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composer Thomas Adès, a worldly young man who was only five years old
when Britten died. Adès has absorbed the full spectrum of twentieth-century
possibilities and knows his way around pop. Yet he has a deep feeling for
classical tradition, and as a pianist he plays Schubert as beautifully as anyone.
He is, perhaps, Britten without the agony.
Adès embodies the virtues of a musical culture that has long been the envy of
the world, to borrow the title of Humphrey Carpenter’s history of the British
Broadcasting Corporation. Nowhere are twentieth-century composers more
central to the repertory: any British orchestra would offend its audience if it
neglected the symphonies of Elgar and Vaughan Williams, while British opera
houses give constant attention to the works of Britten and Tippett. The BBC
itself has long promoted contemporary composers at the national level. A young
composer such as Adès may lack the name recognition of an Elton John, but
neither is he an invisible man on the margins of the culture: he has a reasonably
broad and brightly lit platform on which to speak.
The assimilation of new work into the mainstream is helped by the fact that the
internal politics of modern music has never been as fraught in Britain as in
continental Europe or America. The dominant twentieth-century trends have all
found a native following, but without the constant background noise of
ideological disputation. This may be because British music has no tragic past
attached to it, no stain of totalitarian aesthetics.
What results is a pragmatic, pluralistic musical culture where unexpected
combinations are the rule. Michael Nyman’s score for Peter Greenaway’s
indescribably bizarre film A Zed & Two Noughts, a comedy of genetics and
decomposition, gives a courtly Baroque air to chugging minimalist patterns.
George Benjamin’s Sudden Time merges the canyon colors of Messiaen with
the urban polyrhythms of Elliott Carter. Jonathan Harvey’s Ashes Dance Back,
Adès’s own
for choir and electronics, uses spectral analysis in the IRCAM vein to shed an
eerie new light on the centuries-old English choral tradition. The doleful D-minor
chords that kick off Oliver Knussen’s Horn Concerto smack of Gustav Mahler,
although the helter-skelter instrumental writing that swarms all around has the
effect of shoving Mahler into the middle of Piccadilly Circus.
Asyla, a four-movement symphonic work from 1997, exemplifies
pragmatism in action. It cobbles together Ligeti’s crazy-quilt tonality, the player-
piano polyrhythms of Conlon Nancarrow, the Nordic landscapes of Sibelius, and
a dozen other choice sounds. The composer dramatizes his own struggle to
define himself within and against modernity, seeking “asylums” of one kind or
another. Splintered rhythms and microtonal tunings create disorder at the
outset, but an old-fashioned, nobly expressive theme surfaces, sounding like
the subject of Bach’s Passacaglia and Fugue in C Minor. The studious
“classical” character of the first movement gives way to spacious melancholy in
the second: shades of Wagner and Mahler glide through the orchestration. In
the third movement, “Ecstasio,” the protagonist swears off solitude and ventures
out on the town. The title comes from a favorite party drug of the nineties, and
the orchestration reproduces the noise and ambience of a London club: big
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beats, chanting choirs, whoops, whistles, the buzz of the crowd, the thrill and
danger of bodily contact.
After this scary hedonism comes an attenuated, cryptic finale, in which a
sequence of meandering chorales leads to a grand, dark, imperious chord of E-
flat minor. The music then tapers into silence. It’s like a drunken shout in an
empty street—Stephen Dedalus making his way home at the end of Ulysses,
his mind spinning with epiphanies that he will forget in the morning.
Nixon in China
“I like to think of culture as the symbols that we share to understand each
other,” John Adams says, walking in the woods and fields around his
composing hut. “When we communicate, we point to symbols that we have in
common. If people want to make a point, they reach for a reference. It might be
a Woody Allen movie, or a John Lennon lyric, or ‘I’m not a crook.’” Adams wants
his own music to play that role. His music floats the possibility of a twenty-first-
century synthesis in which the dichotomy between tradition and avant-garde is
given a well-deserved rest.
Adams is a child of the twentieth century in all its manifestations. He came of
age in the swinging sixties, but his childhood had something anachronistic,
almost nineteenth-century, about it. He grew up in a white-steepled village in
New Hampshire, a place that could have been composed by Charles Ives. His
parents didn’t buy a record player until he was ten and never owned a
television. Both were musicians—Adams’s father played the clarinet, his mother
sang with big bands. His grandfather ran a dance hall called Irwin’s
Winnipesaukee Gardens on the shores of Lake Winnipesaukee, where Adams
would go in the summer with his family. Once, when Duke Ellington’s band
came to play at Irwin’s, Adams got to sit for a moment next to the master on the
piano bench.
