Janáček The Cunning Little Vixen 3

March 22, 2010

The Cunning Little Vixen at Covent Garden
It seems extraordinary that this is the first time that Sir Charles Mackerras has conducted this opera at Covent Garden

Hilary Finch (Times)

A heart-rending sob and a wail rose up from the auditorium. Vixen Sharp-Ears had been shot dead — and for one little girl in the audience, it was all too much.

Janácek would have approved. His transformation of newspaper cartoons into a visionary opera of man’s place in the natural world makes The Cunning Little Vixen the eternally moving work that it is. In this revival of Bill Bryden’s 1990 Royal Opera production, with Charles Mackerras playing the heartstrings of the music for all they’re worth, there’s a high level of audience engagement. Good, too, to have a chance to hear the opera that Janácek wrote just after Kátya Kabanová, which is now playing in St Martin’s Lane.

Bryden’s production hovers somewhere between Kenneth Grahame and Frederick Ashton in Beatrix Potter mode. Virtuoso animal masks and costumes, a balletic Blue Dragonfly (Tom Sapsford), a lunar trapeze artist (Lyn Routledge) incarnating the free Spirit of the Vixen: all weave in and out of movement (Stuart Hopps) as deliciously detailed in its verisimilitude as Janácek’s own aural study of the language of birds, animals and insects.

It seems extraordinary that this is the first time that Mackerras has conducted this opera at Covent Garden. Such is his love for, and understanding of, the score that one can feel just a little short-changed at the end, when the orchestra’s crescendo of pantheistic transcendence isn’t quite captured in this production. William Dudley’s visual emphasis on the great wheel of life and the cogwheels of time comes slightly at the expense of a sense of wonder-filled renewal within the cycle of nature’s seasons.

This revival may not be as starrily cast as some — and the poor Fox (Emma Bell) had her appendix out on the eve of the first night. But Jette Parker Young Artists are always on hand and Elisabeth Meister made a brave, if as yet vocally undernourished, stab at the role of Fox Golden-Mane. Emma Matthews offers an impressive house debut as the Vixen herself: a feisty feminist, red in tooth and claw, yet with a touching vulnerability at the core of her bright, high soprano.

The Vixen’s longings (both despised and envied by the Dachshund, nicely lugubrious in the voice of the American countertenor Gerald Thompson) personify those of less successful specimens of mankind. Robin Leggate is a wonderfully observed Schoolmaster (and Mosquito); Jeremy White an angrily morose Priest (and Badger); and Christopher Maltman, though still small-scale, is personable and musically intelligent in his first Forester. A word, too, for the Forester’s Wife, the mezzo Madeleine Shaw, who is also an irresistibly censorious Owl.

Janáček The Cunning Little Vixen 2

21 Mar 2010
The Cunning Little Vixen, London
An enchanting evening at Covent Garden:

Leoš Janáček: The Cunning Little Vixen (sung in English)

Vixen Sharp-Ears: Emma Matthews: Gamekeeper: Christopher Maltman; Fox: Elisabeth Meister; Schoolmaster/Mosquito: Robin Leggate; Gamekeeper’s Wife/Owl: Madeleine Shaw; Priest/Badger: Jeremy White; Harašta: Matthew Rose; Innkeeper’s Wife: Elisabeth Sikora; Pásek: Alasdair Elliott; Pepík: Simona Mihai; Frantík: Elizabeth Cragg; Rooster/Jay: Deborah Peake-Jones; Dachshund: Gerald Thompson; Forester’s Wife: Madeleine Shaw; Cricket: Peter Shafran; Caterpillar: Talo Hanson (front), Korey Knight (back); Young Vixen: Eleanor Burke; Blue Dragonfly: Tom Sapsford; Spirit of the Vixen: Lyn Routledge; Chief Hen: Glenys Groves; Woodpecker: Amanda Floyd; Hare: Marnie Carr; Flies, Foxcubs, Other Children, Dancers. Director: Bill Bryden; Designs: William Dudley; Lighting: Paule Constable; Movement: Stuart Hopps. Royal Opera Chorus (chorus master: Renato Balsadonna); Orchestra of the Royal Opera House; Sir Charles Mackerras (conductor). Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, London, Friday 19 March 2010.

What with this and The Gambler, things seem to be looking up, following a dispiriting spell in the Christof Loy doldrums. Indeed, the theatrical and musical magic woven here could not stand further removed from the pretentious dreariness inflicted upon new productions of Lulu and Tristan und Isolde. Bill Bryden’s production of The Cunning Little Vixen was first staged in 1990 but, twenty years on, it is yet to look tired. For this, William Dudley’s designs deserve a great deal of credit. There is to action and staging a crucial sense of life, in all its complexity, never more ambiguous than when it is apparently straightforward. The life-cycle, human or animal — should the distinction even be made? — is the guiding force, in every sense, of Janáček’s drama, and so, appropriately enough, one sees a huge circle on stage, which provides a treadmill for walking as well as a frame in which the first act’s acrobatic ‘Spirit of the Vixen’ may swing. Here, form is wondrously imparted to the Vixen’s dream, both for the eye and the ear. Humour, arguably more immediate, if less idiomatic, when sung in English, was present too, for instance in the portrayal of the clannish farmyard hens, large and contented, unable to heed the Vixen’s siren-voice of feminist revolt. It is, however, the interplay between wondrous machinery and Nature that penetrates to the very heart of the opera. This both highlighted such relationships in the score and put me in mind of another Royal Opera production: David McVicar’s Magic Flute — never more magical than when heard under Sir Colin Davis (available on DVD). Lighting (Paule Johnson), colours, and scenery ensure that Nature is present, overflowing in her abundance, without being domesticated or prettified; for there is wildness aplenty in Janáček’s score, and this must be reflected in the action.

