Desultory Diary, Episode 23: Hamlet and Mini-Malvolio

It might seem odd to compare the greatest fictional character of all time, whose profundity makes him often seem more real than we seem to ourselves, with a "real" person who happens to be the most powerful person in the world, yet who lacks depth to such a degree that he appears to have sprung into reality from a peurile novel  jotted down by a hack. Does it make sense to compare an ocean with a jar of pond water; does it make sense to compare Hamlet with Trump? I think it does, and I hope you will soon agree. 

If we use a microscope to analyze a cup of brackish, foul-smelling water, we will discover the same molecules as exist in the sea, albeit on a smaller scale; we will also discover that the same principles--the laws of physics--are at work, which are incontrovertible not only in the pond water and in the ocean, but, as far as we can tell, in the entire universe as well. Hamlet, the ocean, and Trump, a jar of swamp water, thus have more in common than one might think. Their problems are very different, but they are human problems, albeit on vastly different scales.

1. Hamlet

                            
                                Laurence Olivier in the 1948 film

In whatever room Hamlet was present, he was always the smartest person in that room--and he knew it. The only competition for this distinction is Horatio, a scholar. Hamlet, however, asserts his deeper knowledge relative to him with his famous line, “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,/Than are dreamt in your philosophy” (Ham. 1.5. 167-168). Who would disagree with that?

I have done a deeper analysis of Hamlet’s psychological state in my essay, “Ramana Maharshi and Shakespeare,” which is available on this blog.  The purpose of this writing is to shine a light on Trump's personality by comparing him with Hamlet.

In Shakespeare, the macrocosm and microcosm are linked. There has been a regicide which has upset both orders. The world order cannot be restored until the murder has been solved and the murderer executed. Hamlet, the only one who knows this, soon finds out that his uncle, Claudius, had murdered his father, also named Hamlet. Hamlet knew this before the ghost of his father informed him about how he died. (When the murder is revealed, Hamlet replies, O my prophetic soul!)

Now Hamlet knows that his father’s death must be avenged. But he can’t act. Why is that?

The time is out of joint. Oh cursed spite,

That ever I was born to set it right!

                                                                                    1.5, 189-190

Hamlet’s consciousness is profound. He can see the consequences of actions much as a chess master can figure out almost all possible moves. Emphasis on the almost. Hamlet, as it were, identifies with a Knight. If he moves in a certain way, he anticipates counter movements and counter movements, until he is consumed with anxiety. His sense of being demands that he make the right move, and he is never sure what that is. For Hamlet to make the one right move that is required of him, he feels he needs to have perfect insight. This he knows he lacks; so he does nothing and lapses into a suicidal depression.

Claudius, with his limited vision, is able to act. He sends Hamlet to England in the company of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern with a secret letter that demands that Hamlet be killed on the spot upon reaching England. During the voyage, all are captured by pirates. In the bowels of the ship, which represent the depth of the sea, Hamlet faces death. This experience enlightens him; he realizes now that he is not the cosmos, no matter how smart he happens to be. This enables him to act. He purloins the letter, and writes another one, which requires the execution of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern instead of him. He escapes, and returns to Denmark.

He is now a changed man; no more thoughts of suicide, no more  depression. When Horatio warns him not to duel with the excellent fencer, Laertes, Hamlet replies:

There’s special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, ‘tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come. The readiness is all. Since no man has aught of that he leaves, what is ‘t to leave betimes? Let be.
                                                                                       V.2. 230-235

No more to be or not to bes for him! He realizes that even his vision is only partial, that we all see through a glass darkly, as it were. He accepts his limitations and will do his best, and leaves it at that. (The readiness is all).

Hamlet is now wise and, for the first time in the play, is fit to be king. He dies nevertheless. Although he defeats Laertes, he falls victim to a superficial wound from  a poison-tipped sword.

If Shakespeare, at the time he wrote Hamlet, had lost interest in writing tragedies, as he did in his later, so-called problem plays, what a different ending this play might have had!

2. Trump
                    

                                Donald J. Trump in his lifelong role as Mini-Malvolio 

The big difference between the two is Hamlet knows he is smart, while Trump merely thinks he’s smart. Hamlet is a play of transformation, from ignorance to wisdom, while Trump remains ignorant, blinded by his own disease.

Trump’s malignant narcissism makes him imagine he’s always the smartest guy in the room. Imagined perfection permits no advice. What he demands from his Horatios, e.g. Drs. Fauci and Birx, is confirmation and praise. Sylvia Plath once wrote, “Perfection is terrible, it cannot have children.” Imagined perfection is even worse; it cannot have advisors, it cannot even have friends.

A malignant narcissist lives for praise; a president of a large country, however, is always going to be criticized, no matter how good he is. (And Trump is undoubtedly an incompetent president,) This contradicts Trump’s fantasy of being “a very stable genius”—if you criticize him, it is, according to him, fake news.

What inspired this essay was Trump’s recent pratfall during a nightly news conference. He made the egregious suggestion that ingesting bleach or somehow “putting light under the skin” might be “worth looking into” as a treatment for Covid-19. He said this to Dr. Brix, an expert, who remained stoically silent. (I imagine a SNL skit: in the first clip, Dr. Fauci and Dr. Brix remain silent and grim-faced during a news conference while Trump rattles on; the second clip depicts them in private, laughing uncontrollably).