Steeped in big-band swing, European classics, populist Americana, and
Broadway musicals, Adams had a rude shock when he went to college—
Harvard, 1965—and discovered that contemporary composers spoke a different
language. His principal teacher was Leon Kirchner, a Schoenberg pupil. By day,
Adams would study the Second Viennese School, avant-garde techniques,
musique concrète, and the writings of Boulez, persuading himself that musical
language had to keep going forward. Indeed, he became so militant in his views
that he wrote a letter to Bernstein berating him for the stylistic backwardness of
Chichester Psalms. (“What about Boulez?” he queried.) At night, Adams would
listen to Beatles records with his friends and wonder, as Reich had wondered
when he alternated between Webern and Coltrane, whether he could unify his
daytime and nighttime worlds.
When Adams graduated from Harvard, his mother gave him a copy of John
Cage’s Silence, which led him to question most of the musical convictions that
403
he had held since childhood. Dreaming of Cagean liberation, Adams moved to
San Francisco, where he worked odd jobs, took up teaching, and diverted small
audiences with happenings and conceptual pieces. One work, Lo Fi, called for a
random assortment of scratchy old 78-rpm records to be played on antiquated
audio equipment for an hour or more. After a while, Adams found Cage’s
aesthetic equally confining, and looked for a way out.
Minimalism gave Adams his individual voice. His defining move was to combine
Reich-Glass repetition with the sprawling forms and grandiose orchestration of
Wagner, Mahler, and Sibelius. In 1985 he finished a forty-minute symphonic
work called Harmonielehre, its title taken from the famous textbook in which
Schoenberg first declared that tonality was dead. Adams’s Harmonielehre says,
in essence, “Like hell it is.” Forty triple-forte chords of E minor set the piece in
motion, their durations gradually diminishing and then lengthening again. This
colossal opening, Adams said, was an attempt to capture something that came
to him in a dream—an image of a huge oil tanker levitating from the waters of
San Francisco Bay, its rusty hull gleaming in the sun. Within minutes decadent
Wagnerian chords are proliferating everywhere, although they are filtered
through the sensibility of a child of the sixties who once tripped on LSD while
listening to Rudolf Serkin play Beethoven’s Choral Fantasy.
Nixon in China, Adams’s first opera, brings about an even more dramatic
transformation of European form. Nothing seems more inherently unlikely than
the idea of a great American opera—possibly the greatest since Porgy and
Bess—based on the events surrounding President Richard Nixon’s visit to
China in 1972. When the director Peter Sellars first proposed the subject,
Adams assumed he was joking. At the premiere, which took place at the
Houston Grand Opera on October 22, 1987, many critics thought the same. Yet
Sellars knew what he was doing. By yanking opera into a universally familiar
contemporary setting, he was almost forcing his composer to clean out all the
cobwebs of the European past. Adams also had the advantage of an
extraordinary libretto by the poet Alice Goodman. Many lines come straight from
the documentary record—the speeches and poetry of Chairman Mao, the fine-
spun oratory of Prime Minister Zhou Enlai, the convoluted utterances and
memoirs of Nixon—but they coalesce into an epic poem of recent history, a
dream narrative in half-rhyming couplets.
Each character is sharply sketched: Mao brittle and piercing in his high tenor
tessitura; Zhou visionary and elegiac in his baritone flights; Nixon at once
pompous and insecure, his attempts at oratorical grandeur defeated by the
lower demons of his nature. He introduces himself with the bravura aria “News
Has a Kind of Mystery,” an exaltation of the electronically interconnected world.
Nixon repeats his words as if caught in a loop—“News news news news news
news news news news news has a has a has a has a kind of mystery”—and the
orchestra chugs along in the manner of Duke Ellington’s locomotive numbers.
Then Nixon digresses into a meditation on the American heartland, although the
motoric patterns churn on beneath him, in keeping with the fact that the open
prairie is now drenched in television blue:
404
It’s prime time in the USA.
It’s yesterday night. They watch us now;
The three main networks’ colors glow
Livid through drapes onto the lawn.
