The Book Thief by Markus Zusak

Source of book: Recommended by and borrowed from my friends Peter and Patty Wonderly

I don’t read a lot of modern fiction. Perhaps I’m a bit of a reactionary, and perhaps I just prefer that time cull the chaff from the wheat. I have, however, followed the recommendations of a select group of people whose judgment I trust.

I was not disappointed in this book, which is well written, thoughtful, and compelling.

The Book Thief is written by an Australian author about my age. (Does that make him young? I’m not sure anymore.) I was a bit surprised to discover this after I finished the book, as his writing seems rather relaxed and unforced for his age. Many younger authors (and great authors in their youth) try so hard to be profound that they let the profundity get in the way of the story. Not so here.

Liesel Meminger, the protagonist, is a young German girl (and later a teen) who is, for all intents and purposes, orphaned. Her father is a communist, arrested by the Nazis, is never heard from again. Her mother gives her up to the foster care system and likewise disappears. Her younger brother dies on the train to meet their foster parents, the Hubermanns.

Just as Liesel is settling into life with her foster parents, they choose to harbor a Jew, Max, whose father saved Hans Hubermann’s life in World War One.

That is all I will disclose of the plot, because the twists are part of the fun. Or torture, perhaps.

Okay, one more disclosure is necessary. Liesel cannot read at age ten, a fact which distresses her. At her brother’s funeral, she steals a book that is left behind. Hans teaches her to read, and Max…well, that would spoil some of the story.

One interesting facet of the book is the creative (if not exactly original) use of the narrator. Zusak chooses Death to be the narrator, which leads to an interesting combination of perspectives. The conceit is that Death himself pinches the book Liesel writes, reads it, and re-tells the story. Thus, there are essentially two narrators. Liesel tells the story, which is then interpreted by Death, who also fills in additional details that he learns from his line of work. Thus, conveniently, we learn plenty about how various characters die.

As would be expected, Death would have a very short story to tell if there were not an abundance of souls to collect. Sadly, this book does not need to exaggerate by a bare millimeter the devastating impact of World War Two. If anything, this book is positively idyllic compared to some of the true stories. (The Hiding Place by Corrie Ten Boom comes to mind – my mom read this to us as children, and it instilled a hatred for the Nazis and their philosophy that no history book could ever inspire.)

Despite all this death, and the horribly devastating conclusion, this book is full of hope and goodness. It is a reminder that even in the dark pit of evil that Germany housed, there were still those who risked their lives, suffered grave consequences for doing the right thing, but nevertheless did what they knew was right.

There are a host of sympathetic characters, each admirable and flawed. Liesel, the emotionally damaged girl. Rudy, who loves Liesel as much as he hates the Hitler ethic. The mayor’s wife, who recognizes a kindred soul in Liesel, as she too has never recovered from her grief. Rosa Hubermann, who is capable of great love despite her obnoxious exterior. Hans and Max, who should really be discovered through the story itself.

One thing I did find just slightly off in this book was Liesel herself. She is highly believable as a person, but just ever so slightly less so as a female. Zusak doesn’t do badly here, but one cannot help but wonder if a woman would have written Liesel a bit differently. I can’t really put my finger on it.

The scene that cemented this for me was early in the book, where Rudy and Liesel are playing soccer with a group, and Rudy clobbers her in the ear with a snowball. Death’s aside here is, “A snowball in the face is surely the perfect beginning to a lasting friendship.” From the male perspective, yes. A thousand times yes! To a girl? Perhaps to the right sort of girl.

I also felt that the asides by Death were risky. I think Zusak walked the line well, but the asides could have become a distraction. As it is, they serve as a break from the increasing darkness of the narrative – much as comic relief is used in other works.

I particularly enjoyed Death’s complaint about war.

            They say that war is death’s best friend, but I must offer you a different point of view on that one. To me, war is like the new boss who expects the impossible. He stands over your shoulder repeating one thing, incessantly: “Get it done, get it done.” So you work harder. You get the job done. The boss, however, does not thank you. He asks for more.

And this gets to the heart of why this is a book that contains light, but is ultimately quite dark. The historical facts don’t change. Hitler slaughtered six million Jews. An estimated sixty million people worldwide died as a result of the war. (For an even more depressing thought, this was 2.5% of the world population. WWII killed the most people by total numbers, but not as a percentage of population.) And then Stalin and Mao…the history of the 20^th Century is simply ghastly.

As Death confesses at the end, “I am haunted by humans.”

