The Technique of Beauty [2]

— Beethoven is Deaf

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From the notes of Cornelis de Bondt:

— August 13, 1993

Schönberg is dead — the title of Pierre Boulez’s 1951 text — was the inspiration for my composition Beethoven is Deaf [1992/1993]. The score consists of an explanatory text, two variations on Boulez’s original text, and two tape recordings: one with my recorded voice stating Beethoven is Deaf and another with a recording of the Largo e mesto from Beethoven’s Piano Sonata Op. 10 No. 3. The performers are an actor and a mime artist, meaning that one enacts (or rather, playbacks) the sonata movement.

One of the two variations of the performed text is my own translation of Boulez’s text from the original French into Dutch. This version is spoken by the actor. The other variation is a text I wrote myself and later recorded. Its structure closely follows that of Boulez’s text, but its content is entirely different. In my text, I explain why Beethoven became deaf — not due to any physical causes, but because of his compositional style. Beethoven’s deafness was generated by the way he composed. This Beethoven text is largely identical to the Schönberg text; all neutral sentences — that is, those not directly referring to one of the two composers — are identical in both texts. Only the specific content differs, but as much as possible, the same words and sentence structures are used.

The actor recites his text simultaneously with the playback of the recorded alternative text. This results in a roughly unison effect, though occasional discrepancies arise. About halfway through, the other tape is played, and the audience hears the Largo e mesto. It seems as if the “pianist” is performing it, but in reality, the mime artist is play-backing. Gradually, something happens to the sound of the piano: the recording is processed through a digital reverb unit (a Lexicon PCM 70), causing all the played notes to keep resonating. The sounds, as it were, accumulate. Towards the end of the text (and the music), the volume increases, giving the impression that the music comes to a complete halt — entirely frozen in time.
[For the score and texts, see Appendix-2.]

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— May 18, 2013

An hour after his first letter, Haas sent a follow-up email in which he discussed, among other things, the peculiar matter of the Schönberg quotation.

Dear Mr. De Bondt,

Here is some additional food for thought regarding your work Beethoven is Deaf and the issue of translations.

I attended the premiere of the piece at Nighttown in Rotterdam, which I believe was in 1993. However, that was twenty years ago, so I do not recall the details. Recently, while researching the phenomenon of translations, I came across a fragment from the texts. Only now did I notice the issue of the Arnold Schönberg quotation — namely, that the quotation, which appears in both texts, reveals an important difference. The quotation, of course, originates from Boulez’s original text, where he cites Schönberg at a certain point, only to then deliver his scathing commentary on it. Twenty-eight years later, something curious happens. Boulez had translated Schönberg’s German-language quote into French. In 1979, a German translation of Boulez’s text appeared in a collection of his essays published by Bärenreiter Verlag, Pierre Boulez, Anhaltspunkte. In this edition, the Schönberg quote — previously translated into French by Boulez — was now translated back into German by Bärenreiter. This means there are now two German versions of the quote: Schönberg’s original and Bärenreiter’s back-translation. In my composition Beethoven is Deaf, I use both versions: the original German text in the Beethoven variation and Bärenreiter’s back-translation in the Schönberg variation.

This peculiar error by Bärenreiter offers us an intriguing perspective on the phenomenon of translation. So far, I have found five different translations of the Schönberg quote (which does not mean there aren’t more versions). The original text dates from 1925 and was published in 1926 in the article Gesinnung oder Erkenntnisse, in the Jahrbuch 1926, 25 Jahre Neue Musik, published by Universal Edition. The earliest translation I found is a French version in Le Monde Musical, Tonal ou Atonal, dated December 31, 1927. This version differs in some places from the original 1925 German text, suggesting that Schönberg may have made some adjustments. It is reasonable to assume that this translation was approved by Schönberg.