The news media reported on the President's unhinged musings, but I haven’t heard any reporter theorizing why Trump said such dangerous nonsense. (The Republican governor of Maryland announced today that Poison Control in his state has been inundated with Clorox calls. After Trump's terrible announcements on Thursday, New York has reported at least 30 poisonings from the ingestion of bleach. What a president says matters). 

This is my take. Trump is feeling very insecure; deep inside, despite all his lying, he knows that he is losing popularity--and losing the possibility of praise makes a narcissist feel nauseated as a kid would after swallowing a Tide pod. He is always desperately trying to assert his (imagined) genius, and more and more often, due to his limitations and increasing desperation, falls flat on his face.

In private, before the news conference in question, Trump must have thought to himself: Bleach and Light—a great idea—and I came up with it! I will announce it to the doctors. They will think it’s a wonderful suggestion, look into it, and, eventually praise Me for finding the cure! This will work perhaps even better than hydroxychloroquine! Everyone will finally acknowledge my supreme genius!

Any other person would have run these quack ideas before experts before speaking to the nation. But narcissists want lackeys, not advisers, and refuse to listen to anyone.

The problem is made worse by the fact that not only is Trump a narcissist, he is also stupid. You could forgive the pseudo-scientific remedies he touted if they had been proposed by a child. The average high-school student, however, with even a smattering of virology, would know that once a virus has infected the host, bleach is not the way to go, (or, better said, is a way to go). Bleach and light can destroy viruses on surfaces; but once inside cells, the only way bleach and intense light can destroy specific viruses is by destroying the whole organism as well.

Narcissism and stupidity are always a toxic combination--especially toxic in a president!  Both of these defects had to join for Trump to have made those ridiculous statements. (If Trump had been a narcissist and intelligent, he never could have made them; on the other hand, if he had been stupid and a politician, he wouldn’t have made them either; he would have deferred to experts, at least in public).

Only the toxic combination of narcissism and stupidity allowed Trump to make a fool of himself, thus deepening Trump’s neediness and despair.

Trump's pathology dashed the hopes of those who thought he might mend his ways once in office. It is very unlikely that a man as ill as Trump could overcome his problems and become presidential. There is as much chance for that as for the horse which Caligula allegedly planned to appoint as a consul to have become as eloquent as Cicero after its appointment. Expectations that Trump would improve were instead buried under thousands of lies and countless examples of erratic behavior.

Hamlet became wise; Trump remains stuck in pathology. There is no way for him to improve until he has insight into his condition. This seems very unlikely; for him, the truth would not set him free; the truth would destroy him.

If Trump were not the president, I would pity him. We cannot pity him, however, since he is doing such harm to our country and to the world. We must all work resolutely to defeat him in November, 2020, for if he wins again, there is a good chance he might well defeat all of us.

Desultory Diary, Episode 22: At Least Elektra Can Sing

Yesterday, I streamed the 2016 Met performance of Elektra. It was directed by Patrice Chéreau and starred Nina Stemme as Elektra, Waltrud Meier as Clytemnestra, Eric Owen as Orestes and Adrianne Pieczonka as Chrysotemis, The opera was spectacularly cast, especially regarding Nina Stemme in the title role. The set and stage direction were equally brilliant; this was, unfortunately, the last opera directed by Chéreau, who died in 2013 at the age of 68. The performance was dedicated to his memory.

                               Patrice Chéeeau (1944-2013)

I wrote recently that some operas have weak librettos and remain popular due to the quality of the music, Così Fan Tutte and Il Trovatore, for example. That is not the case with Elektra. Hugo von Hofmannsthal, who wrote the text, was a famous poet and writer in his own right; his work is still read today. The five texts he wrote to operas by Strauss (der Rosenkavalier, Ariadne auf Naxos, die Frau ohne Schatten, Arabella, and die aegyptische Helena, are all, in my opinion, masterworks, albeit in some cases flawed masterworks. The collaborations of Strauss and Hofmannsthal are among the most significant ones in musical history.

 The quality of Hoffmannsthal’s text to Elektra has been taught in German literature classes separately from consideration of the music written to it. It is a superb psychological drama, the pacing of which is pitch-perfect.

While viewing Stemme’s stunning performance for the second time, I had a new insight into this opera. Elektra is an opera about mental illness. Its portrayal of mental illness is unique in the repertoire. Where else does one find in opera a main character who suffers from this condition?

Elektra is tormented by her own mind. Although her father’s murder occurred years ago, the image of it keeps repeating over and over in her consciousness. The desire for revenge has become a waking nightmare; it has left no room for any other emotion in her life. She imagines that when her fixed idea becomes reality, all problems will be solved and she will finally be able to lead a normal life. When her father’s death is avenged, however, what is she left with? A void, nothing. She has sacrificed everything. She has been living for some time “with the dogs” outside the palace. True, her mother banished her there, which is understandable because the object of her mad daughter’s vengeance fantasies are centered around her lover and her, Clytemnestra, and Aegistes. Psychologically, however, her banishment symbolizes the isolation of madness.