Despite the darkness, the ultimate point of the war and of the book is that evil can and should be defeated, whether on the grand scale of the war, or the small scale of individual lives. The small sacrifices and the small acts of kindness are important too, and ultimately, each of us is responsible to take a stand in our own way against the darkness.

 

Note #1: Dachau

The setting of this book is in a (fictional) suburb of Munich, along the road to the Dachau Concentration Camp. Dachau was the original Concentration Camp, the model that the others were built on. Originally, (particularly before the war) it housed political prisoners. Later, it was used, like the rest, for Jewish prisoners.

Unlike many of the other camps, Dachau probably did not utilize a gas chamber. Prisoners were exterminated the old fashioned way: by being starved or frozen to death. The iron gates of the camp still read, “Arbeit macht frei” – “Work sets you free”. 

 During my law school days, in October of 1999, I spent a couple of weeks in Europe, including three days in the Munich area. Our trip to Dachau came on an appropriately rainy day. I had a cold I picked up somewhere, so I was doubly miserable.

Dachau was an unforgettable and haunting experience. Only one of the barracks is still standing – the rest are represented by the old concrete foundations. Rows of gray squares surrounded by barbed wire. 

The hardest part, though, was the crematoriums, which are still standing. Although everything has been cleaned throughout the last 60 years, the ash of human bodies still remains in the cracks, and the acrid air is still tainted. 

Note #2: Death as the Narrator

The use of death as the narrator of this story is an unusual touch. The author originally conceived the role of death as a harsh and cynical character – very modern in outlook, perhaps. However, it didn’t work, so Death was rewritten as a more likeable and comforting personality. In this, the author looks backward, not forward.

The motif of “Death and the Maiden” dates to medieval times, an offshoot of sorts from the Danse Macabre, but with femininity, and therefore added pathos.

Der Tod und das Mädchen, Hans Baldung Grien, 1517

Franz Schubert wrote a magnificent string quartet on this theme, entitled, of course, “Death and the Maiden”. The second movement of the quartet is the melody from his song of the same name, which uses the words of a poem by Matthias Claudius:

The Maiden:

    Oh! leave me! Prithee, leave me! thou grisly man of bone!

    For life is sweet, is pleasant.

    Go! leave me now alone!

    Go! leave me now alone!

Death:

    Give me thy hand, oh! maiden fair to see,

    For I'm a friend, hath ne'er distress'd thee.

    Take courage now, and very soon

    Within mine arms shalt softly rest thee!"

The tune itself was probably inspired in part by the similar funeral march from Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony, composed six years prior.

Note #3: Hans and Art

A longtime friend of mine, Hans, is a violin maker. We have known each other both professionally and personally since I was a child, and we attended the same church for several years. He officiated at my wedding.

Hans grew up in southern Germany. As a child, his neighborhood was bombed much as described in this book.

Years later, he met his American wife Nancy at a training for violin makers, they married, and took over Nancy’s father’s violin shop in Los Angeles.

The story took an interesting turn when he met a man named Art at our church who was an airman in the bomber division for the United States Air Force in the war. (I seem to recall he was a gunner – but don’t quote me on that.)

After comparing notes, they determined that Art had in fact bombed Hans’ town during the war. They became friends – a testament to the power of reconciliation. 

Blink by Malcolm Gladwell

Source of book: I own this. A gift from my sister, who is also a Gladwell fan.

Gladwell is one of a handful of authors that I will read whenever I see their bylines attached to an online article, regardless of the topic. (Others that come readily to mind are Gregg Easterbrook, Marvin Olasky, Seth Stevenson, Emily Yoffe, and the late Christopher Hitchens.) While his work is usually well thought out and researched, I think there is a more important facet that always draws me in. Gladwell is, above all else, a great story teller. Whether in the opening paragraph of an essay, or in the first chapter of his longer works, there is always a fascinating and well told story. 

As I noted in my review of Outliers, Gladwell can be classified as a writer in the “popular sociology” field. While he does examine the research, and cites the statistics and studies he quotes, he writes to an average reader, not the expert. For this reason, I enjoy the storytelling more than his conclusions, which can seem a little too neatly packaged for the real world. (Outliers suffers from this fault more than Blink, because Gladwell proposes sweeping social engineering, rather than personal change.)

The central idea of this book is the examination of how we make decisions. As humans, we appear to use two basic methods. In some cases, given enough time and information, we reason things out, carefully drawing a conclusion from our knowledge. In other cases, we make a snap decision intuitively. How these two interact, and how we can utilize the best both skills is a fascinating topic, and Gladwell manages to find the perfect anecdotes to illuminate it.