Dishes are washed and homework done,
The dog and grandma fall asleep,
A car roars past playing loud pop,
Is gone. As I look down the road
I know America is good
At heart …
Then the idyll crumbles. A D-minor chord gives a sinister resonance to the word
“heart.” Nixon’s mental eye drifts to enemies and subversives:
The rats begin to chew
The sheets. There’s murmuring down below.
Now there’s ingratitude!
Rasping trombone chords hint at the paranoid malice that will shortly drag Nixon
down into the ignominy of Watergate.
Throughout, Nixon delivers a chilling overview of twentieth-century games of
power. Many early viewers had no idea what to make of the studied ambiguity
with which the creative team handled the main characters, and the complaints
came from opposing points on the political spectrum: liberals protested the
seeming romanticization of a criminal president while right-wingers disliked the
emphasis on the poetic-philosophical side of the genocidal Mao. Are Adams
and his collaborators besotted with the glamour of authority? Act I raises that
suspicion, with its high-flown rhetoric, its giddy air of global camaraderie, its
innocent shouts of “Cheers!” But Act II breaks the spell. After another ode to
Americana, this one delivered by Pat Nixon, Chinese singers and dancers arrive
to perform the ballet-opera Red Detachment of Women, which Goodman and
Adams have reimagined on their own terms. It is a sadistic ideological
entertainment from which the Nixons recoil in horror. The music mixes
secondhand American pop with secondhand Strauss and Wagner, at one point
mashing the Jochanaan theme from Salome into “Wotan’s Farewell” from Die
Walküre. It’s a half-charming, half-repulsive simulacrum of totalitarian kitsch.
Finally, Jiang Qing takes the spotlight. The Chairman’s wife exults in her ability
to control culture and dominate people. As in Thomas Mann’s Faustian
nightmares, bloodless intellectuality meets bloody barbarism. Adams’s music
takes on an icy hardness: the amiable key of B-flat major is hammered into blue
steel. On top is a limber vocal line that lies somewhere between the fateful
choruses of Verdi and the bouncing operetta numbers of Gilbert and Sullivan:
I am the wife of Mao Tse-tung
Who raised the weak above the strong
When I appear the people hang
Upon my words, and for his sake
Whose wreaths are heavy round my neck
405
I speak according to the book.
… Let me be
A grain of sand in heaven’s eye
And I shall taste eternal joy.
The people shout along with her: “Joy! Joy! Joy! Joy! Joy! Joy! Joy! Joy! Joy!
Joy! Joy! Joy! Joy! Joy!” Shostakovich could not have said it better.
In the last act a mist of forgetfulness descends. The assembled potentates
cease to be distinct historical characters and instead become vessels of one
sadly remembering mind—perhaps the soul of the century itself. Nixon thinks
back to his service in the Second World War, when good and evil were distinct.
Mao recalls his idealistic youth. And Zhou, the conscience of the piece, falls into
a reverie of doubt, asking himself whether reality had ever come close to what
his high-flown rhetoric had promised:
How much of what we did was good?
Everything seems to move beyond
Our remedy. Come, heal this wound.
At this hour nothing can be done.
Just before dawn the birds begin,
The warblers who prefer the dark,
The cage-birds answering. To work!
Outside this room the chill of grace
Lies heavy on the morning grass.
No birds sing in Adams’s setting of these lines—not on first hearing, at least.
Winding slowly upward in the cello is a familiar-sounding strain of lament: the
American cousin of the cello solos in Sibelius’s Swan of Tuonela. A surreal
image comes to mind: Mao, Jiang Qing, Zhou Enlai, the Nixons, and Henry
Kissinger standing on a mythical island in a pitch-black river while the swan of
death glides serenely around them.
Extremes become their opposites in time. Schoenberg’s scandal-making
chords, totems of the Viennese artist in revolt against bourgeois society, seep
into Hollywood thrillers and postwar jazz. The supercompact twelve-tone
material of Webern’s Piano Variations mutates over a generation or two into La
Monte Young’s
EPILOGUE
Second Dream of the High-Tension Line Stepdown
Transformer. Morton Feldman’s indeterminate notation leads circuitously to the
Beatles’ “A Day in the Life.” Steve Reich’s gradual process infiltrates chart-
topping albums by the bands Talking Heads and U2. There is no escaping the
interconnectedness of musical experience, even if composers try to barricade
themselves against the outer world or to control the reception of their work.
