you have gained an inkling of my conviction that beyond all the unpredictable vagaries of circumstance, all will be well. If not in the flesh, nonetheless in spirit, I will accompany you into the O.R. My mind has staged a debate with itself, whether regaling you at this juncture with my own adventures in thought and feeling would be a mark of disrespect for the situation in which you find yourself, or whether, on the contrary, you might not find it a welcome distraction to read about my adventures of the imagination, and concluded the latter. Most immediately there were conferences with Nathaniel, about the Eroica lecture that he is preparing and about an obscure poem of Hoelderlin's, "Andenken", which he has been assigned to interpret. Following our conversations I made notes which I sent to him by e-mail. I'll append them to this letter as a convenient summary of what we talked about. They might be of interest to you. On Thursday, at Klemens' house, we had the Perlo Family Thanksgiving Dinner, to which Margaret and I are now being invited, - it was the second year in a row, - because this celebration is now held next door, - both of Laura's parents died several years ago, other Perlo family members being too aged, infirm or impecunious to support the extravaganza. For the preparation we lent the use of our refrigerator and our electric stove. There were 30 guests, none of whom, except the immediate family, I knew by name, except for Laura's father's brother Lionel, a now retired medical malpractice defense lawyer, whom I had first encountered forty years ago, when the Eye and Ear Infirmary instigated my patient Mr. Bernard Kelly to file suit against me for $5000 because I had recommended glaucoma surgery which was never performed after a consultant to whom I sent Mr. Kelly deemed it inappropriate and started the ball rolling for a law suit against me. That suit of course was frivolous and Kelly's lawyer admitted as much. My insurance carrier engaged Lionel Perlo to defend me, but Lionel refused because of a conflict of interest. He did not wish to be implicated in the suit's nefarious origins. In the end the lawsuit was dropped as soon as I appeared in Court as my own lawyer. All this of course long, long before Klemens met Laura. Subsequently Lionel and I became acquainted socially, and derived satisfaction conversing with each other at Perlo gettogethers. Last week I thought I would exploit my anticipated conversation with him as an experienced tort trial lawyer to obtain his perspective about a possible liability suit against Nantucket for defamation, fraud and fabrication of evidence. His ineffectual answer, that I needed a "construction lawyer" was revealing to me for the shallowness of legal expertise, a reminder that because the outcome of court proceedings is unpredictable to an extent that makes them fertile ground for inventiveness, experimentation and improvisation. We shall see. More generally, I was impressed with Laura, my daughter-in-law's dogged (stubborn?) persistence in pursuing her visions of family feasting, and Klemens's flexibility, tolerance and good humor. If only I had inherited that from him! My own true nature came to light once more in reflections from the past at a memorial party for Margaret's aunt Priscilla Grace who had died on November 9, at the age of 104. I'm attaching Aunt Priscilla's obituary which in a few words tells an eloquent biography. The memorial party was held in the sometime Bartol family estate in Milton MA known as Old Farm, a multi-acred multi-million dollar farm in the middle of the city, adjacent to the Great Blue Hill, which had been sold three years previously, to a new owner who graciously offered use of the 16,000 sq ft three story single family residence, - but only for two hours - to the family of the deceased to whom it had been a second home all her life. My own involvement with Priscilla and her family occurred during the academic year 1949-50 when as a 19 year-old graduate student in comparative literature, ineligible for Harvard dormitory housing, I accepted Aunt Priscilla's invitation to board in her newly bought and redecorated home at 113 Lakeview Avenue in Cambridge. No rent. My only duty to clear the table after dinner, wash and put away the dishes, and function as a low level Nanny for the four fatherless children to enable Priscilla, then 42 years old, to lead the life of a merry widow. The children were four in number, John Sebastian, Judy, Nicki and Danny. That year turned out, as I wrote to my parents at the time, to be a Chappaqua deja-vue, with the important difference that homesickness had given way to alienation and that intellectually and emotionally I was not nearly as helpless as I had been ten