Part of Elektras’s fantasies is imagining herself dancing for joy once her father’s death has been avenged. Yet after Orestes accomplishes the deed, she cannot dance. She’s been crazy for too long; she is out of shape mentally and physically.The director did a splendid job at this point. Electra tries to lift her stiff legs and dance, but to no avail. She dances pitifully. Finally she stops trying and simply stares into space, directly at the audience. It reminds me of Anthony Perkins in the last scene of Psycho. No, I am not going to move, even though the fly is crawling across my face. Another great portrait of madness!

2. 
                        

The above is a perfect segue to discuss the mental state of our President, Donald J. Trump. I have long been expressing concerns  about Trump’s mental condition. This is not partisan; I admit that I am a liberal, but Trump’s madness, I believe, is just as obvious as the madness of Elektra and of Norman Bates. 

Trump is a pathological narcissist. He is only interested in himself.
He cannot help lying. He denies having done anything wrong, ever. He is like a little girl with mud on her hands; asked over and over by her mother whether she had anything to do with an uprooted plant in the garden, the little girl replies—while holding the uprooted pant in her hands—that she never would do something like that and knows absolutely noting about it! Trump calls himself a genius, but comes across as a very ignorant man. He is paranoid, an example of which is his tendency to blame President Obama for everything.

Astonishingly, Trump has never taken responsibility for anything. He has never once, to my knowledge, admitted that he had done anything wrong. I remember listening with disbelief at Trump's response to the question as to whether he ever asked God for forgiveness. "No", he replied, "for I never did anything wrong!"

A hallmark of pathological narcissism is lack of empathy. How could a president, for instance, sleep at night while immigrants are confined to deplorable conditions in detention centers? Easy, if that president is a narcissist. 

It must be tough for Trump who needs constant praise; a president is always going to have to deal with criticism. Trump, of course, can't deal with it.

Any news he doesn't like is fake news.

He has no empathy for others, yet feels sorry for himself. In his mind, he's been the best president in history while, apart from his base, fewer and fewer citizens agree, which only increases his paranoia.  I heard him say in today's news briefing (April 22) (the false claim) that we are taking very good care of our senior citizens, "yet no one wants to take care of me." (Trump will be 74 soon.) A bad joke? No, he was deadly serious. Can you imagine any other president guilty of such maudlin behavior?

His narcissism demands that he is the smartest person in the room. He's usually not even close to that. Such pathology! The list goes on.

The portrayal of Elektra's madness is both riveting and entertaining; the portrayal of Norman Bates’s madness is riveting and entertaining as well. Trump’s is just plain riveting.

When the opera is over, we feel a catharsis, pity for a brilliant woman who has descended  into madness. We feel no such catharsis with Trump—at least not yet—since we, collectively, are part of the madness he represents; maybe not by popular vote, nevertheless, we elected a man who is not fit for the job. A veritable meme of spite and vindictiveness, Trump is leading us down a garden path from Oz to a Kansas governed by a man infected with Trump’s madness.

Trump’s pathology, if not infecting, is, at the very least, affecting all of us. Can you imagine our country with Elektra as president? That’s what we have; only worse.

At  least Elektra can sing.

Desultory Diary, Episode 21: Così Fan Tutte

This is the third and final part of my desultory diary regarding the operas we have been streaming from the Met. The dual purpose of this is 1) to document how some of us are passing time during the lockdown due to the  coronavirus pandemic; and 2) to provide an analysis of one of the standards in the operatic repertoire, Così Fan Tutte.

The opera, since its premiere in January of 1790, has had a mixed reception. During Mozart’s time, no one objected to the content of the opera, which deals with a cruel trick played on two women by their fiancés in order to ascertain whether they are faithful or not. The title, which can be roughly translated as “Women Are Like That,” says it all.

A few years after its premiere, mores changed. Beethoven thought the opera was immoral, and he was not alone in this assessment. It was subsequently rarely performed. It did not come to the Met until 1922. After World War ll, however, the opera became quite popular; it is now number 11 of the 20 most frequently performed operas, although the other two Da Ponte/Mozart collaborations have a higher rank.

Da Ponte wrote a farce. Mozart, whose characterizations are among the most sophisticated in all opera, went deeper. (Similarly, Emmanuel Schikaneder, the librettist for The Magic Flute, wrote a Baroque fairy tale that was meant as entertainment only. Mozart went deeper. (George Bernard Shaw said that if God were to come down from heaven to sing, he would probably choose Sarastro’s arias from that opera.)

I am including the opera among nineteenth century works, since it was written a mere ten years before the turn of the century. During that period, during which most of the operas in the standard repertory were written, it was  the role of the women, usually sopranos, to convey emotion deeply. It was thought that the female voice is more agile and expressive, a view that is certainly not unreasonable. It is also reasonable to assume that the deeper feelings one had, the more human she (or, perhaps, he) is.