406
Music history is too often treated as a kind of Mercator projection of the globe, a
flat image representing a landscape that is in reality borderless and continuous.
At the beginning of the twenty-first century, the impulse to pit classical music
against pop culture no longer makes intellectual or emotional sense. Young
composers have grown up with pop music ringing in their ears, and they make
use of it or ignore it as the occasion demands. They are seeking the middle
ground between the life of the mind and the noise of the street. Likewise, some
of the liveliest reactions to twentieth-century and contemporary classical music
have come from the pop arena, roughly defined. The microtonal tunings of
Sonic Youth, the opulent harmonic designs of Radiohead, the fractured, fast-
shifting time signatures of math rock and intelligent dance music, the elegiac
orchestral arrangements that underpin songs by Sufjan Stevens and Joanna
Newsom: all these carry on the long-running conversation between classical
and popular traditions.
Björk is a modern pop artist deeply affected by the twentieth-century classical
repertory that she absorbed in music school—Stockhausen’s electronic pieces,
the organ music of Messiaen, the spiritual minimalism of Arvo Pärt. If you were
to listen blind to Björk’s “An Echo, A Stain,” in which the singer declaims
fragmentary melodies against a soft cluster of choral voices, and then move on
to Osvaldo Golijov’s song cycle Ayre,
Sterner spirits will undoubtedly continue to insist on fundamental differences in
musical vocabulary, attaching themselves to the venerable orchestral and
operatic traditions of the Baroque, Classical, and Romantic eras or the now
equally venerable practices of twentieth-century modernism. Already in the first
years of the new century composers have produced works that invite
comparison to masterpieces of the recent or distant past. Georg Friedrich
Haas’s sixty-five-minute ensemble piece
where pulsating dance beats underpin
multi-ethnic songs of Moorish Spain, you might conclude that Björk’s was the
classical composition and Golijov’s was something else. One possible
destination for twenty-first-century music is a final “great fusion”: intelligent pop
artists and extroverted composers speaking more or less the same language.
in vain may mark a new departure in
Austro-German music, joining spectral harmony to a vast Brucknerian structure.
Kaija Saariaho’s opera L’Amour de loin breathes the same rarefied atmosphere
as Debussy’s Pelléas, with electronics enriching the eerie beauty of the
textures. And Peter Lieberson’s Neruda Songs matches the becalmed, blissful
lyricism of Strauss’s Four Last Songs,
If twenty-first-century composition appears to have a split personality—
sometimes intent on embracing everything, sometimes longing to be lost to the
world—its ambivalence is nothing new. The debate over the merits of
engagement and withdrawal has gone on for centuries. In the fourteenth
century, Ars Nova composers engendered controversy by inserting secular
tunes into the Mass Ordinary. Around 1600, Monteverdi’s forcefully melodic
style sounded crude and libertine to adherents of rule-bound Renaissance
polyphony. In nineteenth-century Vienna, the extroverted brilliance of Rossini’s
comic operas was judged against the inward enigmas of Beethoven’s late
quartets. Composition only gains power from failing to decide the eternal
music beyond worldly cares.
407
dispute. In a decentered culture, it has a chance to play a kind of godfather role,
able to assimilate anything new because it has assimilated everything in the
past.
Composers may never match their popular counterparts in instant impact, but,
in the freedom of their solitude, they can communicate experiences of singular
intensity. Unfolding large forms, engaging with complex forces, traversing the
spectrum from noise to silence, they show the way to what Debussy once called
the “imaginary country, that’s to say one that can’t be found on the map.”
NOTES
Abbreviations Used
ACLC: Aaron Copland Collection, Music Division, Library of Congress.
ACR: Aaron Copland: A Reader: Selected Writings, 1923–1972, ed. Richard
Kostelanetz (Routledge, 2004).
ACVP: Aaron Copland and Vivien Perlis, Copland: 1900 Through 1942 (St.
Martin’s, 1984).
AHRP:Hitler: Reden und Proklamationen, 1932–1945, ed. Max Domarus
(Schmidt, 1962–65).
AMM: Alma Mahler, Gustav Mahler: Memories and Letters, ed. Donald Mitchell,
trans. Basil Creighton (Viking, 1969).
ASC: Arnold Schönberg Center, Vienna.
ASL: Arnold Schoenberg: Letters, ed. Erwin Stein, trans. Eithne Wilkins and
Ernst Kaiser (University of California Press, 1987).