It must, of course, above all be expressed by the orchestra, and so it was here. The name of Sir Charles Mackerras is so indelibly associated with Janáček’s music that one might take for granted his excellence. However, I doubt that even the most jaded listener — note that one must listen, rather than passively consume — could have done so in this case. The angularities of Janáček’s score, so often ironed out by conductors not so intimately attuned to the idiom, were immediate and telling, but they were always integrated into a longer line, never aggressive, let alone exhibitionistic, for their own sake: the opposing temptation to smoothing out. Equally apparent, and again never merely for their own sake, were the ravishing beauties of the score’s extraordinary sound-world — extraordinary even by Janáček’s standards. One example would be that utterly characteristic high string sound, split into several parts, which one might be tempted to call Straussian, but which is in reality quite different, if anything more akin to the Schoenberg of Gurrelieder. (Janáček was greatly interested in the music of the Second Viennese School.) Building of climaxes was masterly, above all in the great, pantheistic conclusion, so redolent, or rather prophetic, of the Glagolitic Mass. Life goes on, yet is transformed, transfigured. Tension had sagged slightly, I thought, both on stage and in the musical performance, during the first half of the third act, but this conclusion certainly compensated. As Sir Charles’s aforementioned knighted colleague sounds so effortlessly right in Mozart, so does Mackerras in Janáček. How odd, then, that this was the first time he had conducted the work at Covent Garden, though not quite so odd as the fact that Bryden’s production has no predecessors in the house. (Having said that, The Cunning Little Vixen received its Paris premiere as recently as 2008, and then in a production borrowed from Lyons.)

If Mackerras and the orchestra, which throughout played superlatively, a match for any other ensemble, were the brightest stars in the firmament, then they were ably supported by much of the cast. Most impressive of all was Christopher Maltman, whose Forester grew in stature, as he should, as the work progressed. The final transfiguration was as much his as the natural world’s. Elisabeth Meister, a Jette Paker Young Artist, had originally been slated to sing the roles of the Rooster and the Jay, but had to replace Emma Bell at very short notice, the latter having been rushed to hospital for an emergency appendectomy. Meister proved a winning replacement, moving in her love for the Vixen: an anthropomorphic fantasy, maybe, but an irresistible one. Sadly, Emma Matthews brought no especial individuality to the title role, though she did nothing especially wrong either. Many of the smaller roles, however, were sharply etched, most memorably Matthew Rose’s poacher, Harašta, Robin Leggate’s lovelorn Schoolmaster, and Jeremy White, both as priest and badger. The children, drawn from various London schools, did not disappoint either.

Performance in English did not disconcert me as much as I had feared. There is loss, of course, in terms of the music’s relationship to the language’s speech-rhythms, but this registered less than it had during ENO’s Katya Kabanova earlier in the week. Perhaps it was a better translation; there was certainly more opportunity, often very well taken, for wit. Banking jokes may be easy, but sometimes we should be grateful for any weapon we have. One gripe though: why start at 8 p.m.? It made no especial difference to me, but a 7.30 start would have been of help to those who had to travel out of London, or who simply wished to dine a little earlier. Such practical reservations should not detract, however, from a triumphant return to form for the Royal Opera.

The Cunning Little Vixen will be broadcast by BBC Radio 3 on Saturday 15 May at 6 p.m.

from Opera Today

Janáček The Cunning Little Vixen 1

My first time at Covent Garden
for a beautiful version of the little vixen by Janacek
conducted by Charles Mackerras

Audiobooks

I (re)starded to listen to the Forster's A Passage to India
downloaded by Radio 3
A bit annoying for their choice to use indian traditional music
While I'm driving that is disgusting
but the novel is a wonderful portrait of the british life in their colony and the look from inside

Beethoven's Piano Sonata No. 14 in C♯ minor "Quasi una fantasia", Op. 27, No. 2 (4)

The stormy final movement (C♯ minor), in sonata form, is the weightiest of the three, reflecting an experiment of Beethoven's (also carried out in the companion sonata, Opus 27, No. 1 and later on in Opus 101) placement of the most important movement of the sonata last. The writing has many fast arpeggios and strongly accented notes, and an effective performance demands lively and skillful playing.

Of the final movement, Charles Rosen has written "it is the most unbridled in its representation of emotion. Even today, two hundred years later, its ferocity is astonishing."

It is thought that the C-sharp minor sonata, particularly the third movement, was the inspiration for Frédéric Chopin's Fantaisie-Impromptu[10]. The Fantaisie-Impromptu is also in the key of C♯ minor, with a middle section of D♭ major, similar to the three movements of this sonata.

The musical dynamic that predominates in the third movement is in fact piano. It seems that Beethoven's heavy use of sforzando notes, together with just a few strategically located fortissimo passages, creates the sense of a very powerful sound in spite of the overall dynamic. Within the entire movement there seems to be two themes, with the other melodies simply making up the rest of composition. The first theme consists of bars 6 to 16 which then repeats themselves, with variations, in bars 37 to 47. The second theme lasts from 26 to 30, and like the first theme is then restated in variations, in 51 to 55. In the sonata there is no two bars are exactly the same; all very related but none of them are not an exact match. They may sound similar but however they are completely different. The similar notes that come afterwards are more intense and give more emotion with their embellishments.