If the female singers of the operas are thus the true human beings, we can approach the title of Mozart’s opera differently. Così Fan Tutte contains the feminine plural of “all,” “tutto.” If we are dealing with the women as representing humanity, the title can be thus viewed as Così Fan Tutti—Not 'women are like that', but 'humans are like that'. The opera, under Mozart’s subtle undermining of Da Ponte’s sexist text, thus becomes an opera about the inevitability of change.

Yes, the text has glaring deficiencies, which Mozart left mostly alone. The play follows the three unities of classic French drama; the action takes place in one day, far too short for inner change to take place. The convention is that if a woman changes, it is her affection for a man that we are dealing with. But what if we’re talking about changes over a larger sweep of time? What if, say, one were a devout Catholic in youth, and have become a lapsed Catholic years later? A major change like this is what Fiordiligi’s first great aria suggests, not a mere change of heart when separated from her lover for only a few hours.

Let us examine that aria, Come Scoglio. The words begin with “As a rock remains immobile against winds and storms, so too shall my soul remain strong in faith and in love.” Fiordiligi sings this with a passion well beyond the emotional range of the other characters. As I played the opening of the aria by ear on the piano, I was amazed at the octave leaps, which indicate her anger. No, this noble music indicates a noble person who imagines herself incapable of change, and is enraged by the very suggestion that she could.

It reminds me of a poem I wrote years ago, entitled "Stone and River”

STONE AND RIVER

Metaphors that help us live here
are chiefly two: stone and river.
Aware of change, afraid to be alone,
most opt for the permanence of stone.

"A boulder at the center reigns;
however fast the current, it remains;
countless unique pebbles at each side
retain their shapes, even if dislodged."

I, I, this is the language of rock.
But everything is swirl and flux:
despite appearance all is sea;
no Me. Fluid all reality.

Nothing to transcend our going?
Everything is water flowing?
Nothing but fate, nothing but chance,
nothing but change? And ecstasy: dance!

Fiordiligi’s conflict is that she thinks she’s a rock when she’s really a river. Most of us have to learn this lesson. When we’re young, we think our personalities are immortal. We will always be this or that, forever. But just as time changes our bodies, it changes our inner lives as well. Fiordiligi imagines that she will always remain faithful to a certain person; time, however, might be using a different playbook.

Fiordiligi’s second great aria, one of the best Mozart ever composed, is entitled Per Pietà, Ben Mio, Perdona, "Forgive, my love, for pity's sake." She realizes she has changed; she is broken, not merely 'heart-broken', but broken. She feels terribly guilty.

After this aria, the plot  of the men is revealed; having taken to heart what she has learned, she quickly, perhaps too quickly, accepts life the way it is, and joins in the rousing finale, once the lovers are reunited. Note that the male lovers express no guilt for the dirty trick they played on their finances, as one might expect from the sexist farce Da Ponte wrote.

If you listen to the music carefully, you can’t help but realize that Fiordiligi’s music is a multicolored Oz in comparison with the black-and-white Kansas of the other characters. Mozart showed little interest in the others. A critic, with some justification, once wrote that many of the arias in Così are quite boring. Certainly this doesn’t apply to Fiordiligi’s soaring music!

The subtitle of the opera is “La Scuola degli amanti”—"the School of Lovers." Mozart, with great humanity and subtlety, gave that title a new and profound meaning.

The production we saw was uneven. Simply put, the director, Phelim McDermott, followed the text and not the music. It was set in  1950s Coney Island; his view of the opera was that it is merely fluff. For instance, during the overture, so much was going on on stage, that one found it quite difficult to listen to the music. Fiordiligi, sung by Amanda Majeski, did, however, a fine job. Too bad we had to listen to her second great aria while she was floating above the stage on a balloon! It was like directing Hamlet to recite a famous monologue while riding a bicycle.

An uneven production of a very profound, albeit uneven, opera--if one has ears to hear!

                                      *

Today we listened to Renée Fleming in her 2017 farewell performance of Der Rosenkavalier. It was spectacular, but, as promised, this is my farewell performance at writing about the performances we streamed from the Met.

May glorious music enter your mind, while (by remaining indoors) keeping that dreadful virus from entering your body!

Desultory Diary, Episode 20: Opera, Part 2--Wagner et Verdi in Tempore Pestis

This is the second of a three part series within my desultory diary, providing an account of how we are passing our time during the lockdown. We've been watching HD broadcasts from the Met, which that organization has generously been streaming to the public gratis. It's a good public service; it's hard to think of all the tsuris going on while listening to Mozart or Verdi. (this escapism does not apply to Wagner's Parsifal, as we shall see).We all need some relief from time to time to get through another day of lockdown, and listening to some of the greatest music ever written is not a bad way to transcend, albeit briefly, the fact that so many people are suffering and dying alone.

In this blog entry, I will discuss two performances we recently saw, Verdi's Falstaff and Wagner's Parsifal. The subject of the third episode will be Mozart's Così Fan Tutte. Two points I would like to make clear at the outset: first, this is part of a desultory diary, not a scholarly article, and second, I might be an avid music lover and amateur musician who have loved opera for decades, but I am not a scholar of opera. I leave it up to you if any of my impressions have merit.