ASSI: Style and Idea: Selected Writings of Arnold Schoenberg, ed. Leonard
Stein, trans. Leo Black (University of California Press, 1984).
BDC: Berlin Document Center, microfilm copies at National Archives II.
408
BGFI: Bryan Gilliam, “‘Friede im Innern’: Strauss’s Public and Private Worlds in
the Mid 1930s,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 57:3 (Fall 2004),
pp. 565–98.
BGRS: Bryan Gilliam, The Life of Richard Strauss (Cambridge UP, 1999).
DMBB1, 2, 3: Letters from a Life: Selected Letters and Diaries of Benjamin
Britten, 1913–1976, vols. 1 and 2 (Faber, 1991), vol. 3 (University of California
Press, 2004), ed. Donald Mitchell, Philip Reed, and Mervyn Cooke.
ETS1, 2, 3: Erik Tawaststjerna, Sibelius, Volume I: 1865–1905 (University of
California Press, 1976); Volume II: 1904–1914 (University of California Press,
1986); Volume III: 1914–1957 (Faber, 1997), all trans. Robert Layton.
EWS: Elizabeth Wilson, Shostakovich: A Life Remembered, 2nd ed. (Princeton
UP, 2006).
FMP: Records of the Federal Music Project, RG 69, National Archives II.
GGLC: George Gershwin Collection, Music Division, Library of Congress.
GMRS: Gustav Mahler, Richard Strauss: Correspondence, 1888–1911, ed.
Herta Blaukopf, trans. Edmund Jephcott (University of Chicago Press, 1984).
HHS: Hans Heinz Stuckenschmidt, Arnold Schoenberg: His Life, World, and
Work, trans. Humphrey Searle (Schirmer Books, 1978).
HMAW: Hans Moldenhauer and Rosaleen Moldenhauer, Anton von Webern: A
Chronicle of His Life and Work (Knopf, 1979).
HPAC: Howard Pollack, Aaron Copland: The Life and Work of an Uncommon
Man (Holt, 1999).
IGSF: Isaak Glikman, Story of a Friendship: The Letters of Dmitri Shostakovich
to Isaak Glikman, 1914–1975, trans. Anthony Phillips (Cornell UP, 2001).
JASR: Joseph Auner, A Schoenberg Reader: Documents of a Life (Yale UP,
2003).
JCS: John Cage, Silence: Lectures and Writings by John Cage (Wesleyan UP,
1973).
JGT: Die Tagebücher von Joseph Goebbels, ed. Elke Fröhlich (K. G. Saur,
1987).
LFS: Laurel E. Fay, Shostakovich: A Life (Oxford UP, 2000).
LGM1, 2, 3: Henry-Louis de La Grange, Mahler, Volume 1 (Doubleday, 1973);
Volume 2: Vienna: The Years of Challenge (1897–1904) (Oxford UP, 1995);
Volume 3: Vienna: Triumph and Disillusion (1904–1907) (Oxford UP, 1999).
MFS: Morton Feldman Says: Selected Interviews and Lectures, 1964–1987, ed.
Chris Villars (Hyphen, 2006).
NG: New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 2nd ed., ed. Stanley Sadie
(Macmillan, 2001).
NSM: Nicolas Slonimsky, Music Since 1900, 5th ed. (Schirmer Books, 1994).
NSPHM: Nigel Simeone and Peter Hill, Messiaen (Yale UP, 2005).
OMGUS: Records of the Office of Military Government, United States, RG 260,
National Archives II.
409
RCSC: Robert Craft, Stravinsky: Chronicle of a Friendship (Vanderbilt UP,
1994).
RSC: Franz Trenner, Richard Strauss: Chronik zu Leben und Werk, ed. Florian
Trenner (Verlag Dr. Richard Strauss, 2003).
RSRR: Richard Strauss and Romain Rolland: Correspondence, Together with
Fragments from the Diary of Romain Rolland and Other Essays, ed. Rollo
Myers (Calder and Boyars, 1968).
RTS1, 2: Richard Taruskin, Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions: A Biography
of the Works Through “Mavra,” 2 vols. (University of California Press, 1996).
SRW: Steve Reich, Writings on Music, 1965–2000, ed. Paul Hillier (Oxford UP,
2002).
SSC1, 2, 3: Stravinsky: Selected Correspondence, ed. Robert Craft, 3 vols.