Beethoven's Piano Sonata No. 14 in C♯ minor "Quasi una fantasia", Op. 27, No. 2 (3)

The second movement is a relatively conventional scherzo and trio; a moment of relative calm written in D-flat major, the enharmonic equivalent of C♯ major, the parallel major of C♯ minor. This replaces 7 sharps (C♯ major) with 5 flats (D♭ major), granting less confusion when reading the music. Franz Liszt described the second movement as "a flower between two chasms."

Beethoven's Piano Sonata No. 14 in C♯ minor "Quasi una fantasia", Op. 27, No. 2 (2)

The first movement, in C♯ minor is written in a rough, truncated sonata form. The movement opens with an octave in the left hand and a triplet figuration in the right. A melody that Hector Berlioz called a "lamentation", mostly by the right hand, is played against an accompanying ostinato triplet rhythm, simultaneously played by the right hand. The movement is played pianissimo or "very quietly", and the loudest it gets is mezzo-forte or "moderately loud". The movement has made a powerful impression on many listeners; for instance, Berlioz said of it that it "is one of those poems that human language does not know how to qualify." The work was very popular in Beethoven's day, to the point of exasperating the composer, who remarked to Carl Czerny, "Surely I've written better things."

Beethoven's Piano Sonata No. 14 in C♯ minor "Quasi una fantasia", Op. 27, No. 2 (1)

The Moonlight Sonata was composed in the summer of 1801 in Hungary, on an estate belonging to the Brunswick family. The composition was published in 1802 and was dedicated to Beethoven’s pupil and passion, 17 years old Countess Giulietta Gucciardi.
The Sonata is one of the most popular piano sonatas from Beethoven’s creation. It is also named “The Moonlight Sonata” by poet Ludwig Rellstab who, in 1832, had this inspiration on a moon lit night on the banks of the Lucerna River. Some biographers make the connection between the unshared love the composer held for Giulietta Guicciardi and the sonorities of the first part. Even more so, this sonata was dedicated to Giulietta, the musical theme of the first part being borrowed from a German ballad as Wyzewa observed.
According to Fischer, this image has no connection with Beethoven’s intentions. He rather attributes this atmosphere to the feeling that overwhelmed the composer when he took watch at the side of a friend who prematurely left the world of the living. In one of Beethoven’s manuscripts there are several notes from Mozart’s Don Juan, notes that follow the killing of the Commander by Don Juan, and lower, this passage is rendered in C sharp minor in absolute resemblance to the first part of the sonata in C sharp minor. Analyzing and comparing, one could realize that it cannot be the case of a romantic moon lit night, but rather of a solemn funeral hymn.

from All About Beethoven

my books, now 1

I'm reading two books, now.
A biography on Richard Strauss by Levi
more devoted to his music
and useful to read "La serpe in seno" by Bruno Bortolotto






The novel I'm reading is "Quer pasticciaccio brutto de via Merulana"
by Gadda
not easy to understand for his language, mixing italian and romanesque dialect

Schiele

Saturday 13 march 2010
Schiele e il suo tempo
Palazzo Reale, Milano

The history of the collapse of Vienna empire
sound (Mahler, above all)
look (all the Secession group)
and the atmosphere of art in a period where all the past is gone and the future seems to be far.

Die Welt von Gestern. Erinnerungen eines Europäers by Zweig is the description of that deluge, "l’ope­ra disperata di un uomo che vide spegnersi intorno a sé, una ad una, tutte le luci del­l’Europa in cui era nato" (S. Romano)




More than an exhibition, a drama

A tribute to my father

Yesterday evening, "Furbacion", a comedy played by my father when he was young, was played by "La Famija Pramzana"
The plot is funny, in the style of the dialect theatre, and based on the characters of the family couple, whose conflicts are the pillar of the comedy.
Franco Greci is the team master and the best actor
I still believe this is a form without any future, useful just for the leisure of old people

but Franco's final speech devoted to my father was a gift

Ivo Pogorelich 3

Pogorelich announced programme

I part

Ludwig van Beethoven
Sonata in c minor n. 32 op.111
Bagatella in a minor "Fur Elise" WoO 59
Sonata in f sharp n. 24 op.78

II part

Johannes Brahms
Intermezzo in A n.2 op.118

Aleksandr Skrjabin
Sonata in f sharp n. 4 op.30

Sergei Rachmaninov
Sonata in b n. 2 op.36


Actual programme

I part

Ludwig van Beethoven
Sonata in c minor n. 32 op.111
Bagatella in a minor "Fur Elise" WoO 59
Sonata in f sharp n. 24 op.78

II part

Jan Sibelius
Valse triste (piano transcription)

Johannes Brahms
Intermezzo in A n.2 op.118

Fredrick Chopin
Nocturne

Maurice Ravel
Gaspard de la nuit

Ivo Pogorelich 2

When you are there, in my first theatre, you sit down and wait
for
something you think something known
already experienced
but when Pogorelich enters
with his scores in hand
and the first notes are on air
you understand what he wants
to create
not just to play
and he creates a single music
where the sound and the structure are two pillars
equally weighted

not a concert
just life

Ivo Pogorelich 1

Pogorelich, il pianista discusso che vuole essere l'unico compositore
di Franco Fayenz
da Il Sole 24 Ore (16 APRILE 2010)