The second translation in chronological order is Boulez’s version in Schönberg est mort [1951]. The English translation of Boulez’s text, Schönberg is Dead, was published in The Score #6 in 1952, making it the first published version of Boulez’s text. In 1979, a German translation (the fifth chronologically) of Boulez’s text was published by Bärenreiter. This edition states that Boulez supposedly delivered this text during the Darmstädter Ferienkurse in the summer of 1951. If true, this would mean he presented it after Schönberg’s death. However, the Darmstadt summer course was held from June 22 to July 10, 1951, and Schönberg passed away on July 17 of that year. So, either Boulez had a remarkably prophetic vision, or wishful thinking played a role. I inquired about this via email with the organizers of the Ferienkurse, and Jürgen Krebber, the respondent, confirmed that this is a well-known modern myth. The first time Boulez appeared in Darmstadt was a year later, in 1952, and the text was never delivered there.

The only Dutch translation (the fourth in chronological order) I found dates from 1973, in a program booklet from the Rondom-Concerten series. It does not specify who the translator was or whether it was published elsewhere. This rather poor translation is not relevant to our discussion.
The most interesting aspect is the comparison between Schönberg’s original German text and the back-translation from French. They are not only different — which was to be expected — but they also convey different meanings. Let us compare both texts:

• Original text of Schönberg [1925]:
  In meinen ersten Werken des neuen Stils haben mich insbesondere sehr starke Ausdrucks-gewalten bei der Formgebung im einzelnen und im ganzen geleitet und nicht zuletzt ein durch die Tradition gewonnener und durch Fleiß und Gewissenhaftigkeit gut ausgebildeter Sinn für Form und Logik.
  
• Bärenreiter translation of Boulez’ French text [1979]:
  In meinen ersten Werken des neuen Stils sind es vor allem sehr starke ausdrucksmäßige Freiheiten, die mich sowohl im Besonderen wie im Allgemeinen bei der Ausarbeitung der Form geleitet haben, aber auch – und nicht zuletzt – ein von der Tradition ererbter und durch Fleiß und Gewissenhaftigkeit anerzogener Formsinn.
  
• French translation by Boulez [1951]:
  Dans mes premières œuvres du nouveau style, ce sont surtout de très fortes licences expressives qui m’ont guidé en particulier et en général dans l’élaboration formelle, mais aussi, en non pas en dernier lieu, un sens pour la forme et la logique hérité de la tradition et bien éduqué par l’application et la conscience.
  
• English translation from The Score [1952]:
  In the formal elaboration of my first works, both in particular and in general, I was guided above all by strong powers of expression, but also, and not least, by a sense of form and of musical logic inherited from tradition, and consciously developed by application.

The most significant difference in meaning lies in the phrase sowohl im Besonderen wie im Allgemeinen bei der Ausarbeitung der Form in the back-translated text. Here, the distinction between “the particular and the general” refers to the process of developing the form. However, in Schönberg’s original text [der Formgebung im einzelnen und im ganzen], this distinction applies to the technique of shaping the form itself. Boulez is referring to the development of Schönberg’s compositional technique — that is, the evolutionary process of his work — which is also reflected in the French translation qui m’ont guidé en particulier et en général dans l’élaboration formelle. In the source text, however, Schönberg is undoubtedly referring to the so-called micro- and macrostructure within the form itself — for example, the level of rhythms, motifs, phrase structure, and harmonic progression, as opposed to the larger subdivisions (also harmonic) within the form.

The difference Boulez introduces — perhaps unintentionally — can be understood in light of the argument he wanted to make: that Schönberg was moving toward a new, “expressionist” style. In reality, however, Schönberg’s new compositional approach still adhered to classical principles, despite its “expressionist” framing (the French text from 1927 explicitly uses this term). Schönberg’s core idea was that musical elements operating on a small scale followed the same principles as those on a larger, more general level. This was, in fact, the very essence of the principle that gave tonal music its power — one that Schönberg aimed to preserve for the next hundred years.

Additionally, Schönberg’s original text does not mention liberties [Freiheiten], as it does in the back-translated German version, but only strong powers of expression, as the English translation correctly renders it. Schönberg’s point was that this expressiveness was a direct result of the form itself. This is further emphasized by the expansion he introduced in the French version:

• French translation from 1927:
  La forme de mes premières œuvres du style nouveau naquit sous la pression d’une force impétueuse: ce fut donc vraiment une forme d’expression, une forme expressionniste dont la tonalité ainsi que tous les détails existaient plus encore dans une vitalité galvanisé et variable que dans des proportions glacée, dans une vitalité qui doit être chaque fois réveillée à nouveau par celui qui veut en jouir. Néanmoins, la sûreté de ces formes est fondée sur la tradition classique. Je n’avais pas en vain employé tant de zèle et de scrupules de conscience sans acquérir et développer en moi le sens de la logique et de la forme.

