A Dose of Comfort from Brahms’s Requiem

I’m now singing my third setting of the words of Isaiah 40:6:

“All flesh is as grass, and all the glory of man as the flowers of grass.
The grass withereth, and the flowers thereof falleth away,
But the word of the Lord endureth forever.”

The first time was at a memorial service three days after 9/11. We were a choir mourning the loss of one of our own on that day, and the Hebrew Enosh is one of the most moving laments I have ever heard. Even the conclusion, that the glory of God does last forever, is part of the same, haunting line.

The second setting actually is taken from the new testament, which quotes the original passage in the context of a buoyant celebration of the fact that the resurrection makes us all imperishable. In Blessed Be the God and Father, Wesley turns those piercing old Hebrew words into melodramatically sad English ones before a terrific organ chord and the choir bursting forth with the bit about the word of the Lord enduring forever, breaking into a seemingly uncontrollable fugue in their uncontrollable joy.

Tonight we’re singing Brahms’s setting in Ein deutsches Requiem in memory of John F. Kennedy, here on the 50th anniversary of his death. Unlike the rest of the piece, much of which proceeds with a heavenly shimmer, the movement with these lyrics begins as a dirge, taking death on darkly and truly. But then before getting to the “but the word of the Lord” bit (also a bouncing fugue here) Brahms detours us through some new text, from the book of James. The verses counsel listeners to be patient and to wait for the fruit of the earth like a “husbandman,” in a playful, almost childlike waltz. It’s that earthiness, that earthly comfort, that I find so interesting here, set against text that is meant to clearly remind us that anything earthly is so transitory, even if there’s a deity that can help us transcend it all. This is somewhere in the middle — between the dust to which we return and the heavens to which we hope to ascend. You don’t often see too much of this kind of earthly comfort in requiems. Why did Brahms stick that bit in? I’m not sure but it’s one of my favorite passages in a piece brimming with some pretty amazing moments.

(Shameless plug: concert tickets at http://ow.ly/qShiQ.)

What Surrounds the Gutenberg Parenthesis?

Today Rick Hornik (who clearly knows me well) sent me a link to this interview of the authors of the theory of the Gutenberg Parenthesis. The theory posits that the age of print brought with it certain cultural anomalies which we now consider to be truisms and norms, but which are actually being called into question in the digital age, on a trajectory that is leading us back where we started before Johannes began puttering with movable type.

Reading the piece was great fun because I really like thinking about how wide, sweeping cultural trends ebb and flow, particularly those around orality and literacy, print and digital, and the ways that culture deals with information as a thing.

I did think the theory reductionist, though, in its classification of everything as either inside the parenthesis or outside of it. Reductive thinking can be powerful because it allows us to make connections and see patterns, but here are a few reasons it’s dangerous in this case:

  • We’re not just going in circles. Whether or not the internet is more medieval than the age of print, it’s not that we’re returning whole hog to the days of Chaucer. These guys talk about coming full circle; I think of the world in more Siddharthan (Buddhist?) terms as a spiral. We may be back in the same place in the circle, but we’ve moved up the helix: we are somewhere new. The danger of overlooking this is that we won’t recognize that while certain things are back again (a networked world, a world with messy authorship), some of today’s conditions are very different (the cloud, global brand recognition, a stock market, pharmaceutical companies’ in-house IP lawyers). For example, oral cultures were highly conservative because they dedicated their cultural muscle to remembering important things; literacy liberated the cultural mind to turn to more innovative activities; now with all of our information stored and immediately accessible, instead of returning to the old ways, we could get even more innovative as a society. (Walter J. Ong does a good job of capturing the sense of both returning to a preliterate culture and growing even more literate in the digital age in his classic Orality and Literacy). Finally, while it’s effectively jarring to call the print era merely a parenthesis, it’s misleading, because though it’s true that it’s just a temporary hiccup in time, it implies that other eras aren’t also temporary hiccups.