(Knopf, 1982–85).
SWS1, 2: Stephen Walsh, Stravinsky: A Creative Spring: Russia and France,
1882–1934 (Knopf, 1999), and Stravinsky: The Second Exile: France and
America, 1934–1971 (Knopf, 2006).
TMDF: Thomas Mann, Doctor Faustus, trans. John E. Woods (Vintage, 1999).
Epigraph
xi “It seems to me”: TMDF, p. 11.
Preface
xv “Mr. Gershwin”: Edward Jablonski, Gershwin (Da Capo, 1998), p. 167.
xvi “Wherever we are”: JCS, p. 3.
1: The Golden Age
1 “I am ready”: Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Faust, ed. Cyrus Hamlin, trans.
Walter Arndt (Norton, 2001), pp. 19–20.
3 “terribly cacophonous”: Puccini: 276 lettere inedite, ed. Giuseppe Pintorno
(Nuove Edizioni, 1974), p. 130.
3 six of his pupils: They were Alban Berg, Heinrich Jalowetz, Karl Horwitz,
Erwin Stein, Viktor Krüger, and Zdzislaw Jachimecki. See “Fremden-Liste,”
Grazer Tagespost, May 18, 1906; and HHS, p. 67.
410
3 “feverish impatience”: Hermann Watznauer’s unpublished biography of Berg,
Vom Barockpalais ins Zwölftongebä ude, as published in Erich Alban Berg, Der
unverbesserliche Romantiker: Alban Berg, 1885–1935 (österreichischer
Bundesverlag, 1985), p. 62.
4 “young people”: Richard Strauss, Der Strom der Töne trug mich fort: Die Welt
um Richard Strauss in Briefen, ed. Franz Grasberger (Hans Schneider, 1967),
p. 169.
4 Hitler: Ibid., p. 392. Whether or not Hitler attended is addressed in Chapter 9.
4 news from Croatia … Faust: Grazer Tagespost, May 16, 1906.
4 Alma recounted: AMM, p. 97. RSC, p. 277, indicates that the day trip
happened on the sixteenth. For the photograph, see Gilbert Kaplan, ed., The
Mahler Album (Kaplan Foundation, 1995), nos. 77 and 78.
4 “Der Mahler!”: Stephen Hefling, Mahler, “Das Lied von der Erde” (Cambridge
UP, 2000), p. 90.
5 “a pure kind of German”: Gemma Bellincioni, Io e il palcoscenico: Trenta e un
anno di vita artistica (R. Quinteri, 1920), p. 133.
5 “All untrue”: GMRS, p. 140.
5 “Strauss and I tunnel”: AMM, p. 98.
5 Mahlerverein: BGRS, p. 75. For “Cacophony,” see Musical Times, July 1,
1906, p. 486.
5 piano shop: AMM, pp. 88–89.
6 “You would not believe”: GMRS, p. 92.
6 “great excitement”: Ernst Decsey, Musik war sein Leben: Lebenserinnerungen
(Hans Deutsch, 1962), pp. 171–72.
6 “tone-color world”: Ernst Decsey, “Salome: Zur Einführung,” Grazer
Tagespost, May 16, 1906.
6 nervous electricity: Decsey, “Nachtrag,” Grazer Tagespost, May 17, 1906.
7 C-sharp minor: Roland Tenschert, “Strauss as Librettist,” in Richard Strauss,
“Salome,” ed. Derrick Puffett (Cambridge UP, 1989), p. 47. See also BGRS, pp.
82–83.
9 eight-note dissonance: See the last chord of one bar before 361. The vocal
score omits the B-sharp in the flutes and clarinets.
9 “satanic and artistic”: Ernst Decsey, “Nachtrag,” Grazer Tagespost, May 17,
1906.
9 “Me, too”: Wilhelm Kienzl, Meine Lebenswanderung: Erlebtes und Erschautes
(J. Engelhorns Nachf., 1926), pp. 149–50.
9 “It is raining”: Richard Strauss, Strom der Töne, p. 169.
10 “I am sorry”: Richard Strauss, Betrachtungen und Erinnerungen, ed. Willi
Schuh (Piper, 1989), p. 227.
10 “one of the greatest masterworks”: Gustav Mahler: Letters to His Wife, ed.
HenryLouis de La Grange, Günther Weiss, and Knud Martner, trans. Antony
Beaumont (Cornell UP, 2004), p. 258.