In 1802, Beethoven's doctor prescribed a stay at Heiligenstadt, a small village north of Vienna. The young composer was in crisis: his relationship with his beloved Giullieta Guicciardi was dying, and his hearing had been deteriorating for six years. His troubles led him to live a lonely, solitary life far away from people that he feared already misunderstood his aloofness for insolence. In October of that year, Beethoven wrote of his despair and isolating deafness to his brothers Carl and Johann; he also wrote of his desire to persevere and pursue his art. Writing desperately, he rejects suicide and soon starts to work on Symphony No. 3, Eroica. Beethoven hid this pseudo-legal letter with his private papers, so it was not discovered in Beethoven’s room in March 1827, after his death. This letter is now known as the Heiligenstadt Testament.
For my brothers Carl and [Johann] Beethoven
Oh you men who think or say that I am malevolent, stubborn, or misanthropic, how greatly do you wrong me? You do not know the secret cause which makes me seem that way to you. From childhood on, my heart and soul have been full of the tender feeling of goodwill, and I was ever inclined to accomplish great things. But, think that for six years now I have been hopelessly afflicted, made worse by senseless physicians, from year to year deceived with hopes of improvement, finally compelled to face the prospect of a lasting malady (whose cure will take years or, perhaps, be impossible). Though born with a fiery, active temperament, even susceptible to the diversions of society, I was soon compelled to withdraw myself, to live life alone. If at times I tried to forget all this, oh how harshly I was I flung back by the doubly sad experience of my bad hearing. Yet it was impossible for me to say to people, "Speak louder, shout, for I am deaf." Ah, how could I possibly admit an infirmity in the one sense which ought to be more perfect in me than others, a sense which I once possessed in the highest perfection, a perfection such as few in my profession enjoy or ever have enjoyed. Oh I cannot do it; therefore forgive me when you see me draw back when I would have gladly mingled with you.
My misfortune is doubly painful to me because I am bound to be misunderstood; for me there can be no relaxation with my fellow men, no refined conversations, no mutual exchange of ideas. I must live almost alone, like one who has been banished; I can mix with society only as much as true necessity demands. If I approach near to people a hot terror seizes upon me, and I fear being exposed to the danger that my condition might be noticed. Thus it has been during the last six months which I have spent in the country. By ordering me to spare my hearing as much as possible, my intelligent doctor almost fell in with my own present frame of mind, though sometimes I ran counter to it by yielding to my desire for companionship. But what a humiliation for me when someone standing next to me heard a flute in the distance and I heard nothing, or someone standing next to me heard a flute in the distance and I heard nothing, or someone heard a shepherd singing and again I heard nothing. Such incidents drove me almost to despair; a little more of that and I would have ended me life--it was only my art that held me back. Ah, it seemed to me impossible to leave the world until I had brought forth all that I felt was within me. So I endured this wretched existence--truly wretched for so susceptible a body, which can be thrown by a sudden change from the best condition to the very worst. Patience, they say, is what I must now choose for my guide, and I have done so--I hope my determination will remain firm to endure until it pleases the inexorable Parcae to break the thread. Perhaps I shall get better, perhaps not; I am ready. Forced to become a philosopher already in my twenty-eighth year, oh it is not easy, and for the artist much more difficult than for anyone else. "Divine one, thou seest me inmost soul thou knowest that therein dwells the love of mankind and the desire to do good." Oh fellow men, when at some point you read this, consider then that you have done me an injustice; someone who has had misfortune man console himself to find a similar case to his, who despite all the limitations of Nature nevertheless did everything within his powers to become accepted among worthy artists and men. You, my brothers Carl and [Johann], as soon as I am dead, if Dr. Schmidt is still alive, ask him in my name to describe my malady, and attach this written documentation to his account of my illness so that so far as it possible at least the world may become reconciled to me after my death.
At the same time, I declare you two to be the heirs to my small fortune (if so it can be called); divide it fairly; bear with and help each other. What injury you have done me you know was long ago forgiven. To you, brother Carl, I give special thanks for the attachment you have shown me of late. It is my wish that you may have a better and freer life than I have had. Recommend virtue to your children; it alone, not money, can make them happy. I speak from experience; this was what upheld me in time of misery. Thanks to it and to my art, I did not end my life by suicide. Farewell and love each other--I thank all my friends, particularly Prince Lichnowsky's and Professor Schmidt--I would like the instruments from Prince L. to be preserved by one of you, but not to be the cause of strife between you, and as soon as they can serve you a better purpose, then sell them. How happy I shall be if can still be helpful to you in my grave--so be it. With joy I hasten to meed death. If it comes before I have had the chance to develop all my artistic capacities, it will still be coming too soon despite my harsh fate, and I should probably wish it later--yet even so I should be happy, for would it not free me from a state of endless suffering? Come when thou wilt, I shall meed thee bravely. Farewell and do not wholly forget me when I am dead; I deserve this from you, for during my lifetime I was thinking of you often and of ways to make you happy--please be so.
If i told you things I did before, told you how i used to be, would you go along with someone like me? If you knew my story word for word, had all of my history, would you go along with someone like me?
I did before and had my share; it didn't lead nowhere. I would go along with someone like you. It doesn't matter what you did, who you were hanging with. We could stick around and see this night through.
And we don't care about the young folks talkin' 'bout the young style And we don't care about the old folks, talkin' 'bout the old style, too. And we don't care about their own faults; talkin' 'bout our own style. All we care 'bout is talking-- talking only me and you.