1. Verdi's Falstaff, a 2013 Met HD Broadcast
April 8, 2020

The proper reaction to this opera is awe. Verdi wrote this, his last opera, at the age of nearly eighty; it is in my opinion, the best music he ever wrote--the only competition for first place, I think, is Otello written a few years before. The music is never dull and pulses with the vigor of youth tempered by the wisdom of age. It is nothing short of breathtaking, and I do not use that word frivolously. Verdi obviously identified with the knight who decided not to go gently into 'that good night'. Falstaff might be old and gray now and not the lover he once was, but he is incapable of seeing himself as the last rose of summer withering on a bush. His egotism is invincible. He might be considered to be an old, fat fool by the ladies he attempts to seduce, yet, after being made a fool of (which consists, among other things, of being dumped into the Thames in a hamper of dirty clothes), Falstaff, much as Shakespeare's Parolles, refuses to give up.

Regarding the music, I used the adjective breathtaking already. Which adjective should I use to apply to the great fugue at the end, in which everyone participates? It has to be heard to be believed.
The role of Falstaff was sung by the Italian bass Ambrogio Maestri, who has sung this role many times to great acclaim. He looked the part--he is not thin; he acted well, and also sang very well--what more could one want? The staging was traditional, bright and functional. The conductor was James Levine, who had just returned to conducting after a long illness. (This performance occurred five years before Levine was fired in disgrace for allegedly having sexually  abused four men). Levine stated that Falstaff was one of his favorite works; his spirited conducting conveyed his enthusiasm to the listener, at least to this one.

I remember having followed the score, which I had borrowed from the library, while listening to a recording of Falstaff. This was more than forty years ago; I was transfixed. Listening to a piece of music with the same enthusiasm as I did as a young man as I do now as an old man is, well, amazing. At least one thing hasn't changed.

2. Wagner's Parsifal, a 2013 Met HD broadcast
April 9, 2020

Auden wrote that Byron was not his favorite poet, but when he was in the "Byron mood" nothing else would do. It's been a long time since I was in a mood for Parsifal; part of me was willing to dip into its undulating waters once again, another part of me was already drowning in anticipation of its nearly five-hour swim. That part of me refused to be manipulated once again by those chromatic harmonies and unrelenting solemnities; another part of me said let the music begin. And begin it did.

When the first act began, I tried to swim; I soon was struggling. I began to go under. By the end of the opera, however, I was ecstatically  moving with the current; I had become, as it were, the sea. (There he goes again, says my rational core.)

The music was in the able hands of an Italian conductor, Daniele Gatti. He conducted without a score, in other words, he had four and a half hours of complex music memorized. He must really love this music; he must have wrestled with it for countless hours. It showed.

I have always loved the overture, Wagner's music, especially this score, is extremely inward; for those who lack this inwardness, the music might seem too lugubrious, and, eventually, boring. I remember the first time I heard it. I was awestruck when I heard the main melody--which I call the Amfortas-wound leitmotif; it was like being stabbed in the heart; transfixed, I stared silently into space. Listening to the overture again and again, I kept waiting for this theme to return; Wagner wasn't always accommodating. I felt at the time that there were not enough new elements in the overture; Wagner was about 70 at the time, and inspiration might not have come as fast as it did when he was younger. Now, after hearing it again after many years, I consider it an Alterswerk in the best meaning of that word. Perfection!

The music wasn't simply beautiful; it hurt.

For this reason, I didn't want to return to the romatantischer Rausch that made me too solemn, too "spaced out". I had enough of that! I resisted the Wagner magic for most of the first act, which I still thing is overly long--about two hours, about the length of many operas in their entirety!

The direction was set in modern times; it worked. The Knights of the Grail were all dressed in white unbuttoned shirts, without ties; they were all barefoot, which indicated that they were penitent seekers. One of their leaders, Gurnemanz, whom the libretto dscribes as rüstig greisenhaft, (old yet vigorous) was sung by the formidable bass, René Pape, who owns this role. Much of it in the first act has an expository function; he informs us that Amfortas, seduced by illusion, lost the spear, a symbol of cosmic order,  which pierced Jesus on the cross. Klingsor, the evil sorcerer, wounded Amfortas with it, giving him the wound that never heals.

One of most important insights for those who wish to dig deep into the meaning of this opera, is to realize that the Christian symbolism is not an essential aspect. What Amfortas--and Kundry--have are psychological wounds; they are suffering form illusions that are so consuming that they can't extricate themselves from them. Parsifal will be the catalyst of their redemption; at the end, he restores a deeply satisfying order to all.

The resolution is more Buddhist than Christian--Wagner was very fond of Buddhism--illusion, maya, is destroyed in the end, restoring all to their true nature, peace, serenity, and enlightenment.

By the second act, I was firmly under Wagner's spell, from which I haven't really recovered. Under his spell--happily? Mostly. In any case, non può resistere più.

Gurnemanz gives us the background to Klingsor's fall into the "dark side". He wanted to be a Knight of the Grail, but lacked the inner strength to become one. Failing to resist sexual temptation, required of novice knights, he castrated himself. For this, he was expelled forever. One can imagine how his hasty decision tormented, even devastated him. (There was apparently no "Papageno option" in the world he inhabited). He had an overwhelming desire to be accepted, and tried to cheat, rather than to transcend temptation. For those familiar with Buddhism, he failed to understand and accept the Four Noble Truths--With this failure, he became the very epitome of illusion.

