No, not that type of faith. (If you're interested in Einstein's religious beliefs, look elsewhere.) I'm writing about faith in one's own intuition--the belief that "one's gut felling" reflects reality. I'm using Einstein as an example of how one's intuition can sometimes be right, sometimes wrong, and what significance this realization might have for the rest of us. This is not an article about physics, but I will need to discuss briefly his achievements and failures, since his intuition played a key role in each.
AN OVERVIEW OF EINSTEIN'S ACHIEVEMENTS
When one thinks of the outstanding artists, musicians, and authors--to name just a few categories--of the past century, one will probably come up with several candidates for each field. If one is asked to name the most famous scientist of the twentieth century, I doubt if there would be any competition: Einstein. His theories of special relativity and general relativity revolutionized science and greatly expanded our knowledge of the cosmos in unexpected new directions. Before Einstein, all physicists--to my knowledge, at least--believed that Newton's Laws were valid under all circumstances. There was a problem, though, that became apparent: the speed of light. It had already been determined to be about 186,000 miles per second before the century began. But according to Newton's Laws if one were traveling in the same direction as the light in question, at, say, 50,000 miles per second, one should perceive the light, logically, to be traveling at 136, 000 miles per second. This was proven not to be the case: light, no matter the frame of reference, always travels at the same speed. It had been thought that light travels through a substance called the (luminiferous) ether, just as sound travels through air. But since light travels always at the same speed no matter the direction, the ether put up no resistance to light and was therefore proven not to exist. Einstein solved the mystery in 1905 with his special relativity--that is relativity without considering gravity. The more one speeds up the more time slows and space shrinks. The person in that frame of reference wouldn't notice, since everything shrinks proportionally. We don't notice the relativity of time and space because it only becomes apparent at very fast speeds. Yes, what you learned in high school is correct: a space traveler who traveled at a very fast speed might return to earth with an age now, say, ten years less than the twin he left behind. Einstein also discovered that the speed of light was the upper limit of speed possible. At the speed of light, time stops, but to reach this speed is impossible for non-elementary particles, because the mass that is traveling would acquire an infinite value. (Not an easy job, pushing along something that heavy!) Einstein ten years later discovered many of the mysteries of gravity. Namely that it is transmitted at the speed of light--(Newton had thought gravity's effects were instantaneous--According to Newton, if the sun suddenly disappeared, the effect of gravity would disappear instantaneously with it. Einstein's equations correctly predicted that there would be an eight or so minute pause for earthlings to become aware of the sun's disappearance, since it would take the speed of light that long to bring us that information.) Gravity warps the fabric of space; objects obey gravity much the same way as a roulette ball follows the groove of the roulette wheel. Space is therefore a thing, not nothing. All these discoveries of Einstein are truly mind-boggling, ground-breaking achievements. No other scientist of the twentieth century changed our views so radically and single-handedly. (Quantum mechanics progressed as science usually does, as a sum of contributions from many individual scientists.)
EINSTEIN'S INTUITION
Intuition is a prominent factor in scientific progress. For instance, the belief that the universe is "elegant," has made many scientists believe that the most elegant equations reflect reality, years before the equations in question have been corroborated by data. In modern physics, for instance, the belief that symmetry underlies the cosmos has led to exciting new discoveries and theories. I am not sure, but I don't believe Einstein intuited the relativity of time and space prior to his discoveries. Einstein's intuition was very much right in its belief that the enigma of the speed of light could be solved. Many of his hunches that sprang from his intuition, however, were wrong, some of which, interestingly, proved right for the wrong reasons. I shall explain this later in this article.
Einstein worked with large entities and not sub-atomic ones. He was thus following the footsteps of Newton, who discovered the laws of gravity and motion some three hundred years earlier. Like Newton, he believed in absolutes. A matter of fact, he didn't want to call his theory the theory of of relativity but the theory of invariance. Space and time might indeed be relative entities, but they were part of a spacetime unit that was absolute. Like Newton, he believed that any traveling thing had both a specific velocity and a specific position at any instant; if they could not be determined it was the fault of the technology. Similarly, it was a matter of faith for him to believe that everything is determined. He would not have disputed LaPlace, who asserted that if you knew the velocity and position of everything, everything could be predicted. Einstein's famous formulation in response to the discoveries of quantum physics was "God does not play dice." Quantum physics not only asserted the random basis of the micro-world, but that velocity and position of an elementary particle could not be simultaneously determined, not because of inadequate technology, but because of the fuzzy nature of quantum reality. Einstein would have none of this; his insight was fixed. He was, of course, wrong in this regard; the randomness and non-locality of quantum events have been proved beyond a shadow of a doubt. It was ironic--Einstein's intuition helped him to make great discoveries, but hindered him from acknowledging the discoveries of quantum physics. His intuition told him that although quantum physics made accurate predictions, it was not basic--something that underlies it, presumably demonstrating the victory of determinism, was yet to be discovered. Not so! It is now thought that quantum physics is primary; we live in a quantum world, as physicists say.
