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.)