  • It’s not just medieval. Each of the periods we’re talking about here was internally differentiated. It’s become something of a cliché to talk about today’s world of the internet and ebooks as analogous to Gutenberg’s first days of print, but there’s meat to that comparison. The early days of print typography were a (fabulous) mess and they were about replicating what came before (handwritten manuscripts); the early days of the internet typography were a (fabulous) mess and they were about replicating what came before (printed [news]papers and books). Later, highly normalized days of print will perhaps be analagous to later days of the web, and they’ll be very different than what we have going on now, just as what we have going on now is very different than, say, 1998. If we are entering a medievalesque period now, that’s not to say that the internet always was or always will be medieval. And not all preliterate culture was medieval–that was only the last cultural era before Gutenberg came along. If you go much before 800 AD, you’re running into a very different society altogether. Maybe I’m just quibbling with the conflation of “preliterate” with “medieval.”

  • Value-laden language. You can’t escape this stuff, but it’s like we’re either judging the medievals (the Dark Ages!) or, in this piece, we’re judging the print era (lousy containers with their static content–let’s have a “restoration”!). I do admit that I enjoyed reading about a positive account of the medieval period for a change, however.

Digging into what made the medieval information culture tick was indeed the best part of the piece. I hadn’t thought of that medieval world as highly “networked,” specifically because it was so hierarchical and I think of networks as more democratic. But the part about how oral culture messes with authorship and how that’s similar to the way content operates on the web is very resonant. Certainly to some degree when copyright law came into being in the early 18th century it was in reaction to the rising needs of print culture; what this theory and this interview does well is to question whether that law is actually the obvious right thing or whether now we’ll need to grow out of it again.

But this is where the discussion comes in of whether we’re just traveling in circles or if there’s something linear and progressive about our cultural development as well. Our modern economy depends on granting rights to the creator of intellectual property, and not just in the media world: so are we moving to a place where all that will need to change? And if so is the pendulum indeed simply swinging back the other way, such that in a thousand years we’ll be building cathedrals again, instead of bazaars? Or will we find a new (and also temporary and parenthetical) Hegelian synthesis between the capitalist need to assign ownership and our increasingly dynamic network of living content?

In the Wake of the Boston Marathon

OK, haven’t posted anything here for years, but here goes.

I’m a relative newcomer to Boston: I didn’t move here until 2003, after graduating from college. There are times when I feel like an outsider (hockey, Bruins, what?), and even times that I feel close to the city but also like I haven’t quite earned my place (see: October 27, 2004). But Patriots’ Day is an all-inclusive event, and it’s been my favorite day in Boston since I got tickets to the morning Sox game, saw the flyover, saw the helicopters tracking the elite runners, and exited the park to see the marathon for the first time.

I’m a runner but a very slow, amateur one; that first experience of the 26.2-miler was before I’d ever run a race and probably before I’d ever run 5 miles at one go. Seeing this never-ending swarm of *normal-looking* people coming down Beacon Street after having run 23 miles was something new (wow! They’re impressive! and, …could I do that?). And seeing this never-ending swarm of a crowd cheering them on brought home that it didn’t matter if you were from Boston, or from Philly, or old, or young–it just mattered that you joyfully yelled your heart out to support the people who looked just like you, but who were running and running, doing this amazing thing.

I think that’s what lies at the heart of everything I’ve loved about Patriots’ Day, which I recently called my favorite day in the city because (as I tried to explain, without quite the right words) everyone is happy and there’s just positive energy everywhere. There’s the early spring cadre of runners on the carriage paths of Comm. Ave. in Newton on Saturday mornings, growing each week, wearing marathon jackets, oblivious to the cold and snow as they prepare for April. There’s the building excitement of the preparations along the route–barricades and port-o-potties set up a few days before, then the camera bridge at the finish line and the tents that take over Copley Square. There are the international flags waving at the finish line, with tourists and locals alike taking pictures and posing. There’s the yearly blessing of the runners at Trinity Church on Marathon Sunday, culminating with a bone-vibrating rendition of Chariots of Fire on the great organ (the organist getting psyched up since he’s running too).