years previously. At the wholly secular, non-musical memorial party which consisted entirely of the reminiscences of the guests, I, of course said nothing. But Margaret's brother Alex said it all, when in a public statement he ostentiously introduced himself, his sister Janet, his brother Peter, his sister- in-law Letty, and his (virtually widowed) sister Margaret, then as an embarrassed afterthought presenting me not as a family member but as his "good friend" Jochen Meyer. The irony, long since innocuous to me, was priceless. At the end of the proceedings, Alex, who was very affectionate, embraced me and tried to console me: Not every one liked Aunt Priscilla, he said. To which I replied, Not that I didn't like her; she didn't like me. I was reminded of the two little girls who wouldn't play with me in the summer of 1939, - but there was no need to mention it. After we returned home, I delved into my computer files where all the correspondence from 1949 and 1950 is stored and started to read. From my letters to my parents and to Margaret - we were furiously courting - I infer that for about two or three weeks, Priscilla and I were optimistic about the prospects of the relationship. Judy wanted to know about Plato, and I remember reading with her the Gorgias, in translation of course, and explaining to her about Socrates and the Sophists. Danny was curious where I went on Sunday mornings, and I let him accompany me to one of E Power-Biggs organ recitals which I regularly attended. That adventure proved to be a near social catastrophe, since the seating was such that one could not leave during the concert and it was next to impossible for me to keep the unruly child to whom all discipline was foreign, from disrupting the concert. As the weeks went by, I could no longer deny my alienation. The children, I wrote, behaved like animals, were never clean except when preened for dancing lessons; the dog, a pregnant bitch whose impending accouchement was the topic of vulgar childish dinner table conversation, was permitted to lick the children's lips. Plates half filled with food were set on the floor to be cleaned by the dog, - whose name I can't remember. On occasion one of the children would slip under the table to explore the anatomy of its siblings. Such games exhausted my sense of humor. One of my letters reminds me that on at least one occasion I admonished the boys about proper behavior and was rewarded with contemptuous sneers. I never commented to Priscilla. She could not have been offended not by what I did. I was offensive by the person I was; and I can't say that I blame Priscilla for not liking me. Her only criticism of me, expressed to Margaret's father, was that I was "inconsiderate." I don't know what she meant; but now in the long retrospect I ask whether perhaps her criticism was not of me but of herself. The best aspect of that year was that Margaret was Priscilla's niece, and could come to visit me ad lib, and did so. I understand now that it was in the turmoil of Priscilla's household that my marriage was forged. Obviously, my criticism was overwrought. All the children appear to have flourished. Of their occupations I know only that Nicki became a (very) successful Boston lawyer, and Danny became a commercial airplane pilot, a remarkable response to the death in an airplane collision of a father he never knew. The three boys are now retired. They appeared at the memorial elderly dignified affable courteous and composed. The lives of the two older ones are afflicted with tragedy in that the wife of John Sebastian has severe Alzheimers' disease, and Nicki's wife is dying of pulmonary cancer. Obviously, today is the day when all these impressions, if they are to be preserved, must be recorded. I hope I do not importune you with them; and if I do, I apologize. I attach Priscilla's obituary; I append my correspondence with Nathaniel. All this may be too much for one apology and I apologize again. Tomorrow, all day, I will be thinking of you. Jochen =============================================================== The horns in the 3rd movement of the Eroica whose simple clear voices are then woven into a tapestry of sound remind me not only of the Fidelio trumpets in Leonore Overture 3, but also of the "knocking of fate" with which the first movement of the 5th Symphony begins. The elaborate musical development of such simple, powerful melodies seems to me characteristic of Beethoven's symphonic, - as distinct from his chamber music, - a device with which the music captures the listener's attention and controls his emotions. These are the melodies that linger in the ear and define my memory of the work. Although none come to mind, I suspect when I listen to Beethoven's