In this French version, Schönberg takes a bit more space to explain his intent than in the original. While he does refer to “expressive form” and “expressionist,” he nonetheless emphasizes the importance of form [“le sens de la logique et de la forme”]. Expression should be a living articulation of, and embedded within, the structure [“galvanisé”] rather than manifesting itself through a fluid articulation as a mere (superficial) display. He was serious about this, and it seems that Boulez sought to strip him of that seriousness in order to showcase his own.

Of course, you do the same: through translation, you shape Boulez’s text to your own ends, ultimately making your Beethoven text (Beethoven is Deaf) possible. The content of the text is thus determined by its form (of which translation is an essential part). This leads us to the following question: Is content conceivable without form? And conversely, is form conceivable without content? In other words, can the concepts of form and content be thought of as separate entities? I would appreciate the opportunity to exchange thoughts on these questions.

As I mentioned earlier, one of the texts we might consider in this discussion is Richard Wagner’s infamous Das Judenthum in der Musik, in which the fundamental question of What and How is essentially a question of form and content. Another relevant text is Heidegger’s Der Ursprung des Kunstwerkes. Given both authors’ — direct or indirect — connections to Nazism, a related theme would be the relationship between aesthetics and morality. In short, a wealth of material for what I hope will be an enlightening discussion.

Lastly, I would like to briefly mention another text on translation: Igor Stravinsky’s remarks from Dialogues and a Diary, a book he published with Robert Craft in 1963. In this text, Stravinsky compares himself to Arnold Schönberg, listing twenty points characterizing their working styles. The first two I mention concern past and future — yet another topic for discussion (for which I have in mind some texts by the Italian philosopher Giorgio Agamben). The final point relates to the translation issue I have outlined:

I will let these quotes speak for themselves for now, but I fervently hope for a positive response from you so that we may further explore this matter through a correspondence!

For now, I will leave it at that.

Mit vollkommener Hochachtung,

— Taunis Haas

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— May 21, 2013
I still have an unclear feeling about Haas. Where did this man’s interest come from? Why had he immersed himself in such an obscure work as Beethoven is Deaf, or was it all just a big joke, perhaps from one of my (former) students? I wrote him the following response in English — I do not command German well enough to dare to write in that language.
[Below the Dutch translation of the original English version.]

— Den Haag, 21 V ’13

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Dear Mr. Haas,

Not only am I greatly honored by your letter of May 18, but I was also somewhat speechless — this attention to an uncommon work that has only been performed twice and whose score has never been published or made public astonished me. Especially because I received your letter so shortly after withdrawing my work from public view. Is this a mere coincidence, or is there a deeper connection? You write that you have heard of my actions this past January, but not what exactly you have gathered from them; you only express your astonishment at the resigned manner in which Dutch musical life has responded to the new cultural policy, at the lack of solidarity and vision. If my questions seem somewhat suspicious to you, I ask in advance for your understanding of the hectic time and circumstances in which I currently find myself. Withdrawing my œuvre, to which I have devoted 33 years of heart and soul, is no simple matter — it has brought me admiration but also a great deal of hostility and incomprehension, leaving me in an almost total (artistic and political) isolation.

I hope you can tell me more about your interest in my direction because the topics you bring up greatly appeal to me. I will touch on them — albeit not too extensively in this initial response. One text immediately came to mind regarding your issue with translation, which directly connects to another theme you address: that of form and content.

The text I am referring to is by the Dutch essayist Rudy Kousbroek and discusses the Japanese writer Junichirō Tanizaki. The text, Donker licht [Dark Light], appeared in the collection Restjes, Anathema’s 9. The main topic of the text is the different ways in which Western and Eastern cultures deal with light — and thus darkness or shadow — at least in the time of Tanizaki, the first half of the twentieth century.