To begin with, Gladwell introduces what he calls “thin slicing”, wherein we draw conclusions from a small sample size. We do this, for example, when we size up social situations. Most of us can tell within a few moments of entering a social event that two persons dislike each other. Or, as Gladwell points out later in the book, a skilled musician can tell within a few notes whether another musician is legitimate.

Throughout this book, I recognized intersections with two significant areas of my life: law and music.

The first was introduced along with the “thin slice” concept. Gladwell interviewed a researcher who was attempting to gain insight into marital (and similar) relationships. He had couples discuss a source of friction in their relationship while he observed and recorded it. Later, he broke down the words, inflections, and body language into a variety of categories. He then followed the couples for the next fifteen years to see who had stayed together. So far, this sounds like a typical long range study, where a large aggregation of data eventually leads to an insight. More information equals better prediction. Except that this turned out to be wrong. The more categories and the more complexity the researcher introduced, the worse the predictions became.

A different approach succeeded. The decision was made to try to simplify the information by eliminating most of it and focusing on just a couple of important factors. With further refining, the researcher was able to predict with 85 percent accuracy who was going to divorce, despite having seen a mere 15 minutes of interaction. Startlingly, this percentage did not go down much when he reduced the time to 3 minutes.

The entire story is more detailed than this, but one conclusion in particular stood out. The most important indicator that a relationship is doomed is contempt. Once one party shows contempt for the other, the relationship is over. The concept of “contempt” is broader than we usually think. It isn’t necessary to call the other party a bitch: all that is needed is that one party place him or herself on a higher plane than the other. (See endnote for more on this.)

Also on the law side of the spectrum was the similar research attempting to predict whether a doctor would be sued for malpractice. It turned out that the doctor’s skill and competence was irrelevant. It was all about the doctor’s attitude. It was so much about the attitude that they were able to play a short conversation between patient and doctor, with the recording altered so that the actual words were unintelligible, and the result was still predictable based simply on tone of voice.

After establishing some situations in which the intuitive response leads to better results, Gladwell explores the mechanism by which this works. In many cases, this is not easy. The mind makes its judgments, and these judgments remain mysterious. In some cases they are even opposed to rational thought.

Gladwell writes about association tests. I played around with these tests myself at the California Science Center, which was an interesting experience. They test association of ideas using a computer program which records both accuracy and speed. The explanation of the tests is beyond the scope of a book review, but I recommend playing around with the tests, which can be found here:

https://implicit.harvard.edu/implicit/

The upshot of the tests is that our unconscious biases are often in opposition to our beliefs and statements. We may say, for example, that we think short people are as intelligent as tall people, but our snap judgments will show the opposite.

I appreciated that Gladwell noted that being short is as much of a barrier to becoming a CEO as being African-American. (Gladwell is half Jamaican, so this is a real concession on his part.)

The result of this is illustrated by the story of how Warren Harding, perhaps the worst president of all time, was elected on the basis of his looks and voice, rather than ideas or ability. William McAdoo said of him, all too accurately, that his speeches were “an army of pompous phrases moving across the landscape in search of an idea."

This is where our intuition lets us down. It dwells too near our prejudices. Thus, the inherent issue is how to determine when to rely on instinct and when to slow down and analyze in greater detail.

The problem with the additional information is that it is not always helpful. Again, here this book touches on the law. In an additional research on medical diagnosis, it was discovered that additional information did not increase the likelihood of a correct diagnosis. It did have an effect, however. Those with more information became more convinced and sure that their diagnosis was correct – even if it wasn’t.

How does the law come into all of this? Eyewitness identifications are unreliable. This has been proven time and time again. We simply cannot identify a stranger in a lineup with any degree of accuracy. However, the more time spent viewing and analyzing the lineup, the more time spent focusing on remembering the details, the more certain the identifications become. Even – perhaps especially – the incorrect ones.

Gladwell’s point here is that the irrelevant details need to be eliminated. This is where the more extensive research can help reduce the clutter. In the medical example, the accuracy was increased by removing two categories of facts. One was the facts that were secondary to the key issue. The second was unconscious prejudices. (For example, that men were more likely to be having a heart attack.)

A few more notes will have to suffice. The book is excellent reading for all of the above examples, and many more.

The chapter on advertising and marketing is amazing. The use of three glasses to test Coke and Pepsi, for example, is illuminating.

