From: Iain Strachan (iain.strachan.asa@ntlworld.com)
Date: Fri Aug 29 2003 - 16:16:09 EDT
D.F. Siemens Jr wrote (in part):
> Anyone who produced a work of art benefits some people--those with
> intelligence, sensitivity and leisure. Those who cook and clean and haul
> off garbage benefit a smaller number directly for a briefer time, but a
> broader swath of humanity. Those who follow science have a different
> benefit. On what grounds can one single out artists (especially a small
> subset) as special examples of Christlikeness?
Am I really such an appalling communicator in the medium of the written word
that it was not clear that I was using specific examples merely to
illustrate a general point, rather than talking in vague generalities? I
certainly was not singling out a small subset of artists as special
examples, and am frankly disappointed that once again (it is not by any
means the first time this has happened on the list), something I've said has
been distorted, turned into a straw man, and used to put me down. This is
all moving away from what I had hoped would be the main points of
discussion, namely:
(1) Is "Creative genius" a gift of God?
(2) If so, why does it frequently involve suffering on the part of the
"creator"?
I cited a large number of examples, composers (Mozart, Elgar, Shostakovich -
and I could have added Beethoven, Tchaikovsky, Benjamin Britten etc), poets
(Sylvia Plath, John Berryman, Philip Larkin, Anna Akhmatova, Yevgeniy
Yevtushenko) , a writer (Solzhenitsyn) , mathematicians (G.H. Hardy and Alan
Turing) , a physicist (Boltzman), a film star (Marilyn Monroe - who
apparently had a higher IQ than Einstein), and so on; just how many
examples do I have to cite before it doesn't look like I'm just singling out
a small subset?
To pursue the matter
> intelligently, you have to produce a definition of 'truth' that fits the
> nonverbal and nonconventional, show that the suffering of musicians,
> especially, is special, even redemptive, as a minimum.
e.g. a few weeks after the 911 tragedy, a memorial concert was given in
Baltimore (I think) during which the slow movement of Shostakovich's Fifth
symphony was played twice over. The same movement, written in 1937 at the
height of Stalin's terror, caused many members of the audience at the
premiere in Leningrad to weep openly, as I can well imagine it did in the
Baltimore concert. The music spoke to the people in 1937; probably just
about everyone in the audience had lost a loved one in the Stalinist purges,
or knew someone who did. The music speaks openly of grief and loss, and
hence its choice at the post-911 concert. On a note nearer to home a good
friend of mine some years ago went through a very rough patch after a broken
engagement. He also reports that this same piece of music provided an
outlet for his grief. I should have said that therefore that this
particular music was pretty redemptive, and may well have saved people from
the more destructive effects of their own suffering by providing an outlet.
To conclude, here is a translation of Yevtushenko's "Babiy Yar" poem, which
I think admirably illustrates the suffering of the artist, and even (o the
shame of it!) dares to assign Christ-like qualities to the speaker of the
poem. I should add that it was published in a prominent Soviet Literary
Magazine because the editor knew that it was an important statement that
needed to be published. The editor published it in full knowledge of the
fact that he would be sacked from his job for publishing it. He was indeed
sacked, within days; but copies of the poem spread all over Russia & it got
read by an enormous number of people.
Babi Yar
Over Babi Yar there are no monuments.
The steep precipice is like a crude gravestone.
I am terrified.
I am as old today
As all Jewish people.
Now I imagine that I'm a Jew.
Here I wander through ancient Egypt.
And here, on the cross, crucified, I perish.
And still I have on me the marks of the nails.
I imagine myself to be Dreyfus.
The Philistine - my informer and judge.
I am behind bars. I am surrounded.
Persecuted, spat on, slandered.
And dainty ladies in Brussels frills,
Squealing, poke their parasols into my face.
I imagine myself the boy from Belostok.
Blood flows, running over the floors.
The rabble-rousers in the tavern commit their outrages
Reeking of vodka and onions, half and half.
Kicked by a boot, I lie helpless.
In vain I plead with the pogrom-makers.
Accompanied by jeers: "Beat the Yids, save Russia!"
A grain merchant batters my mother.
O my Russian people, I know you
Are innately international
But often those whose hands were vile
In vain used your purest name.
I know the goodness of my land.
What base lowness - without a quiver of a vein
The anti-Semites proclaimed themselves
"The Union of the Russian People!"
I imagine myself as Anne Frank,
Transparent as a sprig in April,
And I love, and have no need for phrases,
But I do need for us to gaze into each other.
How little one can see, or smell!
Leaves - we cannot have,
Sky - we cannot have,
But there is so much we can have -
To embrace tenderly in a darkened room.
"They're coming!"
"Don't be afraid, those are the booming sounds
Of Spring itself. It's coming here.
Come to me,
Quickly, give me your lips!"
"They're breaking the door!"
"No, it's the ice breaking..."
Over Babi Yar the wild grasses rustle.
The trees look sternly as if in judgement.
Here everything screams silently and, taking off my hat
I feel I am slowly turning grey.
And I myself am one long soundless cry.
Above the thousand thousands buried here.
I am every old man here shot dead.
I am every child here shot dead.
Nothing in me will ever forget this.
The "Internationale" - let it thunder
When forever will be buried
The last of the anti-Semites on earth.
There is no Jewish blood in mine,
But I am adamantly hated
By all anti-Semites as if I were a Jew.
That is why I am a true Russian!
The words of the last stanza came true; Yevtushenko was for a long time
reviled as a Jew-lover, to the extent that a hooligan scratched "YID" on the
bonnet of his car, which the militia subsequently asked Y to get towed away
as is was offensive.
Iain.
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