This is a subject that could be important for us in relation to the form/content issue, but in the text, Kousbroek takes a brief detour, which directly touches on the problem of translation that you outlined. Kousbroek quotes himself from an interview he gave in 2002. He discusses an English translation of Tanizaki’s essay In’ei raisan [In Praise of Shadows], which contains an extensive description of the traditional Japanese toilet — a wooden-walled construction outside the house. He expresses his bewilderment at a peculiar sentence in that English translation:

It is an essay in the Japanese tradition, intended as a divertissement in which not everything is meant to be taken seriously. […] I believe he deliberately exaggerated the pleasure of sitting on a toilet. There is something peculiar about that passage. In Seidensticker’s English translation, “In Praise of Shadows”, it says: “The novelist Sōseki Natsume counted his morning trips to the toilet a great pleasure, ‘a physiological delight’ he called it.” However, in Japanese, it literally states that Natsume compared it to “the pleasant sensation of being buried alive.” The translator probably thought: let’s not even go there; I won’t attempt to translate that literally. Japanese is very difficult — at least for me. Either you can translate a sentence in three or four different ways, all of which seem plausible, or you can’t translate it at all.

Another translation I found, by Charles Moore, differs at a specific point:
“The novelist Natsume Sōseki counted his morning trips to the toilet a great pleasure, ‘a physiological delight’ he called it.”

But which is the given name and which is the surname? Japanese is indeed very difficult for Westerners. I had one of my Japanese students look at the original text, and they also checked their findings with fellow (Japanese) linguistics students. To begin with the name: Natsume is indeed his surname, so Seidensticker’s translation is correct.

But more importantly, nowhere does it say that Natsume compared his bowel movements to being buried alive, as Kousbroek claims. In Japanese, the text simply states what is found in the English version.

After the sentence about a physiological delight, the text continues: “And surely there could be no better place to savour this pleasure than a Japanese toilet where, surrounded by tranquil walls and finely grained wood, one looks out upon blue skies and green leaves.”

There is absolutely nothing in the Japanese text that could even remotely suggest a reference to being buried alive. None of the characters have anything to do with a coffin or anything similar. The only explanation for the misunderstanding could be that Kousbroek misinterpreted the description of the toilet — four wooden walls in the open air — as a coffin, hence the phrase being buried alive.

Nevertheless, Kousbroek’s essay is interesting because it highlights an important aspect of Japanese culture. Tanizaki does not only discuss Japanese culture but also Eastern culture in general, particularly the difference between Eastern and Western ways of dealing with light. The essay dates from the early 1930s, a time when electric lighting was becoming more widespread, for example in restaurants and theaters. Tanizaki laments the loss of erotic expression in Kabuki theater, as the colors of Kabuki costumes become vulgar under Western-style electric lighting. At one point, he speaks about the geishas of Kyoto:

What intrigues me most of all, however, is that green, shimmering lipstick, which today is so rarely used, even by Kyoto geishas. One cannot grasp its intensity unless it is perceived in the dim, flickering glow of a candle. In the past, a woman had to conceal the red of her lips beneath a green-black lipstick and adorn her hair with flickering ornaments, so that the last trace of color disappeared from her rich skin. I can imagine nothing whiter than the face of a young girl in the flickering shadow of a lantern, where, when she occasionally smiles, her black-lacquered teeth gleam like an elfin fire. She becomes whiter than the whitest woman I can imagine.

Thinking about light from its opposite — or rather, from its reflection — fascinates me, as it aligns with my conception of beauty. Blackening teeth to make them appear whiter — this is an understanding of beauty that comes close to its very essence. Perhaps this touches on a fundamental misconception in Western thought: that one comes closest to beauty by striving to make it sublime.
This brings us to another theme that occupies me: beauty. But more on that later. As I mentioned at the beginning of this letter, I would first like to know more from you about the context behind this developing correspondence.

With sincere and warm regards,
— Cornelis de Bondt

P.S. The opening of your first letter, “Meine Nahme ist Haas”, is translated into Dutch as “Mijn naam is Haas”, an expression that is identical to the original German “Meine Nahme ist Hase”.
I assume you were aware of this.