I also would like to draw a parallel between the chapter on a police shooting gone bad and The Onion Field by Joseph Wambaugh, which recounts an arrest gone bad that ended with a dead officer here in Kern County. Both show the many things that can go wrong in the space of a couple of seconds, and how both incidents led to the reconsideration of how we handle certain situations – and how to avoid them.

Finally, Gladwell ends his book with a series of stories about music. To those of us who play classical music, the story of Abbie Conant is well known. To those of us who follow employment law, the case of Abbie Conant is also familiar. Conant is a world-class trombone player, who happens to be female. European orchestras are notoriously monolithic – white, and male. The Vienna Philharmonic remained an all-male group until well into the 1990s.

The Munich Philharmonic decided to hold auditions behind a screen, because one of the applicants was related to someone in the orchestra management. When Conant won the audition, the judges were mortified to discover she was female. After multiple attempts to remove her or relegate her to a lesser status, she finally had to take her case to court. She won, and then had to sue again when she was intentionally paid less than her colleagues.

Gladwell tells the story well, although he omits much of the legal details. (Only someone like myself would complain.)

There are additional stories regarding the use of blind auditions, which further his point. When we know of a particular risk of prejudice, the use of a screen or other device to eliminate the prejudicial cues can focus the decision making process on the essentials. He makes an interesting surmise that this same screening process could potentially work to reduce racial bias in criminal trials. I must admit that he has a point – and I suspect many who work in the legal profession would be likewise intrigued. Some people just “look” guilty, whether they are or not.

In any case, this book is thought provoking, full of well-told stories, and one of Gladwell’s best writings.

 Note on “contempt” and relationships:

This hit home for me, because I have the skill of prediction as well. Divorces are a part of my practice, so I see the aftermath of failed relationships on a daily basis. For good or bad, I have noticed that, while I cannot accurately identify a good marriage, I can certainly detect a bad one long before others do – even the couple themselves in some cases. Not only that, but I can usually tell when a marriage will end due to an affair by the husband. How? Contempt. Within the space of a short conversation, it will become apparent that one spouse has contempt for the other. Inevitably, when the object of the contempt finds someone that doesn’t contemn them, the result is predictable.

I will refrain from using anecdotes of my own here, so as to preserve the privacy and feelings of friends and acquaintances. However, there is one of my legal cases that is on point, and is unfortunately typical.

A woman came to my office seeking help in filing a “move-away”. She had a 16 year old daughter who lived with her. She wanted to relocate to another state, to marry a man she met online, and had only seen in person once. Usually, in these cases, the father of the child objects and the kid is put in the middle. In this case, the daughter had informed her mother in no uncertain terms that she wished to stay where she was and finish high school with her friends. She could live with her father, who lived around the corner from her school. Mom was completely, and I mean completely unglued at this prospect. Why shouldn’t her daughter live with her father? “Because he is so selfish, and she will learn to be selfish from him.” Selfish? It turned out that dad liked to hang out with his friends, and ride his motorcycle. Apparently, he should have spent more time at church. (Or, reading between the lines, doing what his ex-wife wanted him to do.) The contempt here was tangible. “My desires are good, yours are selfish.” And the marriage ended. I refused to take the case. Even if I could have held my nose and done what I considered to be a rather immoral thing, this woman had no chance of winning the case. A 16 year old with good grades has a great deal of say in her living arrangements here in California. Thank goodness.

This holds true in other relationships as well. Once one side realizes, “You really think you are better than me,” the relationship is over. It’s just done, and it will probably never come back.

The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie, by Alan Bradley

Source of Book: I own this. (Thanks to the community property law of California)
Date originally posted on Facebook: May 26, 2010

This book was suggested to me by my wife and my mother-in-law. Since both of them are well read and have excellent taste, how could I refuse?

I have a little bit of a weakness for murder mysteries myself. I suppose I should blame my mother for this one, who introduced me to Nancy Drew at age 9, and Agatha Christie’s “And Then There Were None” soon after. Now my library includes the complete Father Brown (G. K. Chesterton), a bunch of Dorothy Sayers, and plenty of Christie, of course.

Alan Bradley is a Canadian author who wrote this, his first novel, at age 70. The book is set in England in the ‘50s.

I intentionally mentioned Nancy Drew, as I believe this was a major inspiration for the book. Plenty have already cited Harriet the Spy, which is plausible. However, I am ready to out Bradley as a closet Nancy Drew reader. The plot follows a familiar line, to be sure, although the writing is both more grown up, and less boilerplate. The heroine in this novel is Flavia De Luce, age 11, with a precocious interest in chemistry. Poisons in particular. Back when Nancy Drew first entered the literary scene, 18 seemed to still be an age of relative innocence. Now, 11 better fits the bill.