entire symphonic opus, (many) other examples will become apparent. ================================================================ Consider including in your presentation analogies from works other than the Eroica, perhaps even from composers other than Beethoven, presented either by live instrumentalists or by audio recording. ================================================================ Keep in mind that the hero, heroism, hero-worship are ultimately issues for the "philosophy" of history, perhaps signposts of the intersection of history and myth, of experience and fantasy. Also a religious issue: the hero is worshiped as the ultimate idol. Perhaps Beethoven's substitution of abstract Music for Napoleon as hero should be interpreted as a milestone in Beethoven's spiritual (religious) evolution. I'm reminded of Rilke's explanation: Beginn immer von neuem die nie zu erreichende Preisung; denk: es erhält sich der Held, selbst der Untergang war ihm nur ein Vorwand, zu sein: seine letzte Geburt. (Begin ever anew the praise that is never fulfilled; consider: the hero preserves himself, even his demise was for him a mere pretext for being: his ultimate birth. In the context of the Eroica, onbe might argue that Napoleon's demise as a hero occasioned the sublimation of heroism into a universal realm. ================================================================ Consider re-interpreting Beethoven's rejection of Napoleon's coronation, as a religious experience. Perhaps Napoleon's assuming the role of emperor made Beethoven aware of the essentially idolatrous nature of hero-worship. The object of worship in the Eroica is the music itself; harking back to an earlier era, in which music was cultivated as praise of God, one might ask whether Beethoven's abandoning Napoleon should be understood as Beethoven's conversion to "pure" music, and via music, to "monotheism". ================================================================ In considering Beethoven's initial dedication of his 3rd symphony to Napoleon, and subsequently rescinding that dedication, you must come to terms with Beethoven's simplistic, Manichean view of society as being constituted of "good guys" and "bad guys". First , Beethoven labeled Napoleon as a good guy; then, chagrined and disappointed, he in effect acknowledged that virtue was to be sought beyond history. He applied the term "Eroica" no longer to an idol of the market place but to Music itself as an ideal of ?inwardness, of ?"the soul" . of ?religiosity, of ?art. ================================================================= ================================================================= Heidegger interpreted this poem as a fugue on the theme "aber" (however). ================ The wind is named by the direction from which it comes: "Nordost". Its direction is southwest. From Frankfurt, or Tuebingen it blows toward Bordeaux. The fig tree, - der Feigenbaum - is a symbol of fulfillment in the Kingdom of God (cf. 1 Kings 4:5; Micah 4:4; Joel 2:21) At its beginning, the poem cites the motions and force of the wind. The second stanza ends antithetically with the gentle breeze that rocks the cradle. (I overlooked the circumstance that Wiege means cradle, wiegen means to rock the cradle, einwiegen means to rock the child to sleep.) Einwiegende Luefte are breezes that lull a person to sleep. To complete the process of being lulled to sleep the author asks for the fragrant cup "des dunklen Lichtes voll". Obviously das dunkle Licht is the dark wine that lights the spirit ... But the ensueing sleep is not fulfillment. It is not good to be seellos - lifeless with mortal thoughts. At this juncture begins the antithesis, the counterpoint of the fugue. It is good to converse, to hear of love and (great) deeds. For this one needs friends, - where are they ? - and such as are not so timid as to fetch from the source of the wealth of the ocean, to brave war and loneliness ... The last 4 lines are significant. The sea (as the totality of consciousness) not only receives what is memorable, but is also gives memory in return. The eyes, (which were closed in sleep) now assiduously attach (heften)(themselves to reality.) Was bleibet aber, stiften die Dichter. What remains (was bleibet) is bequeathed (endowed, gestiftet) by the poets. This final line is ambiguous, since one cannot be sure whether "remains" refers to what is over and beyond the gift of the sea and the apprehension of sight, or whether "what remains" implies the transience of the gifts of the sea and the apprehension of sight, asserting _only_ that remains which is bequeathed by the poet. Suggest to your teacher that when one interprets an obscure poem, it's wise not to overdo - or since it's for a German course: Das Geheimnis ist das Wesen des Gedichts. Deshalb sollte man dem Gedicht sein Geheimnis goennen, und das Erklaeren eines geheimnisvollen Gedichtes sollte man nicht uebertreiben. ============================ Andenken Der Nordost wehet, Der liebste unter den Winden Mir, weil er feurigen Geist Und gute Fahrt verheisset den Schiffern. Geh aber nun und gruesse Die schoene Garonne, Und die Gaerten von Bourdeaux Dort, wo am scharfen Ufer Hingehet der Steg und in den Strom Tief fuellt der Bach, darueber aber Hinschauet ein edel Paar Von Eichen und Silberpappeln; Noch denket das mir wohl und wie Die breiten Gipfel neiget Der Ulmwald, ueber die Muehl', Im Hofe aber waechset ein Feigenbaum. An Feiertagen gehn Die braunen Frauen daselbst Auf seidnen Boden, Zur Maerzenzeit, Wenn gleich ist Nacht und Tag, Und ueber langsamen Stegen, Von goldenen Traeumen schwer, Einwiegende Luefte ziehen. Es reiche aber, Des dunkeln Lichtes voll, Mir einer den duftenden Becher, Damit ich ruhen moege; denn suess Waer' unter Schatten der Schlummer. Nicht ist es gut, Seellos von sterblichen Gedanken zu sein. Doch gut Ist ein Gespräch und zu sagen Des Herzens Meinung, zu hoeren viel Von Tagen der Lieb', Und Taten, welche geschehen. Wo aber sind die Freunde? Bellarmin Mit dem Gefaehrten? Mancher Traegt Scheue, an die Quelle zu gehn; Es beginnst naemlich der Reichtum Im Meere. Sie, Wie Maler, bringen zusammen Das Schoene der Erd' und verschmaehn Den gefluegelten Krieg nicht, und Zu wohnen einsam, jahrelang, unter Dem entlaubten Mast, wo nicht die Nacht durchglaenzen Die Feiertage der Stadt, Und Saitenspiel und eingeborener Tanz nicht. Nun aber sind zu Indiern Die Maenner gegangen, Dort an der luftigen Spitz' An Traubenbergen, wo herab Die Dordogne kommt, Und zusammen mit der praechtigen Garonne meerbreit Ausgehet der Strom. Es nehmet aber Und gibt Gedaechtnis die See, Und die Lieb' auch heftet fleissig die Augen, Was bleibet aber, stiften die Dichter. ================================================= When I awoke this morning, I think I found a new - and better - interpretation of "Andenken" in the correct translation of the title. Andenken here means not "remembering" but "memento". As a water-color is not that which it depicts, is not sky, ocean, dunes or moors, but becomes itself a (valuable) object of canvas, paper or wood, which, as distinct from the scene depicted, is traded in markets and has monetary value, so the poem points not (only) to the landscape depicted or the visage portrayed or the action remembered, - the poem points also to itself, in this instance the poem is itself memento, as property, as substance. When "Andenken" is interpretated as Hoelderlins Memento of his sojourn in southern France, (check on this in Wikipedia) the incongruities and discontinuities of the poem are muted, if only because it points not to the landscape but to the tangible memory of that landscape in the mind and heart of the poet. The poem points, in other words, to itself. I base my interpretation on a glorious ode of Hoelderlins, - which is what your teacher should have assigned instead of this mysterious riddle. The title of this ode is "Mein Eigentum" my property. In it Hoelderlin describes a landscape through which he ambles, observing the fruits of successful (business and agricultural) enterprises. He contrasts the contentment and satisfaction of his neighbors with his own poverty, solitude and loneliness. He then, in the last 4 stanzas, takes consolation from his own poetry: _ _ Und daß mir auch, zu retten mein sterblich Herz, _ Wie andern eine bleibende Stätte sei, _ Und heimatlos die Seele mir nicht _ Über das Leben hinweg sich sehne, _ _ Sei du, Gesang, mein freundlich Asyl! sei du, _ Beglückender! mit sorgender Liebe mir _ Gepflegt, der Garten, wo ich, wandelnd _ Unter den Blüten, den immerjungen, _ _ In sichrer Einfalt wohne, wenn draußen mir _ Mit ihren Wellen allen die mächtge Zeit, _ Die Wandelbare, fern rauscht und die _ Stillere Sonne mein Wirken fördert. _ _ Ihr segnet gütig über den Sterblichen, _ Ihr Himmelskräfte! jedem sein Eigentum, _ O segnet meines auch, und daß zu _ Frühe die Parze den Traum nicht ende. ====================================================== _ Und daß mir auch, zu retten mein sterblich Herz, And that for me also, to rescue my mortal heart, _ Wie andern eine bleibende Stätte sei, As for others there should be an abiding abode, _ Und heimatlos die Seele mir nicht And homelessly my soul should not _ Über das Leben hinweg sich sehne, Pine beyond life itself, _ _ Sei du, Gesang, mein freundlich Asyl! sei du, Be thou, my song, my friendly refuge, be thou, _ Beglückender! mit sorgender Liebe mir Joy-bringing (song) with caring affection by me _ Gepflegt, der Garten, wo ich, wandelnd