A very moving stage direction occurred in the second act. Kundry, the central female character in the opera, and one of the weirdest and most fascinating women in all opera, has been cursed for mocking Jesus on the cross. She is doomed to wander the earth, which she has been doing for over a thousand years, trying to do good, but incapable of doing so. Although she has the full range of inner emotions, outwardly she is only able to laugh shrilly and mockingly at times where it would be best to show compassion. She is in despair, in a hell of her making from which she cannot extricate herself. Kundry is also under Klingsor's spell; he wants to use her to seduce and ruin Parsifal. He will do that with her help, along with the illusory but beautiful flower maidens. He mentions in passing that he alone is not susceptible to their charms. Kundry, aware of what he has done to himself, cries out, "Are you chaste?'-- a cry which she accompanies with a horribly mocking laugh. As she does this, in the production we saw, the sorcerer points to his genital area. His face reveals immense suffering. (Wagner calls for this reaction, but not for Klingsor's unconscious gesture,  a touch of genius by the director, François Girard). Yes, Klingsor, the original Darth Vadar, was once a human being before he turned to evil We are supposed to show compassion to all. (Wagner, who loved the works of Schopenhauer, knew well that that philosopher thought compassion to be the highest virtue). This show of mockery by Kundry to a "bad" man is the mirror image of her mocking of a good man, Jesus. The laugh thus gives her no satisfaction; it only deepens her despair.

Parsifal is becoming wise through compassion, in true Buddhist/Schopenhauer fashion; he learns from Kundry that his mother died of a broken heart after Parsifal left her to begin his adventures. His eyes have been opened by this and his contact with Amfortas and the knights of the Grail. He is now wracked with guilt and suffering as well. His great compassion enables him to resist Kundry's spell, and is thus able to wrest the holy spear from Klingsor. The sorcerer thereupon falls into darkness forever, like the Queen of the Night.

In the last act, Parsifal returns the spear to the knights, thus restoring order to a broken world. Amfortas's wound is healed as the grail is revealed. (This reminds me of the Rheingold; the gold of the natural order is  stolen by greedy Aberich, thus destorying the cosmic order; the order is restored when the gold is given back at the end of Götterdammerung); Kundry, redeemed, finds release in death. The world is made whole again through compassion--a triumphant though solemn ending.

Wagner has clearly shown us how to live.

Some people are annoyed by the Christian symbolism. But it is just that, symbolism. Let us now quote Wagner in this regard: "When religion becomes artificial, art has a duty to rescue it. Art can show us that what religions would have us believe literally true, are actually figurative. Art can idealize those symbols and so reveal the profound truths they contain." Powerful words! Much more in the Buddhist tradition, rather than Christian.

This opera is not for everybody. If one approaches the opera with a sit-back attitude of "let the entertainment begin" one can only be disappointed.  This opera goes much more deep. One needs to study the opera; one needs to be open to its message as well.

The opera has long been a favorite of music lovers, especially those with philosophical inclinations. It is the most "inward" opera that was ever composed.

The singers were excellent: Jonas Kaufmann was Parsifal; the Swedish soprano Katarina Delayman was Kundry; Peter Mattei incorporated the role of Amfortas; Evgeny Nikitin was Klingsor. Everyone acted as well as they sang--that is, excellently--a fine performance!

Many musicians consider this to be their favorite Wagner opera. I quote one of them, Sibelius, a reaction reinforced by many composers: "Nothing in the world has made such an overwhelming impression on me... I cannot begin to tell you how Parsifal has transported me. Everything I do seems so cold and feeble by its side. That is really something." (There have been detractors as well, especially among members of the general public. This ain't
La Traviata, which, by the way, has, inexplicably, its detractors as well).

Parsifal really is something. I don't want to come under its spell too often, however; with repeated hearings, excerpts from the opera keep repeating in my mind, driving me to distraction. It can sometimes devolve into gloominess. Emphasis should be on the path that redeems all at the end of the opera, for, once the wisdom of Buddhism is obtained, the vehicle can be discarded.

Let me repeat Auden's verdict on Byron, which I now paraphrase: I am not in the mood for Byron often, but when I am, nothing else will do--There is nothing like it.

There is nothing like Parsifal in the entire repertoire. I am still under its spell.

Desultory Diary, Episode 19: Opera!

1.
I'm writing this during the third week of shelter-in-place which soon evolved into total lockdown, due, of course, to the corona virus pandemic. I feel a bit like one of Boccaccio's fictitious Florentine aristocrats who fled to villas to escape the horrors of the Black Plague. So many people are suffering! Many live from paycheck to paycheck, and in many cases the paychecks have stopped. An awful situation made much worse by our awful government headed by the awfulest president in American history.

My Florentine villa is my simple town house where I have lived for forty years, to which my wife Nirmala and I are now confined.  My activities during internal exile include reading, writing, composing, singing, practicing the piano, taking walks, etc. In addition, my wife and I get along very well. Yes, time is passing fairly pleasantly. I feel guilty. But the external debacle is not the subject of this blog, the purpose of which is to document how one obscure mortal has been passing his time.