In addition to a well conceived plot and well polished writing, I enjoyed several other facets. Bradley is obviously well read, and sneaks literary and artistic references into the story. Discovering these is a little like a treasure hunt, as they often appear buried in the narrative. I also particularly enjoyed the fact that the chemistry is correct. Too often, this is more approximate than a science should be. (I recall an article that referred to sodium bicarbonate as having two carbon atoms…) The particulars of this plot made me imagine a person poisoned by cyanide gulping cheap hot dogs for the sodium nitrate.

In all, I would say that this book is well worth the time, and may be the start of a promising series. Likeable characters, and the combination of the American and British style of mystery make this a promising new addition to the genre.

What the Requiem Means to Me

This Saturday (March 10, 2012), I will be playing the Brahms Requiem with my friends in the Bakersfield Symphony. I have a particular fondness for the great classical requiems, so I decided to share a bit about my feelings and thoughts.

I attended my first requiem when I would have been about age 12 or so. My then violin teacher was playing in a production of Mozart’s Requiem, and our whole family attended. I have never forgotten that concert, and I would list it as one of the most important experiences of my life.

For those unfamiliar with this particular musical form, let me explain. The Catholic liturgy has services for pretty much any occasion. Included is the one thing that comes to us all: death. The Requiem service can be viewed as either a funeral or a memorial service, but either way, it commemorates the death of an individual, and offers a view of life after death.

The Mass has been a favorite inspiration of many composers, but the Requiem Mass has inspired the greatest depth of thought. Whether you prefer Mozart’s poignancy, Verdi’s unforgettable theatrics, Brahms’ mix of sadness and hope, or Faure’s quiet simplicity, there is something to speak to each one of us.

For those of us who have the hope that is in Christ, a requiem is more than an inspiring work of beauty. It represents the face of God in all his terrible justice, and in all his transcendent mercy. As we all face our own deaths, we look from the Dies Irae that we deserve, and cry, Pie Jesu, dona eis requiem.

The basic requiem form comes from the Latin Mass, and most requiems follow this form. Brahms, however, being a Protestant, makes the bold step of choosing a series of scriptures for his text. Both approaches are meaningful, and each has its own beauty and personal meaning.

First, I want to set the stage by going through the basics of the Mass format, with the musical examples that I like the best. This is by no means an exhaustive list, or course. I have played all of the musical selections quoted with one musical group or another (except the Lauridsen) - one of the greatest blessings in my life is the opportunity I have had to play the greatest music of all time with some of the best people in the world.

The word requiem itself means “rest”, and that is the true theme of the Latin Mass.

The introductory portion of the Mass begins as follows: (English translation only, but the Latin is beautiful and worth a look.)

Grant them eternal rest, O Lord,

and let perpetual light shine upon them.

This also becomes the final statement of the service. Verdi in particular focuses on the phrase lux aeterna, eternal light. In a modern almost requiem, Morten Lauridsen makes Lux Aeterna the title and focus of his visionary work. 


I love how Mozart sets the stage with his setting of this introductory text. Mozart is often unfairly associated with frivolous court entertainment, but this movement has always affected me deeply. This is the music of sorrow mixed with hope and strength. If this doesn’t move you, you must have a cold heart indeed. 

 
Notes: This performance uses period instruments - notice the odd trombones, among others. Mozart wrote two parts for the bassett horn, an obsolete relative of the clarinet. This recording is just amazing. (The opening section runs to 5:50. The next section is the Kyrie - see below)

Lauridsen also wrote an amazing introductory section. His work isn’t really a requiem, although it uses the requiem text as well as other liturgical sources. His luminous harmonies in this opening are simply amazing. Occasionally, a composer writes something that sounds “right” and “obvious” and sticks in the memory as something that is beyond time and place. If Handel had not written “For Unto Us a Child is Born”, it would have, of necessity, written itself. It is these moments that we attribute to inspiration.  



 After making the initial prayer for rest, the requiem service proceeds with the next step of the mass, the Kyrie. 

Lord have mercy;

Christ have mercy;

Lord have mercy.

When all is said and done, when all is stripped away, we will stand on the mercy of Christ. There will be no other argument and no other plea. John Michael Talbot wrote a moving setting of the mass entitled The Lord’s Supper, and this section is one of the best. (I still remember the Creed best from that version) Although there are many great settings of these words, both in requiems and in masses composed for other occasions, I still like Mozart’s the best. 

