Kästner, on rejection and renounce

I read Erich Kästner’s Going to the Dogs: The Story of a Moralist after watching the movie Fabian: Going to the Dogs (2021). This quote is from a letter from Stephan, Fabian’s close friend. Some novelists have a deep understanding of the present, and they foresee the future. Not only the near future. Maybe hundred years ahead. Spoiler alert.

going to the dogs = deteriorate shockingly

‘Dear Jacob, I went to the University at midday today to ask about my research thesis, but the Professor was away again. Weckherlin, his assistant, was there, however, and he told me that my thesis had been turned down. The Professor had described it as totally inadequate, and said that if he passed it on to the faculty, it would only be imposing on them. He also said that there was nothing to be gained by advertising my failure. This work has taken me five years. I’ve been working for five years on something which they wish to bury in secret out of consideration for my feelings.

‘I thought of telephoning you, but I was too ashamed. I have no talent for receiving sympathy – even at that I’m no good. I realized it a short time ago, after the talk we had about Leda. You would have shown me that my misfortune was microscopically small. I should have appeared to agree with you, and we should each have been deceiving the other.

‘The rejection of my work means my ruin, materially and psychologically, but especially the latter. Leda repulsed me, and now the University does the same. On all sides I am repudiated and inadequate. That is more than my ambition can stand. That breaks me, Jacob, mind and body. It is no good citing statistics of how many great men have been unsuccessful in their studies and unhappy in their love affairs.

‘Politically, my trip to Frankfurt was a sickening failure. It ended in a free fight. When I got back yesterday, Selow was lying in bed and Ruth Reiter was here and several other women were lending a hand. And now, as I write, they are throwing tumblers and vases at each other in the next room. When I survey my present situation, I can only say that everything about it is distasteful for me. I have been expelled from the circles where I belong, and those that would accept me I do not wish to enter. Do not be angry with me, dear friend; I am leaving it all. Europe does not need me. It will survive or go under without my assistence. We live in a time when economic horse-trading can alter nothing; it can only hasten or delay the final breakdown. We stand at one of those rare turning points of history, where a new way must be found of looking at life: all else is useless. I have no longer the courage to allow myself to be made fun of by political experts who let the continent die under their hands, while they potter about with their petty remedies. I know I am right, but that is no longer enough. I have become ridiculous, a candidate for manhood who has failed in both subjects, love and work. Let me get rid of myself! The revolver I took from the Communist the other day, by the Märkisches Museum, shall reap fresh laurels. I took it so that no harm should be done. I ought to have been a teacher, for children are the only persons ripe for ideals.

‘Well, good-bye, Jacob. I had almost written, in all seriousness, I shall often think of you. But that is all over now. Do not blame me for disappointing us so. You are the only person I ever knew and yet love. Remember me to my father and mother, and especially to your mother. If you should happen to meet Leda, do not tell her that I was so hard hit by her unfaithfulness. Let her think I was only hurt for the moment. There is no need for everyone to know everything.

Kästner, E. (2012). Going to the dogs: The story of a moralist (C. H. Brooks, Trans.). New York Review Books. p. 136-7.

greg in succession s04e08

The written dialogue couldn’t carry the weight of the actual scene but at least highlighted the heavy usage of the empty filling words in the conversations. I loved watching it and wanted to note it somehow. A loyal evil performance by Greg. It was the moment I discerned the monstrosity of the family decision. Jess’ reaction was also brilliant.


T: Hello.
R: Hey, Tom.
T: Hey.
R: So, call it. You can call it.
S: No!
T: We’re calling it?
R: Yeah. We called Wisconsin, now we’re gonna call Arizona, so we call the election. We call the election?
K: Call it.
R: Call it.
S: No. No, Tom. No. You’re making a terrible mistake. Please don’t.
T: Hey, guys, it’s not my call. It’s not my call.
R: Okay?
T: It’s your call. It’s up to you. If you say so.
R: I say so. Call it. I say so.
S: Fucking Pontius Pilate.
R: No one cares. No one… no one cares.
G: Hey, yeah. Okay.
T: Hey. Tell ’em I’m coming down.
G: Ok.
T: Yes. We’re gonna call it. Yeah, we’re calling for Mencken.
R: All right.
G: Oh.
T: Okay. Tell ’em I’m coming. All right. Okay.
R: Great work, Tom.
T: Thank you
R: Good stuff. Great night.