Because of his refusal to acknowledge discoveries that ran counter to his intuition, Einstein became more and more marginalized. One wag said that not long after his discovery of general relativity, Einstein, who lived many more years, might as well have gone fishing. This is a bit unfair, but there is truth to it. Who knows what Einstein would have discovered if his intuition had let him keep pace with new discoveries?
Newton's system remained unquestioned for three-hundred years after his death. Einstein, alive during an epoch during which physics developed rapidly, was not so lucky. Quantum physics, which ran counter to his intuition, developed while he was still very much alive. It is difficult to speak of this as a tragedy, for Einstein was often wrong in such a way that helped advance science. For instance, by his intuition he was convinced that the universe was static and eternal, even though his equations of general relativity only allow a universe to be either expanding or contracting. To get around this, Einstein came up with the idea of the cosmological constant, a repulsive force to counteract either contraction or expansion. He provided no science behind this; it simply allowed his intuition to be right. Later, when it was discovered that the universe was expanding, Einstein abandoned the constant and viewed it as a great mistake. Much later on, it has been discovered that there is indeed a cosmological repulsive force that is causing the universe to be in a state of accelerated expansion. Thus, Einstein was right for the wrong reason. Another example of faulty intuition: Einstein was convinced that there was no such thing as what he called, "spooky action at a distance." In 1935 he devised the famous EPR thought experiment that he believed proved that even at the quantum level position and velocity could not be random variables. The EPR experiment encouraged others to work on this problem; eventually the concept of quantum entaglement was proven, disproving Einstein's belief. If one entangled elementary particle was determined to have a certain spin, the other entangled particle would instantly correspond before something traveling at the speed of light could reach it. Beyond all doubt, "spooky action at a distance," occurs in the quantum world. His later intuitions were not always wrong, however: Einstein worked in his last decades on a theory of unification of all forces. Unfortunately, there are four cosmic forces, and two were yet to be discovered during Einstein's lifetime, so all his efforts had to fail. Today many physicists are at work trying to realize Einstein's dream of unification. His belief that all the forces of the universe can be unified is an intuition, although not yet proven, which most modern physicists believe to be correct.
SUMMARY
We are convinced that our "gut feeling" reflect truth. I wanted to prove in this article that this is not necessarily so--intuition can be a great help but it can also be a great hindrance. Einstein is a great example of this fact of life. How can the insight that we might sometimes need to change our intuition help us? Examples abound. Researchers of depression, notable Paul Gilbert, have discovered that depressives have the intuition, the gut feeling, that their emotional state will never improve. For instance, a widower whose only child dies might become depressed and contemplate suicide, imagining that his life is over. Five years later, he might find himself remarried with step-children. This will of course not replace his loss, but he might well have come to the realization that his life has become worthwhile again. One needs to go no further to find another good example than by listening to pundits on the right and left debate. They almost always talk past each other and never consider that the other person might have a point. They are fixed in their political intuition--obviously each opposing position can't be completely right! Additional examples: does your intuition tell you, say, that there is free will and that you are a self, a separate entity? Your intuition just might be wrong!
As Buddhism and Hinduism have taught us, the world is in a constant state of flux. Nothing is fixed, certainly not intuition. We must find the balance in trusting it and, if need be, changing it to better accomodate reality.
Let me finish with an example of an open mind, the willingness to change when confronted with convincing data which oppose one's intuition. The prominent physicist Brian Greene in his book, "The Fabric of the Cosmos" states that although his intuition makes him think time-travel to be very unlikely, at this moment the possiblily remains that--a possiblilit--albeit a remote one. Greene states, however, that he will keep an open mind and would be willing to modify his view as a result of future discoveries.
