Dating back to
graduate school, I have admired Julian Barnes for his quirky novels. In most of his works, he does not use
anything resembling the conventional structure of the novel. However, as a Booker Prize winner, he has the
sort of position which allows him to be as unconventional as he wishes. His latest novel, The Noise of Time, is certainly no exception.
This interesting
historical account of the career of Dmitri Shostakovich has some flavor of
historical fiction, but at the end of the novel, he has profusely thanked
Elizabeth Wilson, who “supplied [him] with material I would never have come
across, corrected many misapprehensions, and read the typescript” (201). He continues this adulation with, “this is my
book not hers; and if you haven’t liked mine, then read hers” (201). Thanks for the offer Dmitri Dmitrievich, but
I liked your book a lot.
I have been
fascinated by Russian history for decades, and I also have a fondness for Russian
music – particularly Prokofiev, Tchaikovsky, and Shostakovich. When I learned of the relationship between
Dmitri and Josef Stalin, I was perplexed.
I always thought music was a bridge over any troubled waters on the
planet. The composers refusal to join
the Communist Party caused him much trouble.
At one point in his life, he so feared the Russian secret police, he
slept in his clothes with a small handbag on the floor. He did not want to be dragged away in his
pajamas.
Eventually, Stalin
died, and Nikita Khrushchev became the First Secretary of the Party. While Stalin abhorred Dmitri’s talent, and
the official party line was that Dimitri’s music was “Muddle and Muck.” Most of his work was banned for years. When Nikita took over, he was rehabilitated
after joining the party. He refused as
best he could, but the pressure was intense.
Many of his fellow composers and musicians turned their backs on him for
giving it to Khrushchev
Barnes spent a lot
of time on Dmitri’s introspection. In
1949 when the pressure under Stalin was at its greatest, Shostakovich mused,
“If music is tragic, those with asses’ ears accuse it of being cynical. But when a composer is bitter, or in despair,
or pessimistic, that still means he believes in something. // What could be put
up against the noise of time? Only that
music which is inside ourselves – the music of our being – which is transformed
by some into real music. Which, over the
decades, if it is strong and true and pure enough to drown out the noise of time,
is transformed into the whisper of history” (135). Wow.
This requires some serious thought to digest this – especially for a non
musician.
Towards the end of
his life, Shostakovich feared his memories.
Barnes writes, “he could not stop hearing; and worst of all, he could
not stop remembering. He so wished that
the memory could be disengaged at will, like putting a car into neutral. That was what chauffeurs used to do, either
at the top of a hill, or when they had reached maximum speed; they would coast
to save petrol” (182-183).
What troubled me the
most was the politicization of music.
Music should join people together not drive them apart. Music should soothe, refresh, invigorate, and
raise ones sensibilities. It should not
be a political tool manipulated for the accumulation of power. Music has power of its own, and that should
be the end. Julian Barnes’ 21st
book, The Noise of Time is an
absorbing and thought-provoking exploration of the clash between art and
power. Whether you are a composer, a
musician, or merely a listener like me, this novel should move you to a better
place. 5 stars
No comments:
Post a Comment