G: (sighs) Fuck.
J: You okay?
G: Yeah, yeah, yeah. I, uh… I… I… I have to go, um… tell them, I think… we’re calling it. For Mencken.
J: Whoa.
G: Yeah. So… I should… I should…
J: Right.
G: I should go. I’ll get in trouble if I don’t go.
J: Okay, dude. I mean…
G: Yeah. I mean, it’s not really my choice, right? So…
J: Sure. I mean, right. Yeah.
G: Yeah. I’m just… I’m pressing the button. Or I’m not even pressing
the button, I’m just… I’m asking them to prepare to press the button.
J: Right, and all that does is just, like, launch a nuclear attack. So…
G: It’s not gonna change anything if I don’t go. So…
J: Couple minutes. So, I mean…
G: Right, right.
J: You…
G: But realistically… Wow. Crazy.
J: Yeah.
G: Crazy. crazy one.

on headphones I | This is Your Brain on Music, Daniel Levitin

The opening sentences of Daniel Levitin’s book This is Your Brain on Music: Understanding a Human Obsession.

In the summer of 1969, when I was eleven, I bought a stereo system at the local hi-fi shop. It cost all of the hundred dollars I had earned weeding neighbors’ gardens that spring at seventy-five cents an hour. I spent long afternoons in my room, listening to records: Cream, the Rolling Stones, Chicago, Simon and Garfunkel, Bizet, Tchaikovsky, George Shearing, and the saxophonist Boots Randolph. I didn’t listen particularly loud, at least not compared to my college days when I actually set my loudspeakers on fire by cranking up the volume too high, but the noise was evidently too much for my parents. My mother is a novelist; she wrote every day in the den just down the hall and played the piano for an hour every night before dinner. My father was a businessman; he worked eighty-hour weeks, forty of those hours in his office at home on evenings and weekends. Being the businessman that he was, my father made me a proposition: He would buy me a pair of headphones if I would promise to use them when he was home. Those headphones forever changed the way I listened to music.

The new artists that I was listening to were all exploring stereo mixing for the first time. Because the speakers that came with my hundreddollar all-in-one stereo system weren’t very good, I had never before heard the depth that I could hear in the headphones—the placement of instruments both in the left-right field and in the front-back (reverberant) space. To me, records were no longer just about the songs anymore, but about the sound. Headphones opened up a world of sonic colors, a palette of nuances and details that went far beyond the chords and melody, the lyrics, or a particular singer’s voice. The swampy Deep South ambience of “Green River” by Creedence, or the pastoral, open-space beauty of the Beatles’ “Mother Nature’s Son”; the oboes in Beethoven’s Sixth (conducted by Karajan), faint and drenched in the atmosphere of a large wood-and-stone church; the sound was an enveloping experience. Headphones also made the music more personal for me; it was suddenly coming from inside my head, not out there in the world. This personal connection is ultimately what drove me to become a recording engineer and producer.

Many years later, Paul Simon told me that the sound is always what he was after too. “The way that I listen to my own records is for the sound of them; not the chords or the lyrics—my first impression is of the overall sound.”

Music: A Subversive History, Ted Gioia | quote from the epilogue

I hadn’t read books specifically on music before, maybe one or two loosely-knit ones. Lately I got interested in and affected by music. One day I found myself searching for music books with an introduction-level history. I thought of listening to an audiobook so that I can daydream while walking outside and listening to it. This eliminated many primary books which didn’t have an audiobook version. In the Audible search, I encountered this book with an intriguing title: Music: A Subversive History by Ted Gioia. Can I understand the subversiveness without knowing the mainstream theory and history about it? At least, a subversive history might refer to the dominant one.