Il pianista belgradese Ivo Pogorelich, 52 anni nel prossimo ottobre, ha iniziato il suo annunciato Grand Tour di 100 concerti in Italia «in luoghi di grande valore artistico, storico e culturale». E' partito dal Salone dei Concerti della Casa di riposo per Musicisti di Milano. Il prossimo concerto è previsto al Teatro Regio di Parma venerdì prossimo 23 aprile, mentre per il momento si ha notizia soltanto di altri quattro fino a settembre a Mantova, Taormina, Bolzano e Asolo: se questa è la frequenza, il Grand Tour durerà a lungo. E' risaputo che Pogorelich è pianista discusso (et pour cause, affermano i francesi), ma di ciò si parlerà più oltre. Per ora mi tocca dire che il tour è cominciato nel peggiore dei modi: e chiedo venia al lettore perché devo indugiare nella mera cronaca. Il concerto è datato 15 aprile, ore 16, ma qualche privilegiato viene a sapere da una voce amica che il maestro ha detto all'ultimo istante che arriverà alle 17.30. In realtà si materializza alle 18.45. Nel frattempo la bella sala rassomiglia ai treni delle nostre ferrovie, quando si fermano in campagna a tempo indeterminato e nessuno ne spiega il motivo. Nel programma si legge che si dovrebbero ascoltare di Ludwig van Beethoven la Sonata op.111, la Bagatella "Per Elisa", la Sonata op.78 e, dopo la pausa, l'Intermezzo n.2 op.118 di Johannes Brahms, la Sonata op.30 di Aleksandr Skrjabin e la Sonata op.36 di Sergei Rachmaninov. Ovviamente l'enorme ritardo obbliga il maestro a cambiare tutto. Fa annunciare che della 111 eseguirà solo l'Arietta, di Brahms l'Intermezzo e infine la Sonata di Rachmaninov. In corso d'opera cambia idea e nella seconda parte (ma la pausa è abolita) suona un Notturno di Fryderyk Chopin, la Kuolema di Jan Sibelius meglio nota come Valse Triste e Ondine da Gaspard de la Nuit di Maurice Ravel. Come bis, più imposto che richiesto, fa il secondo movimento della 36 di Rachmaninov. L'ultimo suono si spegne alle 20.15. All'inizio si è notato che Pogorelich si sarebbe esibito con lo spartito sul pianoforte e con il voltapagine: fra i pianisti ricordo questa abitudine nel grande Sviatoslav Richter e pochissimi altri. Pogorelich fa bene, a mio parere, perché lo spartito ripara dai vuoti di memoria e aiuta a scoprire e approfondire qualcosa ogni volta, sebbene il secondo punto non sia di certo fra gli scopi del nostro. Ma rimane l'unica cosa bella del concerto. La mente dell'ascoltatore di professione vola al lontano 1980, al decimo concorso Chopin di Varsavia vinto dal vietnamita Thai Son Dang con l'armeno Artur Papazian vincitore morale. Partecipava anche il ventiduenne Pogorelich che è stato escluso dal concerto finale. Giusto, ha pensato il sottoscritto presente fra il pubblico. Ma la splendida Martha Argerich, componente della giuria, ha fatto il diavolo a quattro e si è dimessa urlando agli altri «sbagliate tutto, quest'uomo è un genio». Sarà anche un genio, ma dei compositori non gli importa un accidente e lo ha ribadito a Milano. Una signora alla mia sinistra ha detto alla fine: «Strano, questi compositori sembrano tutti uguali». Brava signora, lei forse ha capito che il compositore è uno solo e si chiama Pogorelich.

My Hopper

Klingsor's magic garden 2

From the theatre

Klingsor's magic garden 1

Grail hall was based on the interior of Siena Cathedral which Wagner had visited in 1880, while Klingsor's magic garden was modelled on those at the Palazzo Rufolo in Ravello. Here some pictures from the magic garden.

Crossing the Bosfor

Here crossing the bridge over the Bosfor

February 2010

Salone del mobile 2010

Some pictures from the Salone del Mobile

Mosaici

Milan
Today, a lesson on asset management to substitute Paolo C.,
for the vulcano
The Nhow Hotel was a location of the "Salone del mobile"
Seen Paola Di Serios's mosaici
to donate my loves

From "The New Yorker"

April 16, 2010

Under the Volcano

by Susan Orlean

Volcanic ash is as soft as baby powder, if baby powder were made of microscopic shards of glass. I was living in Portland, Oregon, in 1980, when Mt. St. Helens erupted. The first belch from the mountain sent all of its force and flotsam north and east, away from Portland; the second caught a westerly wind, and the ash drizzled down on the city. The day of the second eruption, I was at the Portland Art Museum, watching the epic, gloomy seven-hour Hans-Jürgen Syberberg film “Hitler: A Film from Germany.” It had been a soft, bright spring day when we went into the theatre. There is an intermission halfway through the film, and as soon as the lights went up the audience stumbled outside, dazed and disturbed, ears rattling from the Wagnerian score, gasping for relief from Syberberg’s puppetry reënactments of Democracy versus Germany, and footage of Goebbels’ charred corpse, and repeated manipulated montages of the Reichstag before, during, and then after its collapse into smoking rubble. Wouldn’t some fresh Oregon air be the perfect antidote! We rushed out of the museum. It was oddly quiet outside. No cars rolled by. No one strolled down the sidewalks. The spring light was fuzzed out, and fat gray flakes drifted down from the whitened sky, landing in dove-colored piles on the ground. A lone pedestrian, his face hidden by a white surgical mask, hurried by, hunched and silent. For a minute, the notion that this was an extension of the film, with all of its meditations on destruction and burned ruin, crossed my mind. Finally, a police car inched down the street, crunching over the ash piles, its loudspeaker blaring a warning to stay inside, to keep your hands off the ash, to not breathe unless it was absolutely necessary. It felt like the end of the world. Another minute passed, and the intermission ended, and we hustled back to watch the rest of the film, to see another near-end of the world.