One new activity I have added is listening, specifically listening to music. My wife and I have listened to three operas, which the Met has allowed the public to stream gratis, as a public service during these difficult times. I would like now to recount how these performances have affected me.

1. Bellini's Norma, broadcast on April 5, 2020

Norma! The very name brings back a flood of memories. Some background: No one in my family had even the remotest interest in opera. (I remember my grandfather saying, "Who do those conductors think they are, waving those silly wands around like fairies?" And he was the most musical member of the family--he taught himself to play the guitar and sometimes played and sang with friends).

I studied German in high school; one day, on a lark, I borrowed "die Zauberflöte",  ("The Magic Flute"), a three-record set from the library. I was either 13 or 14 at the time. When I listened, I was transfixed from the outset. I played the opera in its entirety every day until I had to take it back to the library. The recording included the music only; the wonderful dialogues were left out. After the two weeks of listening were over, I had the score and words memorized. (Later on, if I had problems sleeping, I would simply say to myself, "Let's begin with Act ll," and played it in my head. With my neurons as needle, I can still play those records, and am able to change the cast at will).

Around 1967, I began buying standing room tickets at the Met. Living in New Brunswick at the time, I would travel to New York on the weekends, stay with my mother, and sometimes attend  performances on Friday evening and two performances on Saturday. I saw many memorable performances with legendary singers, Joan Sutherland, Montserrat Cabbalé, Leontyne Price, Cesare Sieppi, James McCracken, Renata Tebaldi, Birgit Nielsen, Mario del Monaco, etc. etc.

During medical school, (1968-1972), the frequency of attendance slowed down a lot, but trickled on. During residency, I volunteered as a doctor at the New York State Theater--(How many times did I see Beverly Sills in various roles?! Her performances in the three Donizetti "Queen" operas, remain with me to this day). I attended many other performance as well. They became dates--Nirmala, a fellow intern, often accompanied me. On one occasion, I had two tickets, one of which I gave to a man who looked as if he really needed one. "How much do I owe you," he asked. "Nothing," I replied. He turned out to be the well-known poet, Samuel Menashe--we became friends, Samuel, Nirmala and I,  for as long as Nirmala and I  lived in New York, which we left in 1977).

After I married Nirmala in 1974, we attended many operas. Now, nearly a half century later, our visits to the Met occur only about four times a year, not counting our many visits to HD performances at local movie theaters.

I remember, vaguely, attending a 1970 performance of Norma with Joan Sutherland and Marilyn Horne.

During my year of internship, (1972) I contracted pneumonia and was home sick for at least one week until my X-ray improved. When I returned, I was presented with a recording of Norma sung by Montserrat Cabbalé and Fiorenza Cossotto. I still have that recording. It was the first gift Nirmala gave me, even though she only paid a portion of the price. (I had attended a performance at the Met with  the same cast. I had also attended a rehearsal of the opera).

Montserrat Caballé had a beautiful silky voice, but couldn't act very well. Cossotto was spectacular.

Now you can begin to understand how, decades later, the streamed HD presentation of this opera brought back a flood of memories.

2.
The performance, which took place on October 7, 2017,  was, on the whole, very good. It's a difficult piece to perform, especially for the eponymous title role. During the intermission, the emcee mentioned that a certain soprano (Birgit Nielson?) once stated that she would rather perform the marathon role of Brünhilde three times in one night, instead of singing the role of Norma once! Everything is required: coloratura and great expressivity. Norma must be able to project forte fireworks and pianissimo sighs. In addition, she's on stage for most of the opera. Whew! Sandra Radvanovsky gave a fine performance, as did Joyce DiDonato as the novice priestess who, you guessed it, unwittingly turns out to be her rival as well. They were wonderful, but not quite as wonderful as the Caballé-Cossotto duo from 1972, immortalized by the recording which I still have. Caballé couldn't act very well--Cossotto had an impressive stage presence, but Caballé's singing could have melted a glacier.

How this opera,an impression reinforced by many listenings of the recording, had a deep effect on me! A minor example: many years later, I was at a social gathering during which I met a spunky woman named Norma. I referred to her as "la veggente Norma," ("Norma the seer"), a quote from the libretto. I explained the reference, but she still thought I was nuts.

The tenor role of Pollione, The Roman Proconsul in Gaul, who betrays Norma for Adalgisa, was sung by Joseph Calleja, who impressed with his high C in his very difficult aria, but was not a very good actor. When he tried to project suffering, for instance, it was as if he were sucking on a lemon.

In the interview after the opera, Callejo referred to Pollione as a cad, but that's too good a word for him; he is, more or less, a cipher. His sole purpose is to serve as a catalyst so the women can emote. And emote they did.

It is basically a silly libretto, but the music soars. For instance, Norma has two children. How could she have pulled that off? None of the Druids are aware of their existence--not even her father, Oroveso. The children are there simply as an excuse for Norma to sing beautifully and profoundly about her conflicted maternal situation. In this scene, Bellini presents one of his beautiful extended melodies. (Will she kill them? Of course not!)