The following quote is from the Epilogue of the book, almost all of it. Gioia starts with how he doesn’t like the manifestoes and attempts to write one. The bullet points by themselves may not be that interesting but I wanted to copy them here to recall the sections of the book that elaborate on these hypotheses. I wasn’t that interested in his claims while listening to the book, but the events, the waves, the disruptors were the interesting parts for me since I never thought about the history of music as a separate topic or a focus. It was the first time that I read a scholar criticising Bourdieu’s taste concept from the depths of the cultural analysis, I liked that part. I also read some heavy criticisms about the book on Goodreads but I couldn’t understand them because they were depending on an existing body of knowledge. Nevertheless, I’ll copy one of the most upvoted (also by me) ones, by Kendra: “Gioia notes early in this book that he’s been writing it for 25 years. That shows: his conception of how music history is taught and written about and discussed is about 25 years out-of-date, and his work in this book suffers badly from it. The book would have been a powerful call to action and change two decades ago, but today, with hundreds of fantastic, progressive, new, and radically different approaches to music historiography in practice, both for “art” and “pop” musics, Gioia’s work is out of touch, and the book’s claims come far too late for it to be relevant or useful”.

1. Music is a change agent in human life, a force of transformation and enchantment.

2. Music is universal to the same extent that people have comparable needs, aspirations, biological imperatives, and evolutionary demands on their behavior. Refusing to acknowledge the universal qualities in a community’s music is akin to denying it membership in the broader human community.

3. Songs served as the origin for what we now call psychology—in other words, as a way of celebrating personal emotions and attitudes long before the inner life was deemed worthy of respect in other spheres of society.

4. Over the centuries, freedom of song has been just as important as freedom of speech, and often far more controversial—feared because of music’s inherent power of persuasion. Songs frequently embody dangerous new ideas long before any politician is willing to speak them.

5. Charts of best-selling songs can be read as an index of leading social indicators. What happens in society tomorrow can be heard on the radio today.

6. For communities that don’t have semiconductors and spaceships, music is their technology. For example, songs served as the ‘cloud storage’ for all early cultures, preserving communal history, traditions, and survival skills. Songs can also function as weapons, medicine, tools, or in other capacities that channel their inherent potency.

7. Each major shift in technology changes the way people sing.

8. Musical innovations almost always come from outsiders—slaves, bohemians, rebels, and others excluded from positions of power—because they have the least allegiance to the prevailing manners and attitudes of the societies in which they live. This inevitably results in new modes of musical expression.

9. Diversity contributes to musical innovation because it brings the outsider into the music ecosystem. Consider how port cities and multicultural communities, from Lesbos to Liverpool, have played such a key role in the history of song.

10. Musical innovation spreads like a virus, and usually by the same means—through close contact between groups from different places. The concept of a song going viral is more than just a poetic metaphor. New approaches to music often arise in unhealthy cities (Deir el-Medina, New Orleans, etc.).

11. If authorities do not intervene, music tends to expand personal autonomy and human freedom.

12. Authorities usually intervene.

13. Over the short term, rulers and institutions are more powerful than musicians. In the long term, songs tend to prevail over even the most authoritarian leaders.

14. Kings and other members of the ruling class are rarely responsible for breakthroughs in music. When such innovations are attributed to a powerful leader—as with the Song of Songs, the Shijing, Gregorian chant, troubadour lyrics, and so on—this is usually a sign that something important has been hidden from our view.

15. We still need to study these powerful figures in music history, not for what they did, but for what they hid.

16. The unwritten (or erased or distorted) history is a measure of their successful intervention. Gaps in the documented history are often demonstrations of power. This is why stray and isolated facts that run counter to the sanctioned narrative deserve our closest attention.

17. Whenever possible, try to go back to original or early sources. If someone insists that you can safely ignore a primary source or traditional lore, that’s probably a sign you should take it seriously.

18. Nothing is more unstable in music history than a period of stability. The signal for new disruption in performance styles is usually that things are going smoothly.

19. Around the time of Pythagoras and Confucius, an epistemological rupture took place that attempted to remove magic and trance from the sphere of acceptable music practices. This agenda is always doomed to failure—you can’t reduce music to purely rational rules (or algorithms, as they are usually called nowadays)—but its advocates never give up trying. We are still living with the after-effects of the Pythagorean rupture today.

20. The battle continues to rage over two incompatible views: whether music is constructed from notes or from sounds. The arguments over analog versus digital music are just the latest manifestation of this conflict. It can also be described as an opposition between European and African traditions, and in many other ways. To some degree, this is the fundamental tension in all musicology.