Usually, when things have gone this far, people tend to disappear.
No one will surprise me unless you do.
I can tell there's something goin' on, hours seems to disappear. Everyone is leaving; I'm still with you.
It doesn't matter what we do, where we are going, too. We can stick around and see this night through.
And we don't care about the young folks, talkin' 'bout the young style. And we don't care about the old folks, talkin' 'bout the old style, too. And we don't care about their own faults; talkin' 'bout our own style. All we care 'bout is talking, talking only me and you.
And we don't care about the young folks, talkin' 'bout the young style. And we don't care about the old folks, talkin' 'bout the old style, too. And we don't care about their own faults; talkin' 'bout our own style. All we care 'bout is talking, talking only me and you-- talking only me and you.
French poet, essayist, and critic Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867) fits in between the Romantics and the Modernists--he's actually credited as the first to refer to modernity as a movement and condition of life in the increasingly urbanized world. Though still considered hugely influential, Baudelaire is not in style today. As a Romantic, he's inspired by rich emotions, gives priority to aesthetics and nature, and--this makes him tricky to read--makes allusions to classical, medieval, and exotic stories, all while revolting against industrialization. But as a Modernist, he aimed to say and represent something about his time and defy orthodoxy. For this, he became a bit of a lightening rod, slapped with labels of indecency in his life and work. He lived hard and died at 46.
I first read Artificial Paradises, a sort of meditation on the effects of wine, hashish, and opium--all substances he indulged in until near his death, and perhaps taken in some part to medicate himself while suffering gonorrhea and syphilis. This text is neither the boasting of a stoned teenager nor the cautioning of a burnout; no, it reads like a devout aristocrat--which Baudelaire was--sunning himself in his talent for writing prose while recording for posterity a slice of his life and the strength of his intellect, hopefully to the offense of the reader.
Next I read two of his books of petry, The Flowers of Evil and Paris Spleen (combined in one volume by BOA Editions, Ltd.). The Flowers of Evil is Baudelaire's best-known work; here he glides beautifully over a range of subjects. And while he can summon fine porcelain words to capture the mood that strikes on a particular lovely evening, he can also express a healthy sense of disgust for things, and this I enjoy very much. The works in Paris Spleen are considered prose-poems, which are basically short, stream-of-conscious vignettes and random blurbs. Artificial Paradises I can take or leave, but the The Flowers of Evil and Paris Spleen collections proved enjoyable, though only after a couple evenings spent flipping through them over again. Notes: (from The Flowers of Evil)
"The Grateful Dead" by Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867)
Somewhere, in a country lush and fat with snails, I wish that I might myself a narrow grave Where my old bones, at leisure, could stretch out a while And sleep, oblivious like sharks beneath the wave.
Last wills and testaments I hate, and tombs I hate;
And rather than implore the world to weep for me, While I'm still living I'd be happy to invite The crows to drain my blood from my carcass's debris.
O worms! black comrades without ears or even eyes, Behold, there comes to you a free and joyful prize; You philosophic wastrels, children of putrescence: Within my ruins carry on without regret, And tell me what is still to come, what novel torments For this, my soulless corpse, this dead among the dead!
(from Paris Spleen)
"Get Drunk" by Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867) Always be drunk. That's it! The great imperative! In order not to feel Time's horrid fardel bruise your shoulders, grinding you into the earth, get drunk and stay that way.
On What? Wine, poetry, virtue, whatever. But get drunk.
And if you sometimes happen to wake up on the porches of a palace, in the green grass of a ditch, in the dismal loneliness of your own room your drunkenness gone or disappearing, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, ask everything that flees, everything that groans or rolls or sings, everything that speaks, ask what time it is; and the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock will answer you: "Time to get drunk! Don't be martyred slaves of Time, get drunk forever! Get drunk! Stay drunk! On Wine, poetry, virtue, whatever."
In his review of "Into the Abyss," Roger Ebert starts off with this:
"Into the Abyss" may be the saddest film Werner Herzog has ever made. It regards a group of miserable lives, and in finding a few faint glimmers of hope only underlines the sadness.
Well said. And here, at this cross-stitch of crime and poverty, the value of life runs threadbare.
Herzog documents the people and events surrounding a triple homicide in the
small city of Conroe, Texas. The crime is violent and pointless, the sentences inconsistent and accidental. We hear from the convicted suspects, the families, investigators, and prison staff. With this crowd, Herzog has stumbled into a special kind of poor--a subculture of white, angry desperation that doesn't seem to know any other way. Herzog's approach is distanced, and he rations his usual pithy but insightful commentary.
When I think of an abyss, I think of a space in which blackness persists where the eye looks for light. The film's most glaring abyss is death row inmate Michael Perry: Seeing his youthful face, we expect--almost demand--him to show us something redeeming, something innocent. But it never comes. He is incapable probably of redemption or innocence.
But an abyss is also marked by its limitlessness, and even in this senseless loss, the victims' family attempts to salvage something. And another glimmer of hope (for those opposed to capital punishment) comes from a Death Row guard's turn away from death in favor of a universal right to life.
This is a very fine documentary, an effective and subtly powerful example of the form. Through Herzog's lens, overarching pointlessness and defeat lie naked. Presented with the abyss of the human soul, we find two thoughts juxtaposed: (1) No one has the right to take a life, and (2) some people don't deserve to live. There is no answer. Just traces of a spirit deeply buried within flaws and sad stories.