I was lucky to be able to join Trinity’s church choir this year, and on Sunday we premiered a piece written by that organist who runs and is also our director. After the priest made his annual, well received joke about Trinity appearing “like the City of God” to the runners at the end of the race, we sang: “They shall mount up with wings like eagles; shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint.” And then, a bit self-consciously in our robes, a few of us hung around the back of the church to hear Richard play Chariots of Fire and to cheer him on when it was done. Everyone all smiles, everyone having fun in anticipation of the big day.

The electricity of Patriots’ Day isn’t just about the marathon. It’s the reenactments of the revolutionary war in the pre-dawn hours in Lexington (“the drums are scary–you get why they played drums then,” a coworker told me yesterday morning). It’s the baseball game–in the morning! It’s a vacation day, a holiday. Even the skeleton crew of us in the office yesterday took some extra time at lunch to catch a few pitches on the TV. The happiness is absolutely catching, and everyone’s invited.

I couldn’t make it to the festivities this year so I took my morning run into the city, along the marathon route, ending up at the finish line at 7, the sun slanting over the city, the hardiest folks already settling in their camp chairs on the sidewalk along the barricades. I took pictures; I Facebooked them; I couldn’t refrain from multiple exclamation points.

And that’s where it all happened, where the nature of how this day is celebrated and remembered in Boston changed. The very sidewalk, the very barricades, the very finish line.

There will be more marathons and more Red Sox games and more cowbell-ringing for the runners, and the sun will shine on the finish line again. But always, and rightly, we’ll remember the dead, the injured, in the *place where it happened*, which we’ll talk about in whispered tones. We’ll be forced to think about hatred, evil, lunacy, or whatever brings a person to do something like this, and not just the magic of reaching goals worth fighting for and of taking in a morning at a green ballpark or being part of the effervescence of a supportive, happy crowd.

Our task now is to let that remembrance fuel us to do more great things, to build a stronger community, to let that effervescence bind us together as a city and as a humanity, to be the light that dazzles against the darkness–to take this tragedy and make it help us to mount up like eagles, to run and not be weary, and to walk and not faint.

Remembering, and Calling

In his short story “Pigeon Feathers,” John Updike’s fourteen-year-old character David is terrified of death: “a long hole in the ground, no wider than your body, down which you are drawn while the white faces above recede. You try to reach them but your arms are pinned. Shovels pour dirt into your face. There you will be forever…and in time no one will remember you, and you will never be called.”

The story is about faltering faith in God, and its desperate ending does nothing to convince us that Updike disagrees with his young mouthpiece’s doubt. David has just cruelly shot a handful of pesky albeit beautiful pigeons when the story concludes abruptly: “He was robed in this certainty: that the God who had lavished such craft upon these worthless birds would not destroy His whole Creation by refusing to let David live forever.”

Compared with this ugly brashness, David’s earlier description of human death is much more palatable. And while it is true that every poet and perhaps every human legitimately fears being eventually forgotten in death, in pronouncing this fear, Updike also announces its remedy: the remembrance and “calling” of the living. Just as Wordsworth pleaded with his sister to “remember me and these my exhortations,” I think that what Updike does here in effect is to remind us of what makes us most human (and least pigeonly): that we care about and can remember each other, even across the bridge of death.

Updike suggests that those actions are meaningful not just to ourselves, but perhaps (we can only imagine) to the dead as well. And so it is a human strength, and not a weakness, that when we gather around the “long hole” of a loved one, we choose to overcome the ugly brashness of death by engaging in the acts of remembering, and of calling.

My experiences of the last year have certainly informed my re-reading of Updike here, as those of you who know me probably suspect. But it is two deaths in the past week which have brought me specifically to put pen to paper (or fingertip to keyboard, I suppose), as friends, acquaintances, journalists, and I remember a coworker’s father, and Updike himself.