21. Music is always more than notes. It is made out of sounds. Confusing these two is not a small matter.

22. Musical sounds existed in the natural world as creative or destructive forces (sometimes latent, other times already actualized) long before human societies put their power to use. As such, the pentatonic scale, circle of fifths, functional harmony, etc. were not invented by musicians, but discovered by them—much like calculus was discovered.

23. The recurring structures and patterns in compositions invite analysis, yet music cannot be reduced to a pure science or a type of applied mathematics. Powerful aspects of emotion, personality, and deliberate subversion resist this kind of codification. Even in the most restrictive and controlling environments, these elements persist—and, if given the chance, will dominate.

24. We can learn about music from neuroscience, but music does not happen in the brain. Music takes place in the world.

25. Historical accounts often tell us more about the process of legitimization and mainstreaming than about the actual sources and origins of musical innovation.

26. Insiders try to rewrite history to obscure the importance of outsiders—or to redefine the outsider as an insider.

27. The very process of legitimization requires distortion— obscuring origins and repurposing music to meet the needs of those in positions of power.

28. Legitimization is ongoing and cumulative. In other words, music history is no different from other types of history: each generation rewrites it to match its own priorities, of which truth-telling often ranks low on the list.

29. The process of legitimization typically transpires over a period of between twenty-five and fifty years—or what we might call a generation. Attempts to accelerate the mainstreaming of radical music at a faster pace (e.g., in order to make money from it) will bring irresolvable tensions to the surface. Sometimes people will die as a result.

30. Music has always been linked to sex and violence. The first instruments were dripping in blood. The first songs promoted fertility, hunting, warfare, and the like. Most of music history serves to obscure these connections and to suppress elements judged shameful or undignified by posterity.

31. The ‘shameful’ elements in music history—sex, superstition, bloody conflicts, altered mind states, etc.—are usually closely linked to the process of innovation itself. When we cleanse them from the historical record, we guarantee our ignorance of how new ways of music-making arise.

32. Even love songs are political songs, because new ways of singing about love tend to threaten the status quo. All authority figures, from parents to monarchs, grasp this threat implicitly, even if they can’t express it clearly in words.

33. Institutions and businesses do not create musical innovations; they just recognize them after the fact.

34. They usually strive to hide this—with the goal of exaggerating their own importance—and sometimes succeed.

35. If you really want to understand music in the present day, turn away from the stage and study the audience.

36. Music was once embedded in a person’s life; now it projects a person’s lifestyle. That may seem like a small difference, but the distance between the two can be as large as the gap between reality and fantasy.

37. Music entertains, but it can never be reduced to mere entertainment.

38. The audience is never passive, and it always puts music to use.

39. Songs still possess magic, even for those who have forgotten how to tap into it.

40. Those who devote themselves to music as a vocation—whether as performer, teacher, scholar, or in some other capacity—can ignore this magic, or they can play a part in restoring its potency. In other words: with music, we can all be wizards.

Gioia, T. (2019). Music: a subversive history (First edition). Basic Books.

on chatting | the banshees of inisherin

The dialogue below is a touching one used as the central conflict in The Banshees of Inisherin. The film had good discoveries about what chatting means for different people. I like aimless chatting.


Colm: I was too harsh yesterday.

Pádraic: Yesterday, he says. I know well you was too harsh yesterday. And today.

C: I just, uh… I just have this tremendous sense of time slippin’ away on me, Padraic. And I think I need to spend the time I have left thinking and composing. Just trying not to listen to any more of the dull things that you have to say for yourself. But I’m sorry about it. I am, like.

P: Are you dying?

C: No, I’m not dying.

P: But then you’ve loads of time.

C: For chatting?

P: Aye.

C: For aimless chatting?

P: Not for aimless chatting. For good, normal chatting.

C: So, we’ll keep aimlessly chatting and me life’ll keep dwindling. And in 12 years, I’ll die with nothin’ to show for it bar the chats I’ve had with a limited man, is that it?

P: I said, “Not aimless chatting.” I said, “Good, normal chatting.”

C: The other night, two hours you spent talking to me about the things you found in your little donkey’s shite that day. Two hours, Padraic. I timed it.

P: Well, it wasn’t me little donkey’s shite, was it? It was me pony’s shite, which shows how much you were listenin’.

C: None of it helps me, do you understand? None of it helps me.

P: We’ll just chat about somethin’ else then.