Yes, as they say, even Homer nods. Though Einstein's stature is unassailable, I think it best to follow Greene's example regarding intuition. None of us can ever be absolutely right about anything; it might be a little frightening for us to admit this, but without this admission we can miss out on something that makes life a delight: the wonder of new discoveries about the world and about ourselves. For intuition is not a god, but a vehicle: if it takes us off the road it might be time to get a new one. The road ahead might seem unneogtiable at first without our trusty old car, but the initial anxiety might be well worth trading it in for something that will take us wondrously in a new direction.
11.30.2010
11.25.2010
FRANCO-GERMANIC COMPLEMENTARITY
FRANCO-GERMANIC COMPLEMENTARITY
In the Thanksgiving (2010) edition of the New York Times, the journalist Robert Wright wrote in the op-ed section that he sometimes finds it difficult to be thankful, but there is at least one thing he’s happy about: becoming a journalist so he could vent his negative side by writing about the so many things that are wrong with the current state of politics in this nation and elsewhere. He then went on to count his nonblessings--and, alas! ours, by providing the following list:
1. The New Start treaty--which just about every analyst, Democratic or Republican, says would make America more secure--is on the verge of being sunk by a few senators for partisan reasons, 2. This is symptomatic of intense political polarization, bitter division that is paralyzing our politics 3. Some of America’s divisions, dangerously, are falling along ethnic lines…
Nonblessings indeed! There always seems to be a lot of reasons for unhappiness. It also seems sacrilegious to attempt to cover up life's bitter taste with sugary diversions or saccharine consolations. The list of sad things, unfortunately, is not limited to the harm inflicted by partisan politics on us all. The need to write this essay arose from the deep sadness a friend and I feel regarding the mass extinctions of animals caused by the greed and ignorance of humankind. There is no place for animal lovers to hide these days, the extinctions are unprecedented, unless we include the Permian extinction and the meteor that killed the dinosaurs sixty-five million years ago. But sadness mustn't cause us to loser our balance--if we do, who is going to pick us up? I admit I’m a bit of a depressive type; thinking about the animals’ misery--and ours--might indeed lead to a crippling emotional paralysis. But I am not displeased--dare I say “thankful”--for the serious side of my nature. It helps one plumb the depths of humanity and can inspire one to change the world for the better. As a matter of survival, however, the serious part of my nature demands periodic relief. It also insists that the relief not be provided by sugar but by substance. These two sides, namely, facing life as it is but also experiencing life at its best is what I call Franco-Germanic Complementarity, the subject of this essay. It is written not only for people who are overly serious but for people who aren’t serious enough. First, a few words about complementarity in general.
Complementarity
Niels Bohr, the great physicist, was the first to use this term regarding the startling discoveries of quantum physics, a field to which he contributed a great deal. Light proved to be either a wave or a particle, depending on the experimental hoops to which one subjects photons. The wave and particle functions are complementary. Bohr was fond of using complementarity in other fields, especially those dealing with the human psyche, which is often as perplexing as quantum physics. For instance, do human beings possess free will or are they determined? Bohr considered both aspects as complementary--there may be no room for free will in a scientific analysis, but the assumption of free will is essential for any inner life to have meaning. Is there a God or none? Look outside, there is none; look inside deeply and one may be confronted by what at least feels like transcendence. Are we good or evil? Bohr says you will find what you are looking for, and what you find might leave room for another one to find the direct and complementary opposite. Opposites, in a modern updating of the medieval coincidentia oppositorum, can be complementary; in fact, according to Bohr, the deepest levels of existence have a complementary aspect.