With the prayer for mercy finished, it is time to contemplate the day of judgment. The text is ancient, and associated with a chant melody that has been of endless fascination to composers for hundreds of years.

Here is the original:



There are so many great works that quote this melody in some form or another, but I will only mention Berlioz’ Symphony Fantastique and Isle of the Dead by Rachmaninoff. In contrast to the earlier text, these words bring anything but comfort.

Day of wrath! O day of mourning!

See fulfilled the prophets' warning,

Heaven and earth in ashes burning!

Again, Mozart captures the spirit well, at least given the limited orchestral and harmonic color available to him at the time. 



However, while Mozart’s version is good, Verdi knows how to do drama. Verdi’s Requiem has been described as Verdi’s greatest opera; and really, this is how the Day of Wrath should sound.

Midway through the Dies Irae text, there is the trumpet. The Trumpet. The one that calls to all, dead and alive, throughout the earth. The Tuba Mirum. 

The trumpet, scattering a wondrous sound

through the sepulchres of the regions,

will summon all before the throne.

Death and nature will marvel,

when the creature arises,

to respond to the Judge.

The written book will be brought forth,

in which all is contained,

from which the world shall be judged.

When therefore the judge will sit,

whatever hides will appear:

nothing will remain unpunished.

Here, Mozart simply doesn’t get it done. His gentle version for solo trombone is far too nice. Verdi gets it right. Only God Himself could make this work better. In performance, it is important that the solo trumpets be placed at the back of the hall so that the sound starts at a distance, and then becomes all-encompassing. I cannot express how much this section affected me when we first performed it. It was not until the dress rehearsal that we placed all the players in their correct places, and it was spooky. Verdi takes his time building instrumentally to the vocal statement that the trumpet will sound and the dead will be raised, and all will be judged. 





After an offertory prayer, which again entreats mercy on our souls, the service proceeds with one of my favorite portions of the Mass, the Sanctus. (I am a Protestant with seriously non-conformist roots dating back centuries, but allow me to admire and enjoy the rite.)

Holy, Holy, Holy,

Lord God of Hosts;

Heaven and earth are full of your glory.

Hosanna in the highest.

Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.

Hosanna in the highest.

There are so many transcendent settings of this sublime text. I will mention Bach’s B Minor Mass, and Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis, but there are others. Any of the Requiems have excellent examples. Here are a few:

Mozart and Lloyd Webber set the second half of the text separately in a Benedictus. While Lloyd Webber's version is jaunty, Mozart's is just pure beauty.





Next comes the Agnus Dei, with a slight modification. Instead of asking for mercy and peace, the prayer asks for rest.

Lamb of God, who take away the sins of the world, grant them eternal rest.

Again, Mozart truly excels. The longing expressed by the dissonant chords is one of the most poignant moments in all of Mozart’s writing. 



In some of the settings, the last words of the Dies Irae are combined with the words of the Agnus Dei to make a separate movement, the Pie Jesu. Faure’s setting is so good that Saint-Saens said of it, “just as Mozart's is the only Ave verum corpus, this is the only Pie Jesu.” Truly, after hearing this, one must concede that it is the pinnacle. If I could choose one work to be performed at my own funeral, this would be it.

    Kind Lord Jesus, grant them eternal rest. 


With a final prayer for rest in the eternal light, the Latin service concludes.

Brahms takes a completely different approach, discarding the Latin text in its entirety. He writes in his native German rather than Latin, and picks scripture to suit his vision of the service.

He starts with a quotation from the beatitudes in the Gospel of Matthew, and combines it with a quotation from the Psalms:

Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted. (Matthew 5:4)

They that sow in tears shall reap in joy.

He that goeth forth and weepeth, bearing precious seed, shall doubtless come again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him. (Psalms 126:5-6)

This opening movement is scored without the violins, but it is a violist’s dream. I love the lush sound and dark orchestration.

Brahms proceeds with a reminder of our brief existence. 

For all flesh is as grass, and all the glory of man as the flower of grass. The grass withereth, and the flower thereof falleth away. (I Peter 1:24)  

Brahms follows with words of comfort and of rest. I will not quote the entire text here, but it is a remarkable series of quotations which would be at home in any modern Protestant funeral service. 

Of particular note is the movement, How Lovely is Thy Dwelling Place. 





Brahms concludes on a note of hope from the final book of the Bible. 

Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth: Yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labours; and their works do follow them. (Revelation 14:13)

Although Brahms varies the text from the Latin tradition, the underlying themes of sorrow and hope remain constant through both traditions.

It is my hope that this communicates at least a portion of my passion and love for the musical requiem form, and the sorrow, hope, and love that it expresses. 

 

UPDATE:

Since writing this, I have had the pleasure of adding two more Requiems to the list of ones I have played: Maurice Durufle, and John Rutter. 

Agamemnon by Aeschylus

Source of book: I own this.

Aeschylus (pronounced ES-kuhl-uhs) was the earliest of the three ancient Greek tragedians whose works have survived, living from about 525 BC.  The other two are Sophocles and Euripides, who live about a generation later. Aeschylus is considered the father of the tragedy as a dramatic form. Aristotle noted that he expanded the number of characters so that they could interact with each other, rather than just the chorus.

One of the notable features of Greek drama is the use of the chorus – a group of persons loosely connected with the action who comment on everything that occurs. In fact, the chorus in Agamemnon has more lines than the other characters combined. This is a bit odd at first, as it seems that there is as much commentary on the gods and philosophy as there is action. As with so many older forms of literature, the key is to embrace the form, slow down a little, and re-read any sections that are confusing. I also highly recommend the use of Bulfinch’s Mythology, or at least the internet for the background story.

Aeschylus assumes that his audience is familiar with the events the same way a modern American playwright could assume familiarity with, say, Lincoln’s assassination. The details may not be known, but the basics of the story are clear to literate people. Thus, the play assumes basic knowledge of the story.

The Trojan War is the big event in Greek history (at least prior to the time of Homer), and the war and its aftermath become the source of literary inspiration for the next millennium. For those who are not familiar with it, here is a quick summary, as I explained it to my kids. The goddesses Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite quarreled over who was fairest. They selected Paris, a prince of Troy, to judge between them. Hera offered Paris political power; Athena, wisdom and skill in battle. Aphrodite offered Paris the love of the most beautiful woman in the world, Helen. Paris, as many men have done, thought with his less intelligent part, and picked Aphrodite. Trouble, of course, ensued.

Helen happened to be married to the Greek king, Menelaus. Paris seduced and kidnapped Helen and took her back to Troy. Menelaus was less than amused, and raised an army. His brother, Agamemnon joined him, along with Achilles and Odysseus and a host of other valiant and famous Greeks.

After a ten year war, the Greeks sacked Troy, killed a bunch of famous Trojans, and returned in triumph. (Except Odysseus, of course, who had another decade of adventures; and Achilles, who forgot to protect his heel.)

Agamemnon is the first in a trilogy that tells of what happened to Agamemnon and his descendents in the aftermath of the war.

There are multiple versions of many of the Greek myths, and some details differ. I will use the version Aeschylus follows. Agamemnon is married to Helen’s sister, Clytemnestra. During Agamemnon’s absence at the wars, she takes a lover, and broods in fury over the death of her daughter Iphigenia. At the outset of the Trojan War, Agamemnon sacrifices his daughter in order to placate the Goddess Artemis. (See my note on Iphigenia.)

The play opens with a night watchman seeing the signal lights going from city to city. (I would note that J.R.R. Tolkien borrows this scene for the lighting of the fires of Gondor to summon Rohan. Peter Jackson did an amazing job of making this scene come to life, but give credit to Aeschylus 2500 years ago for a memorable scene.)

Soon, the chorus, a group of the elders of the city of Argos, begins to comment on the war, recounting its story. They give a lament of their own old age.

“We were too old to take our share

With those who joined the army then.

We lean on sticks – in strength not men

But children; so they left us here.

In weakness youth and age are one:

The sap sleeps in the unripe bone

As in the withered. The green stalk

Grows without thorns: so in the grey

And brittle years, old men must walk

Three-footed, weak as babes, and stray

Like dreams lost in the light of day.”

They allude to the sacrifice of Iphigenia and also to the evil portents that have accompanied the return of the Greek army. As a refrain to each section, they repeat, “Cry Sorrow, sorrow - yet let good prevail!”

The chorus considers the either war to be a useless waste: the flower of Greece thrown away to settle a private quarrel belonging to Menelaus and his faithless Helen. I would love to quote the speech in full, but it goes on for pages and pages. Here is a small sample:

“Grief yet more grievous grows,

With all our manhood gathered

So far from the earth of Hellas;

As in each home unfathered,

Each widowed bed, the whetted

Sword of despair assails

Hearts where all hope has withered

And angry hate prevails.