Nurtured, the garden, where I, walking _ Unter den Blüten, den immerjungen, Beneath the flowers, forever in youth, _ _ In sichrer Einfalt wohne, wenn draußen mir In secure simplicity dwell, when around me _ Mit ihren Wellen allen die mächtge Zeit, With all its waves the mighty season _ Die Wandelbare, fern rauscht und die everchanging, rustles afar and the _ Stillere Sonne mein Wirken fördert. steadfast sun abets my efforts. _ _ Ihr segnet gütig über den Sterblichen, You graciously bless upon mortals _ Ihr Himmelskräfte! jedem sein Eigentum, Ye heavenly powers! to each his property, _ O segnet meines auch, und daß zu Oh, also bless mine, and that too _ Frühe die Parze den Traum nicht ende. Soon fate might not put an end to the dream. ===================================================== ====================================================== And that for me also, to rescue my mortal heart, As for others there should be an abiding abode, And homelessly my soul should not Pine beyond life itself, _ Be thou, my song, my friendly refuge, be thou, Joy-bringing (song) with caring affection by me Nurtured, the garden, where I, walking Beneath the flowers, forever in youth, _ In secure simplicity dwell, when around me With all its waves the mighty season everchanging, rustles afar and the steadfast sun abets my efforts. _ You graciously bless upon mortals Ye heavenly powers! to each his property, Oh, also bless mine, and that too Soon fate might not put an end to the dream. ===================================================== ===================================================== I have reproduced the whole poem below. If you have gotten this far, and wish the rest of the poem translated, let me know (by e-mail). ===================================================== Mein Eigentum _ In seiner Fülle ruhet der Herbsttag nun, _ Geläutert ist die Traub und der Hain ist rot _ Vom Obst, wenn schon der holden Blüten _ Manche der Erde zum Danke fielen. _ _ Und rings im Felde, wo ich den Pfad hinaus, _ Den stillen, wandle, ist den Zufriedenen _ Ihr Gut gereift und viel der frohen _ Mühe gewähret der Reichtum ihnen. _ _ Vom Himmel blicket zu den Geschäftigen _ Durch ihre Bäume milde das Licht herab, _ Die Freude teilend, denn es wuchs durch _ Hände der Menschen allein die Frucht nicht. _ _ Und leuchtest du, o Goldnes, auch mir, und wehst _ Auch du mir wieder, Lüftchen, als segnetest _ Du eine Freude mir, wie einst, und _ Irrst, wie um Glückliche, mir am Busen? _ _ Einst war ichs, doch wie Rosen, vergänglich war _ Das fromme Leben, ach! und es mahnen noch, _ Die blühend mir geblieben sind, die _ Holden Gestirne zu oft mich dessen. _ _ Beglückt, wer, ruhig liebend ein frommes Weib, _ Am eignen Herd in rühmlicher Heimat lebt, _ Es leuchtet über festem Boden _ Schöner dem sicheren Mann sein Himmel. _ _ Denn, wie die Pflanze, wurzelt auf eignem Grund _ Sie nicht, verglüht die Seele des Sterblichen, _ Der mit dem Tageslichte nur, ein _ Armer, auf heiliger Erde wandelt. _ _ Zu mächtig, ach! ihr himmlischen Höhen, zieht _ Ihr mich empor, bei Stürmen, am heitern Tag _ Fühl ich verzehrend euch im Busen _ Wechseln, ihr wandelnden Götterkräfte. _ _ Doch heute laß mich stille den trauten Pfad _ Zum Haine gehn, dem golden die Wipfel schmückt _ Sein sterbend Laub, und kränzt auch mir die _ Stirne, ihr holden Erinnerungen! _ _ Und daß mir auch, zu retten mein sterblich Herz, _ Wie andern eine bleibende Stätte sei, _ Und heimatlos die Seele mir nicht _ Über das Leben hinweg sich sehne, _ _ Sei du, Gesang, mein freundlich Asyl! sei du, _ Beglückender! mit sorgender Liebe mir _ Gepflegt, der Garten, wo ich, wandelnd _ Unter den Blüten, den immerjungen, _ _ In sichrer Einfalt wohne, wenn draußen mir _ Mit ihren Wellen allen die mächtge Zeit, _ Die Wandelbare, fern rauscht und die _ Stillere Sonne mein Wirken fördert. _ _ Ihr segnet gütig über den Sterblichen, _ Ihr Himmelskräfte! jedem sein Eigentum, _ O segnet meines auch, und daß zu _ Frühe die Parze den Traum nicht ende. Hoelderlin =========================================================== Arguably the meaning of Andenken is the poem itself, not the experience, not the landscape which it depicts. No less persuasive to me is the argument that the essence of this poem Andenken is the melodious musical language itself, that in this poem poetry becomes the apotheosis of language, its ultimate assertion, where language divests itself of extrinsic meaning to make unmistakably audible the echo that resonates from the spirit of the reader. Arguably to the extent that the force of "Andenken" is resonance from the mind of the reader, "Andenken" is a key to unlock the meaning of other poems of Hoelderlin's, of all of Hoelderlin's poetry, if not indeed of poetry in general.