Franco-Germanic Complementarity
First of all, I am writing about types here--I do not mean to say that all Germans fit into one category and that all French fit into the opposite. I am generalizing for the sake of argument, in full knowledge that there is some truth to the generalization. The generalization is this: German culture at its best tends to plumb life to its depths, even if this activity leads to greater sadness, even despair, while French culture at its best is by no means superficial but, emphasizing savoir-vivre, shies away from being too negative. Anna Russell, the great musician-comedienne, said it best--or at least acted it out best. She said German lieder made you feel “UUUUH!"--she sounded as if she were about to die-- while French art songs made you feel, “Heh Heh Heh” --which she said in a high-pitched voice, sounding like an imp. There is some truth in this caricature. German culture has produced arguably the most profound music ever written. It was no means an arbitrary decision to send a recording of Bach's music into outer space, which we did. If intelligent creatures ever find it, we want to be sure that the hear an example of some of the best things mankind has produced so far. The subject of the opening chorus of the St. Matthew Passion, in which Bach is at his most sublime, is the crucifixion of Christ, specifically mankind’s guilt for this crime, and, by implication, the guilt and horror resulting from the sufferings of the innocent inflicted by sinful humanity, examples of which have certainly not abated. Whenever I hear this chorus, I am profoundly moved, often to the point of tears. Bach’s despair was tempered by his faith--he, as a good Lutheran, believed in the Resurrection; later German culture was able--and I’m not saying this was progress--to plumb the depths of sorrow without the consolation of faith. A prime example of this is Schubert’s “Die Winterreise,” “The Winter Journey,” which, I think, contains some of the saddest music ever written. No other culture, in my opinion, could have written music like this. But does it go too far? I remember reading an author who believed that Schubert’s passion for alienation--suicidal alienation--evident in this music hastened his death, a debatable point. There have been moods of mine, which many share I’m sure, which find their awful, beautiful, mesmerizing counterparts in music such as this. But there is also something very prominent in me, as well as in others, that will not allow me to walk away into oblivion with the barefoot organ grinder of the harrowing last song of the cycle. At these moments something inside tells me, “It’s time to cross the Rhine.” Profundity is good, indeed, but not despair. I will illustrate this dichotomy with an example from French culture, and one from the German.
Let’s start with the German. Alois Zimmermann wrote in the early 1950s one of the most influential post-war German operas, “die Soldaten,” “The Soldiers.” The plot involves a greedy father who forces his daughter into marrying an influential, but morally questionable, officer. She knew it was a bad idea, but had to obey her father. The officer mistreats her. The regiment, in his presence and with his consent, gang-rapes her--on stage. She becomes a prostitute. At the end of the opera, she passes her father on the street; she has become so debased that he fails to recognize her. At this point, in the New York City Opera performance, a voice came from a speaker in the back of the opera house. I don’t remember the exact words, but it was something like, “See, human beings, this is what you do with your greed and arrogance…” I felt that I was addressed by an angry--justifiably angry--God. It was a very profound theatrical experience for me, but not a very happy one. (Zimmermann committed suicide shortly after he finished the piece.) If I continued to live in this realm, however, my life would become the "UUUUH!” of the Anna Russell satire. To keep my equilibrium, I periodically must cross the Rhine.
The French example I will give is not by the wonderful Ravel or Debussy; it is a song, "Quand Un Vicompte," a song immortalized by Maurice Chevalier. Now if you are only used to American culture I give you this important piece of information: Chevalier did his sentimental shtik for Americans. I am not talking about such frothy things as “Thank Heaven for Little Girls,” or “Gigi.” In France, Maurice Chevalier did things that have a bite, a deep one. The lyrics of the song are very similar in spirit to the prophetic words of the German opera. The subject of the song is human selfishness and egotism. The words go something like this: When a count meets anther count, they’re only interested in count-stories--he then goes through a list of people: homosexuals are only interested in homosexual stories; cripples are only interested in cripple-stories, bigots only in bigot-stories, etc. The refrain states that nobody cares about the little miseries of his neighbor and is only interested in himself. This would be a fitting subject for miserably profound Teutonic treatment. (If you haven’t heard Maurice Chevalier sing this song, I recommend that you do--it can be downloaded from the Internet for the price of $.89--well worth it! His phrasing and timing is impeccable.) He begins with a laugh as he lists examples of human selfishness. As the list goes on, he laughs harder at our follies. (By this time a German composer would be musically--and beautifully-- hitting us, hurting us even.) At the end, Chevalier is laughing almost uncontrollably. Then comes the final, crucial sentence--I don’t remember the exact words but it can be summed up as follows: “What to do? One has to keep on living, despite everything!” This for me is a very beautiful and profound moment. Thank you Maurice Chevalier! And thank you Ravel and Debussy, and to the French spirit everywhere, whether expressed by Italians, Germans, Americans or Russians!
And thanks to Bach and Wagner too--and to the German spirit everywhere, whether expressed by Italians, Germans, Americans or Russians! We need Franco-Germanic complementarity; we need to keep our balance. Drink deeply from the Pierian Spring? Yes, indeed, but if leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, as it sometimes will, stop drinking for a while and listen to, say, Debussy.