Read more: http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/susanorlean/2010/04/under-the-volcano.html#ixzz0lOKzfbf6

Bob Dylan songs 2

Talkin' New York


Ramblin’ outa the wild West
Leavin’ the towns I love the best
Thought I’d seen some ups and downs
’Til I come into New York town
People goin’ down to the ground
Buildings goin’ up to the sky

Wintertime in New York town
The wind blowin’ snow around
Walk around with nowhere to go
Somebody could freeze right to the bone
I froze right to the bone
New York Times said it was the coldest winter in seventeen years
I didn’t feel so cold then

I swung onto my old guitar
Grabbed hold of a subway car
And after a rocking, reeling, rolling ride
I landed up on the downtown side
Greenwich Village

I walked down there and ended up
In one of them coffee-houses on the block
Got on the stage to sing and play
Man there said, “Come back some other day
You sound like a hillbilly
We want folk singers here”

Well, I got a harmonica job, begun to play
Blowin’ my lungs out for a dollar a day
I blowed inside out and upside down
The man there said he loved m’ sound
He was ravin’ about how he loved m’ sound
Dollar a day’s worth

And after weeks and weeks of hangin’ around
I finally got a job in New York town
In a bigger place, bigger money too
Even joined the union and paid m’ dues

Now, a very great man once said
That some people rob you with a fountain pen
It didn’t take too long to find out
Just what he was talkin’ about
A lot of people don’t have much food on their table
But they got a lot of forks ’n’ knives
And they gotta cut somethin’

So one mornin’ when the sun was warm
I rambled out of New York town
Pulled my cap down over my eyes
And headed out for the western skies
So long, New York
Howdy, East Orange

Copyright © 1962, 1965 by Duchess Music Corporation; renewed 1990, 1993 by MCA

design

had a look to design book shelves and furniture
some beautiful things
but without soul
I need something really mine

Bob Dylan songs 1

You're No Good

Well I don't know why I love you like I do
Nobody in the world can get along with you.
You got the ways of a devil sleeping in a lion's den
I come home last night you wouldn't even let me in.

Well sometimes you're as sweet as anybody want to be
When you get a crazy notion of jumpin' all over me
Well you give me the blues I guess you're satisfied
An' you give me the blues I wanna lay down and die.

I helped you when you had no shoes on your feet, pretty mama
I helped you when you had no food to eat.
You're the kind of woman I just don't understand
You're takin' all my money and give it to another man.

Well you're the kinda woman makes a man lose his brain
You're the kinda woman drives a man insane
You give me the blues, I guess you're satisfied
You give me the blues, I wanna lay down and die

Well you give me the blues, I wanna lay down and die

Bob Dylan
from "Bob Dylan" 1962
Copyright ©

Addendum to Kafka Before the Law

ADDENDUM

Most of Kafka's protagonists experience frustration and futility because of the nature of their problems and their attempts to cope with them:

The Hunger Artist yearning for admiration for something he cannot help doing to begin with; namely fasting and hoping to gain credibility by performing feats of increasing incredibility. No one believes him because no one can observe him without interruption for forty days. Only he could be a satisfied observer of his own accomplishment. Yet he remains dissatisfied because he knows the full truth of his assertion that, to him, fasting is the easiest thing in the world; a truth he does not reveal until the very end of his life.

Gregor Samsa, changed into a huge bug, continues to think like a human. But the family is aware only of his animal shape, appetite, and general life style. And the new means available to the changed Gregor to communicate his human sentiments only convince his family that this is no longer Gregor but "dieses Tier."

Josephine, mouse and singer, insisting on exclusive acclaim for an ability she shares with everybody else.

The officer in the Penal Colony attempting to gain the explorer's support by explaining both the exquisite technology of execution and the utter primitivity of the legal system.

The animal in The Burrow striving for ultimate security by constructing an ever more complicated web of tunnels vaguely realizing all the while that, as long as the exit remains a necessity, he will remain vulnerable no matter how clever the construction underground. The high degree of relative security the animal achieves equals, in the end, insecurity and ceaseless activity, watchfulness and rationalization cannot calm his fears.

Or the imperial messenger who is on his way to you with an important message: but the distance and the obstacles are such that he cannot hope ever to reach you with it. Du sitzt am Fenster und erträumst sie dir. You sit by the window and envision it.

K. in The Castle appeals to a gigantic and elusive bureaucracy to compensate him within his lifetime for an erroneous decision. The bureaucracy is designed to correct itself eventually, but without regard for a human life span. The Castle, in charge of people, is determined to operate faultlessly, but is guided by institutional considerations, not by human concern. According to Max Brod, K. was to be granted permanent residence on his deathbed. Justice & generosity, but of a useless sort. We are reminded a bit of the country doctor who had also answered an erroneous call. and who remarks wistfully in a moment of danger that he is "superior to everyone here, but it doesn't help me any." A useless superiority, as useless as the golden opportunity provided to K. by Buergel. K. is too tired to seize it.