They sent forth men to battle,

But no such men return;

And home to claim their welcome

Come ashes in an urn.”

Fully one third of the play is gone before a major character (other than the chorus) speaks. Clytemnestra prepares to welcome her husband home, but her words are strange.

In discussing the ill omens and the news that Menelaus became separated from the rest of the fleet, the chorus begins to philosophize.

“When Earth and Time were young,

A simple ancient saw

Phrased on the common tongue

Declared that man’s good fortune, once mature,

Does not die childless, but begets it heir;

That from life’s goodness grows, by Nature’s law,

Calamity past cure

And ultimate despair.”

The chorus then rejects this philosophy, declaring instead that suffering is the result of sin, not prosperity, and that the evil that has devastated the house of Agamemnon (and his ancestors, which are a different story) is the result of all the evil done in the past.

Finally, Agamemnon arrives, along with his plunder and his captives. Among them is Cassandra, a princess of Troy. She is also a prophet, and she prophesies Agamemnon’s death and that of her own.

In one of the best scenes in the play, Agamemnon and his wife engage in an extended repartee in which both are witty, but Clytemnestra is devastatingly two-faced. Two persons who have been reduced to mortal enemies by the passage of time and the intervening events.

As the chorus wrings its hands over the terrifying prophesies of Cassandra and the unsatisfying meeting of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra, a murder takes place off stage. The curtain is pulled to reveal Clytemnestra covered in blood, with Agamemnon and Cassandra both dead in the background. Clytemnestra is decidedly not repentant, as the chorus notes.

CHORUS: The brute effrontery of your speech amazes us.

To boast so shamelessly over your husband’s corpse!

CLYTEMNESTRA: You speak as to some thoughtless woman:

You are wrong.

My pulse beats firm. I tell you what you already know:

Approve or censure, as you will; all’s one to me.

This is my husband, Agamemnon, now stone dead;

His death the work of my right hand, whose craftsmanship

Justice acknowledges. There lies the simple truth.

When the chorus speaks its outrage, she reminds them of the sacrifice of the innocent Iphigenia, and claims that she is justified. Of course, this too is disingenuous, as Clytemnestra has an ulterior motive – to rule alongside her lover, Aegisthus. (He is also related to the thoroughly sordid back story of Agamemnon’s father (or possibly grandfather), which would require an entire additional discussion.)

The play comes to an end with the hint that the bloodbath will not end here. Agamemnon must be, and will be, avenged later.

Some thoughts on the play. Greek tragedy is bloody, like much of the literature from the era. I would definitely include the Bible in that statement, as it contains a fair share of sordid, bloody stories about vile men (and women). This play does invite thought. What is the true cause of misfortune? How does one stop the sequence of murder and retaliation? (The last play in the trilogy argues that divine intervention is necessary.) Why is Agamemnon punished for the sins of his father (or grandfather)? A play like this particularly resonates with me when I think of situations I have faced where there is no good answer. Sometimes, all results are bad. Agamemnon made a bad choice in sacrificing Iphigenia, but Zeus and Artemis had already been offended by Agamemnon’s father, and were therefore determined to punish him by giving him an impossible choice. At least I have never come home to a wife angry enough to murder me in my own bath.

Another good reason to read this play is the obvious influence it (and the other Greek tragedies) had on later tragedians, including Shakespeare. While the form has been expanded, the central elements remain: a hero with a fatal flaw, which combines with fate to ruin him. Through the medium of tragedy, we are invited to look within ourselves and see our own fatal flaws, and consider whether we ourselves will avoid a tragic outcome.

 After the murder (1882) artist John Collier (1850-1934) Guildhall Art Gallery (London)

Note on the translation: I have the standard Philip Vellacott version, which is readily available. I also found it poetic and readable. The notes which accompanied the text in my (very inexpensive) used paperback were helpful; although I did some additional background research to be sure I had the elements of the story clear in my brain while reading. This is the only version I have read, so I do not have a comparison.

Note on Iphigenia: Although Aeschylus indicates that Iphigenia was in fact sacrificed; there are other versions of the story in which she escapes at the last minute, replaced by a divinely provided deer. This version is the one used by Euripides in his play, Iphigenia at Aulis. She then becomes a priestess in the sequel. These two plays were later adapted into operas by Gluck. Finally, the whole thing was parodied by P.D.Q. Bach in Iphigenia in Brooklyn, which is pretty musically funny. Thus, Iphigenia, whether wholly a figment of legend, or a historical person, shows her influence over a period of 3000 years.