Tonight I will write to my friend and have another discussion of human and non-human misery. Perhaps we can inspire each other to do something about it--but that is tonight. Tomorrow I will get up and play Haydn on the piano. (Q: Was that great Austrian composer a Francophile? A: You betcha.)
In the Thanksgiving (2010) edition of the New York Times, the journalist Robert Wright wrote in the op-ed section that he sometimes finds it difficult to be thankful, but there is at least one thing he’s happy about: becoming a journalist so he could vent his negative side by writing about the so many things that are wrong with the current state of politics in this nation and elsewhere. He then went on to count his nonblessings--and, alas! ours, by providing the following list:
1. The New Start treaty--which just about every analyst, Democratic or Republican, says would make America more secure--is on the verge of being sunk by a few senators for partisan reasons, 2. This is symptomatic of intense political polarization, bitter division that is paralyzing our politics 3. Some of America’s divisions, dangerously, are falling along ethnic lines…
Nonblessings indeed! There always seems to be a lot of reasons for unhappiness. It also seems sacrilegious to attempt to cover up life's bitter taste with sugary diversions or saccharine consolations. The list of sad things, unfortunately, is not limited to the harm inflicted by partisan politics on us all. The need to write this essay arose from the deep sadness a friend and I feel regarding the mass extinctions of animals caused by the greed and ignorance of humankind. There is no place for animal lovers to hide these days, the extinctions are unprecedented, unless we include the Permian extinction and the meteor that killed the dinosaurs sixty-five million years ago. But sadness mustn't cause us to loser our balance--if we do, who is going to pick us up? I admit I’m a bit of a depressive type; thinking about the animals’ misery--and ours--might indeed lead to a crippling emotional paralysis. But I am not displeased--dare I say “thankful”--for the serious side of my nature. It helps one plumb the depths of humanity and can inspire one to change the world for the better. As a matter of survival, however, the serious part of my nature demands periodic relief. It also insists that the relief not be provided by sugar but by substance. These two sides, namely, facing life as it is but also experiencing life at its best is what I call Franco-Germanic Complementarity, the subject of this essay. It is written not only for people who are overly serious but for people who aren’t serious enough. First, a few words about complementarity in general.
Complementarity
Niels Bohr, the great physicist, was the first to use this term regarding the startling discoveries of quantum physics, a field to which he contributed a great deal. Light proved to be either a wave or a particle, depending on the experimental hoops to which one subjects photons. The wave and particle functions are complementary. Bohr was fond of using complementarity in other fields, especially those dealing with the human psyche, which is often as perplexing as quantum physics. For instance, do human beings possess free will or are they determined? Bohr considered both aspects as complementary--there may be no room for free will in a scientific analysis, but the assumption of free will is essential for any inner life to have meaning. Is there a God or none? Look outside, there is none; look inside deeply and one may be confronted by what at least feels like transcendence. Are we good or evil? Bohr says you will find what you are looking for, and what you find might leave room for another one to find the direct and complementary opposite. Opposites, in a modern updating of the medieval coincidentia oppositorum, can be complementary; in fact, according to Bohr, the deepest levels of existence have a complementary aspect.