The list could go on. The happy ending provided in the novel Amerika is rather misleading. Karl Rossmann does finally find his place in the Great Theater of Oklahoma, but only because that society is defined by the very fact that it has a place for everyone; it is a utopian society.
Why do Kafka's protagonists persist in their struggle? Why for instance do the two Ks undertake attempt after attempt, like picaresque heroes going through adventure after adventure without ever changing until death or retirement changes everything? Why, since their hopes are dashed again and again and their actions rendered futile? I do not want to argue with those who suggest alternate behavior for Kafka's victims, or even find them guilty of not proceeding differently and therefore deserving what they get. A person can't be blamed for not thinking of what he can't think of. The man from the country, as we saw, continues to use every means he can think of. The important fact is that whatever he can think of fails.

The answer to why they renew their efforts after every failure lies, I believe, in the word and concept hope. There is common denominator to all the paradoxes we have listed or, rather, there is a basic paradox underlying all of them. Man is endowed with the instinct of self-preservation while at the same time facing the certainty of death. These two irreconcilable aspects of life are Kafka's creative obsession. Man is programmed to extend himself endlessly into the future, yet he is designed to be finite. It is hope of survival, faith in the future, that makes Joseph K blind to the parable whose very message is hopelessness. The initiated can understand, but death is the only initiator. The parables are true, but incomprehensible. Therefore they are useless. If they were comprehensible they would still be useless. They do not show a way out, they merely state that fate is unalterable. That we knew, but hoped we were wrong.

Life unto death. All other conflicts and paradoxes are merely analogies of this basic one. Like the ability to envision utopia while lacking the tools to build it. Feeeling a hunger no common food can still. Knowing what questions to ask but finding the answers elusive.
The two Ks persistence in their struggle is not based on a conscious decision as is the case with traditional rebels like Lucifer and Faust who chose to ignore the limitations placed upon them. The two Ks react instinctively. Their struggle is a manifestation of the instinct of self-preservation, of hope and of course a manifestation of their ignorance regarding their chance of success.

What we are witnessing are days in the life of Sisyphus until the final day which ends all without having to resolve anything. These novels and stories are Kafka's apologia pro vita sua, a defense of a life style based on instinct. And if there is any accusation at all it is against whatever power initiated the momentum without informing the victim that there was nothing he could do to stop it. What if the victim were informed? Useless information. Catch 22. Wie du dich auch drehst, der Arsch bleibt immer hinten. No matter how you turn, your butt will always be in back.

Herbert Deinert

Kafka Before the Law

KAFKA'S PARABLE BEFORE THE LAW

Herbert Deinert

The parable "Before the Law" and its context, the chapter "In the Cathedral," have long been recognized as the center piece of Kafka's unfinished novel The Trial. It may, with some qualifications, be considered a key to Kafka's work. Various critics have treated it at length, the interpretations of Wilhelm Emrich and Heinz Politzer and, most recently, Ingeborg Henel's brilliant and comprehensive study being among the most profound. Although these critics differ on many issues, their opinions are not mutually exclusive on all points and it would, therefore, be naive to state that the following pages will propose something so different as to have nothing in common with interpretations already suggested. Yet I believe that, by eliminating two errors which have plagued previous critics, this article can point to additional--and different--aspects. One error, I feel, is the assumption of guilt on K.'s part, which I fail to recognize; the other consists in singling out individual statements made by the priest and pronouncing them correct readings of the parable, whereas the priest insists that he is only listing various opinions.

At first glance, the story is both simple and mysterious. The plot is so self-evident that it apparently defies further explanation. It involves a man trying in vain to gain the desired entrance; he spends the rest of his life waiting for permission which is never granted. But although the action is logical, its setting is not at all identical with our reality. Nor do we recognize the characters. The man from the country has been narrowed to the personification of a persistent desire, the doorkeeper is limited to the function of an obstacle, the identity of the Law remains hidden. However, once we accept the kind of reality defined by these limitations, the narrative poses no problem. Yet it is obviously intended to be a parable. This is suggested by its very position in the context of the Trial. Some technical devices characteristic of a parable are easily recognized (e.g., the absence of proper names, the concentration of the plot, the pointe at the end). Although the details of the plot are self-explanatory the story as a whole certainly calls for interpretation. If it is a parable it must "mean" something. What, then, does it mean?

A popular approach to Kafka is to treat his works as allegories, that is, to search for the second and concurrent meaning beneath the surface story, a meaning limited in scope, applicable to only one problem, one class, one historical age, etc. Trying to reveal the identity of the doorkeeper, of the man from the country and the Law we would proceed to search for something that fits the pattern of the plot, say, man in pursuit of happiness--he never achieves it, man in search of God--he never comprehends him, the artist waiting for inspiration or public recognition which never comes. A given number of imaginative readers would be able to arrive at as many different so-called keys to the story. How do we know which key is the correct one? Obviously the one which sounds most probable. It need hardly be stated that this is no interpretation at all but a more or less undisciplined guessing game, however interesting. It would not be based on the narrative but merely on its pattern, on the radius of our knowledge and the whim of our imagination. In any case, we would be looking behind the story rather than into it.