Not many composers were or are able to write extended melodies, melodies that continue with nuance and variations. Mozart could do it; Schubert could do it, but not many others. (In contrast, Puccini's melodies last about as long as a nonagenarian's orgasm, albeit intense as a young man's).

It had been years since I last heard Norma. the recording remains in the attic, where it has been for years; this was the first time I heard a live performance of it since the 1970s.

One of the haunting duets of the score begins with Norma singing "O Rimembranza" ("O the Memory); Adalgisa is informing her of her own guilty love which makes the forgiving Norma recall hers at well. (When the object of Adalgisa's affection turns out to be that father of Norma's children, lyricism turns to fury.

Listening to this music again was an Oh, Rimembranza-moment for me. In much much fewer than another fifty years, the music of the spheres will be singing forever to whatever remains of my deaf ears. Will I attend a performance of Norma sung by Maria Callas in heaven? I doubt it.

Aber: Die Erde hat mich wieder!

Desultory Diary, Episode 18: Coping with Coronavirus

These are strange times, indeed. We have been confined to our home, my wife and I, for almost one month. Our governor, ordered a so-called "lockdown" on March 30, but we had been
sheltering-in-place since about two weeks prior to that decree. We are lucky to have the involvement of our son Philip; although he doesn't visit us, he orders food which he has delivered to our door. One of his friends picked up some groceries for us as well. Even one person in our neighborhood offered to help; this surprised us, even though we are among the oldest folds around. Nirmala and I go to her work at least once a week; she still takes calls and does some telemed sessions. She will see a few patient in two days from now, since immunizations must be reasonably kept up to date, not to mention the importance of seeing very young patients on a regular basis.

We take occasional walks in the neighborhood as well. The indifference of nature has kindly declined to put off spring, which is in its full glory.

            
 A photo of magnolias taken during one of our neighborhood walks

We hardly see any traffic on our walks. Passers-by are usually walking their dog or doing their parental best to expend the energies of their kids, so that everyone just might be able to sleep through the night. At the beginning of the crisis--can that only be a few weeks ago?--people didn't maintain a safe distance from each other, but they do now. When someone approaches, we give each other a wide berth as we pass, necessitating that some of us walk in the street to avoid close contact--we avoid each other as if we had the plague--a lethal infection, of course, is a distinct possibility. We usually give each other a hearty hello as we pass, a welcome token of our humanity, which, if anything, has increased during the crisis.

I feel a little guilty, since we are doing fairly well, despite all the difficulties so many face. Being old and retired is a type of lockdown in itself; I've been out of compensated work for nearly ten years. This was difficult at first, but I have adjusted fairly well. But what about all the people of working age, especially those with families? I thought of doing some volunteer work, but that fact that I'm old with a lot of pre-existing health conditions gives me pause. I'm just going to have to do something--I did some work before the pandemic, but those agencies have temporarily closed down.

I think of Milton's wonderful line from his sonnet, On His Blindness: They also serve who only stand and wait. He was waiting for God, who has been godot-ing his arrival for centuries; we are merely waiting for a significant diminution of the possibility of coughing to death. We might not be able to breathe freely, however, until a vaccine is developed.

Used to working at home, I've been reading a lot, writing a lot and playing, even composing, music a lot. Here are the videos I've posted in the last five days:

1. "Golden Leaves" by the Bulgarian composer, by Dimitar Ninov

2. "Let's Open Every Business" An angry response to the Lt. Governor of Texas's suggestion that we should return to work even if  many older  people would have to sacrifice themselves to keep America (the stock market) riding high.

3, "When Septuagenarians Sniffle," to the tune of "This Ole House."

4/ God and the Coronavirus, original composition

These recordings are admittedly of poor sonal quality. My son has helped me in the past with sound quality and illustrations--maybe he can work on these once the crisis is over.

I have nothing against people who are spending their time by binge-watching a series on Netflix, etc.--my days are filled with other things. Sure, we watch an occasional movie or watch HBO programs such as Real Time with Bill Maher, Curb Your Enthusiasm, and Last Week Tonight with John Oliver, but not much more than that. I do, however, try to watch an hour of news in Spanish almost every weekday night.

It is great to have Nirmala at home.

I've been taking a one or two day break from most of the news--watching our orange bully of a president continue to harm our country is dispiriting. But I can't keep away from politics for long.

Since the onset of the crisis I haven't shaved. I look ridiculous.

Shaking hands, of course, is out. Fist bumps as well. Some are elbow-tapping, a greeting invented to help one escape death in a friendly manner. 

I've decided to namaste those I encounter. Putting palms together, greeting another while bowing slightly, is an ancient Indian custom. Few do it in India, however; most greet each other verbally. When I was in a rural area of the  Dominican Republic I greeted everyone, and departed from everyone, with a zesty hug. In India, nobody touches during an encounter. So I was a little bit confused. (One time I hugged a woman who let me know she didn't like it). I like the Dominican tradition, but, for now at least, I'm reverting to an Indian custom which the majority of Indians do not follow. A white man doing namaste might make him look idiotic, but, as I fervently hope, my appearance in this case may be deceiving. 

I will close now with a hearty namaste to everyone! Keep well.