Franco-Germanic Complementarity
First of all, I am writing about types here--I do not mean to say that all Germans fit into one category and that all French fit into the opposite. I am generalizing for the sake of argument, in full knowledge that there is some truth to the generalization. The generalization is this: German culture at its best tends to plumb life to its depths, even if this activity leads to greater sadness, even despair, while French culture at its best is by no means superficial but, emphasizing savoir-vivre, shies away from being too negative. Anna Russell, the great musician-comedienne, said it best--or at least acted it out best. She said German lieder made you feel “UUUUH!"--she sounded as if she were about to die-- while French art songs made you feel, “Heh Heh Heh” --which she said in a high-pitched voice, sounding like an imp. There is some truth in this caricature. German culture has produced arguably the most profound music ever written. It was no means an arbitrary decision to send a recording of Bach's music into outer space, which we did. If intelligent creatures ever find it, we want to be sure that the hear an example of some of the best things mankind has produced so far. The subject of the opening chorus of the St. Matthew Passion, in which Bach is at his most sublime, is the crucifixion of Christ, specifically mankind’s guilt for this crime, and, by implication, the guilt and horror resulting from the sufferings of the innocent inflicted by sinful humanity, examples of which have certainly not abated. Whenever I hear this chorus, I am profoundly moved, often to the point of tears. Bach’s despair was tempered by his faith--he, as a good Lutheran, believed in the Resurrection; later German culture was able--and I’m not saying this was progress--to plumb the depths of sorrow without the consolation of faith. A prime example of this is Schubert’s “Die Winterreise,” “The Winter Journey,” which, I think, contains some of the saddest music ever written. No other culture, in my opinion, could have written music like this. But does it go too far? I remember reading an author who believed that Schubert’s passion for alienation--suicidal alienation--evident in this music hastened his death, a debatable point. There have been moods of mine, which many share I’m sure, which find their awful, beautiful, mesmerizing counterparts in music such as this. But there is also something very prominent in me, as well as in others, that will not allow me to walk away into oblivion with the barefoot organ grinder of the harrowing last song of the cycle. At these moments something inside tells me, “It’s time to cross the Rhine.” Profundity is good, indeed, but not despair. I will illustrate this dichotomy with an example from French culture, and one from the German.
Let’s start with the German. Alois Zimmermann wrote in the early 1950s one of the most influential post-war German operas, “die Soldaten,” “The Soldiers.” The plot involves a greedy father who forces his daughter into marrying an influential, but morally questionable, officer. She knew it was a bad idea, but had to obey her father. The officer mistreats her. The regiment, in his presence and with his consent, gang-rapes her--on stage. She becomes a prostitute. At the end of the opera, she passes her father on the street; she has become so debased that he fails to recognize her. At this point, in the New York City Opera performance, a voice came from a speaker in the back of the opera house. I don’t remember the exact words, but it was something like, “See, human beings, this is what you do with your greed and arrogance…” I felt that I was addressed by an angry--justifiably angry--God. It was a very profound theatrical experience for me, but not a very happy one. (Zimmermann committed suicide shortly after he finished the piece.) If I continued to live in this realm, however, my life would become the "UUUUH!” of the Anna Russell satire. To keep my equilibrium, I periodically must cross the Rhine.
The French example I will give is not by the wonderful Ravel or Debussy; it is a song, "Quand Un Vicompte," a song immortalized by Maurice Chevalier. Now if you are only used to American culture I give you this important piece of information: Chevalier did his sentimental shtik for Americans. I am not talking about such frothy things as “Thank Heaven for Little Girls,” or “Gigi.” In France, Maurice Chevalier did things that have a bite, a deep one. The lyrics of the song are very similar in spirit to the prophetic words of the German opera. The subject of the song is human selfishness and egotism. The words go something like this: When a count meets anther count, they’re only interested in count-stories--he then goes through a list of people: homosexuals are only interested in homosexual stories; cripples are only interested in cripple-stories, bigots only in bigot-stories, etc. The refrain states that nobody cares about the little miseries of his neighbor and is only interested in himself. This would be a fitting subject for miserably profound Teutonic treatment. (If you haven’t heard Maurice Chevalier sing this song, I recommend that you do--it can be downloaded from the Internet for the price of $.89--well worth it! His phrasing and timing is impeccable.) He begins with a laugh as he lists examples of human selfishness. As the list goes on, he laughs harder at our follies. (By this time a German composer would be musically--and beautifully-- hitting us, hurting us even.) At the end, Chevalier is laughing almost uncontrollably. Then comes the final, crucial sentence--I don’t remember the exact words but it can be summed up as follows: “What to do? One has to keep on living, despite everything!” This for me is a very beautiful and profound moment. Thank you Maurice Chevalier! And thank you Ravel and Debussy, and to the French spirit everywhere, whether expressed by Italians, Germans, Americans or Russians!
And thanks to Bach and Wagner too--and to the German spirit everywhere, whether expressed by Italians, Germans, Americans or Russians! We need Franco-Germanic complementarity; we need to keep our balance. Drink deeply from the Pierian Spring? Yes, indeed, but if leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, as it sometimes will, stop drinking for a while and listen to, say, Debussy.
Tonight I will write to my friend and have another discussion of human and non-human misery. Perhaps we can inspire each other to do something about it--but that is tonight. Tomorrow I will get up and play Haydn on the piano. (Q: Was that great Austrian composer a Francophile? A: You betcha.)
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