The alternative is a careful analysis of an apparently simple plot. This approach appears all the more in order since it is the very thing that Kafka--on the surface--has his own listener do. One morning K., the principal figure of The Trial, is pronounced arrested by men he had never met, but he remains free to go and carry on as before. He is told that legal proceedings are under way against him, but neither his alleged crime nor the identity of his accusers are revealed. The suit is based upon a law K. has never heard of. Eventually, it becomes his sole ambition to meet the mysterious Court face to face in order to vindicate himself. One day, in the course of his fruitless efforts, after spending a long time waiting in the dark and empty cathedral, he suddenly notices a dimly lit pulpit, a priest begins to address him and what follows is the text of our parable. In keeping with the traditional sequence of scripture reading and exegesis K. and the priest engage in a discussion as to the significance of the narrative. Like all of K.'s efforts it leads nowhere and we need not go into a detailed description.

It is important to note, however, that K. is so convinced of his innocence and so preoccupied with freeing himself from what must be a false charge that he can see the parable only under the aspect of right and wrong. He has already forgotten or, rather, never understood the priest's angry remark before the recital: "Can't you see two feet ahead?". His immediate reaction is that the man from the country has been deceived by the doorkeeper. The priest counters that he has told the parable in the official version--it belongs, by implication, to the "Holy Scriptures" of the mysterious Court where K.'s secret trial is being conducted. It is the official text, then, and to speak of deceit is wrong simply because the word deceit does not occur. Again and again, by reference to the narrative and by the sheer weight of logic, K.'s arguments are overruled. But at the very moment when both K. and the reader are almost convinced of the doorkeeper's benevolence it turns out that the priest has been pursuing a strictly academic dispute, he has not committed himself but only reported one of many contradictory opinions. Moreover, he states categorically that these opinions are irrelevant because the text is unchangeable no matter what its interpretations and that the opinions themselves are "often nothing but an expression of despair over this fact". As if to prove how non-committal and objective he is he advances a view according to which it is the doorkeeper who was deceived. Again, the argument is so logical and well substantiated that even K. cannot escape its conclusions. Yet he also remains unwilling to give up his earlier conviction that the man from the country is a victim of deceit. If already the doorkeeper is deceived (e.g., under a grave delusion about his position) his deception must necessarily have a disastrous effect on the man from the country. Deceived or not, he is at best a fool who should be stripped of his office. The priest's final argument, in immediate reply to K.'s last point, is that nowhere does the text give us a right to judge, let alone condemn, the doorkeeper. As a servant of the Law he is far above the reach of human judgment; doubting his worthiness would imply doubting the Law itself. Thus the priest has come full circle in his argument. Naturally, K. cannot agree because it would mean that everything the doorkeeper says is true, which cannot be the case for the very reasons the priest had previously outlined. "One need not consider everything true," the priest re-plies, "one must only consider it necessary".

By now we are thoroughly confused. The exegesis is nearly four times as long as the text. The simple story is no longer simple. As before, our confusion comes from understanding what is said but not knowing what to make of it. The individual steps of the argument seem flawless, but the discussion as a whole has reached no conclusion whatever. The narrative, for all its simplicity, is not clear enough to understand it to the extent necessary for passing judgment. Although the plot is elementary, the implications escape our comprehension. It involves two antagonists; the obvious question as to who is right and who is wrong remains unanswered.

In literary tradition a parable is told to illustrate a certain point, to teach a golden rule. It is a didactic narrative. K., in his hopeless predicament, expects some illumination, a hint as to what steps to take---the reader certainly does. But his attempt to analyze what appears to be a parable intended for him is frustrated: the narrative contains no golden rule, it does not suggest a mode of behavior under certain conditions. It would seem, then, that it is no parable at all, that the very function of the narrative is cruelly to defeat the hope it had aroused.

Yet this cannot be the sole purpose of a story so elaborately introduced. It is not until the end of the novel, however--too late for K.---that the true significance of the narrative is revealed. In retrospect, it proves to be both an allegory and a parable. For it is nothing but a veiled and concentrated account of K.'s own life. The man from the country is K. himself. There is one difference: K. meets a violent death while the other dies of old age. Yet it matters little. The fruitlessness of such a life is more important an aspect than the manner in which it is finally terminated. And is not the man from the country "dead" for all practical purposes from the moment he abandons all just to sit beside the entrance to the Law? And cannot the same be said about K. who leaves his customary course of life to devote himself increasingly to his own justification?

Does K. at least recognize the pertinence of the priest's narrative? The answer is a qualified "yes." Since he himself is trying to gain admission to the mysterious and elusive Court he instinctively comes to the defense of a man in a parallel situation. He attempts to establish what or who is right or wrong. His interpretation of the narrative is based on the assumption that there are such criteria as guilt and innocence. In fact, he is so preoccupied with them that he fails to see the real significance of the narrative. His perception ends at the crucial point where the story becomes a parable. It is not concerned with the question of right or wrong, it makes no suggestion as to what effort to undergo in order to reach a given goal, but it pictures the futility of all efforts. Whatever man undertakes is doomed to failure. Whatever he desires escapes him. Whatever he does to further his cause will be frustrated. Whatever, he has done was the wrong thing to do. He is free, for be can do what he wants. Yet he is a helpless prisoner for whatever he does will be frustrated. His ambition to free himself is based on the delusion that this is possible. He is endowed with the freedom of choice but lacks the power to enforce his decisions. The meaning of our narrative is not to be found in the characters but in the general action, in what goes on regardless almost of the characters. The entire plot is one of Kafka's many variations on his central theme, and the theme is frustration. What is depicted is futility itself, universal and of unlimited applicability, and we should not read into it the futile efforts of one particular group or the clandestine presentation of one particular problem.

It is not enough that the underlying theme of the story is frustration; K.'s attempt to analyze it is also frustrated. Its very effect in the novel is to increase K.'s frustration. K. is blinded by the indignation of a legal mind over an obvious act of injustice and, in the final analysis, by the instinct of self-preservation. He is so convinced of the possibility that matters can be changed that he overlooks the only message the story has for him, namely, that they cannot. He fails to understand the parable precisely because he interprets it--very understandablyóin terms of justice and injustice. But in doing so he super-imposes his own concepts on the narrative rather than concentrating on the text itself. The priest, at the very outset, had tried to hint at his fallacy by mentioning that the word deceit did not occur. The basic truth, all there is to know, is contained in the narrative itself or, as the priest stated it, the text is unchangeable. The introduction of a foreign element is based on the futile hope that this cannot be the case; it is, again in the priest' s words, an expression of despair over this fact. The parable remains inconclusive only because K. lacks the proper perspective.

But even if K. recognized the significance of the story, would it help him? The answer is, of course, "no". Whoever his accusers are, they reside somewhere in sublime unconcern. From their point of view, there is little difference between no effort at all and the limited action K. is capable of. His fate is irreconcilable and will be the same, just as the man from the country would have died of old age had he stayed at home. And here we, too, have come full circle. K.'s inability to interpret the parable was no tragic oversight at all. Whether the narrative is identified as a parable or not is of no importance. It does not suggest a course of action, consequently K. can learn nothing from it. In fact, it suggests that no course of action will help and it makes no difference to his eventual fate whether this is recognized or not. The narrative is an abstract of the entire novel, presented near the end; it is both a parable and a prophecy. The image of hopelessness and frustration is complete. The complexity of K's struggle is of insurmountable proportions; but the reason for it is the very simplicity of a fact unknown to him: there is nothing he can do. I wonder whether Kafka could have pictured the total misery of human existence in his Trial more effectively than by inserting a parable which need not be understood by the protagonist.

K.'s cause is lost from the beginning. When he insists that he is innocent the priest replies: "But that is how the guilty speak". His case is indeed hopeless if stating his innocence is proof of his guilt. What would an admission of guilt prove? His is a predetermined fate from which there is no escape. Cruelty is added to injustice by the ever renewed and tantalizing hope (expressed in the parable's "but not now") which will never be fulfilled, thus turning the old cardinal virtue into a means of torture. K. never learns what he is accused of, he never meets his accusers, despite the title he is never ordered to stand trial. He is free to go wherever he chooses. But eventually it becomes his sole ambition to influence a court he does not know--although he considers himself innocent, and the reader certainly knows of no crime K. has committed. Every step he takes proves to be a mistake. Even this is too definite a statement; the darkness is so impenetrable that he is unable to measure the effect of his actions. He is finally murdered knowing as little as ever.

This state of complication and utter frustration is at the core of all of Kafka's works. The apparent simplicity of plot is quite misleading. Kafka's devotion to detail (as shown, for example, in the ensuing dispute over the parable) has a confusing rather than clarifying effect. He displays an even greater mastery of his analytical method in short stories like A Hunger Artist, Josephine, The Burrow, to name only a few. We are forced to reach the paradoxical conclusion that thoroughness does not enlighten but that it obscures. Again and again in Kafka's works we encounter the careful weighing of all possibilities, the painstaking attention to every possible viewpoint, which make for a clear conception of each detail, but the picture as a whole is hopelessly blurred; thus even the reader is left frustrated.

The question remains whether a novel like The Trial is a great work of art. Kafka's genius is most admirably evident in his depiction of ever new situations, in the detailed analyses of problems, not in the characterization of persons confronted by them. However, the lack of effective characterization need not be a shortcoming at all. Kafka might even abandon it on purpose to direct the reader's attention almost exclusively to the situation confronting his characters. His heroes are engaged in a struggle against a faceless fate, they themselves are mere puppets. Since it is a condition that potentially applies to everyone and at all times there can be no distinct personalities who encounter what might be called their own fate. It is the condition par excellence, a universal state. From this point of view all men are alike, indistinguishable, that is: faceless. Another aspect is important. Since Kafka's heroes are no characters of flesh and blood in the traditional sense (let alone his lesser figures who are merely defined by their functions) they do not command our sympathy. We are not moved by their fate, do not pity them but, instead, are awed by the cruelty of fate in general, by the insurmountable complications of existence and the frustration of all efforts. Pity and fear are supplanted by a paralyzing sense of inevitable doom. Everyone can be this kind of tragic hero, through no fault or character defect of his own, through no combination of circumstances, but simply because he exists. Thus Kafka's method turns out to be the most effective manner, after all, of conveying an all-embracing and total futility.

Yet a novel is too demanding in scope for so limited a method, too spacious a vehicle for so exclusive a theme. Kafka's lack of epic abundance is undeniable, and we should not attempt to disregard it. His approach is that of a brilliant, logical, and controlled legal mind who views a subject from every possible angle and who is inexhaustible in creating novel situations showing the hero's struggle from different vantage points. But his inventiveness is limited to an endless variety of episodes; there is only one theme, and it is hopelessness and frustration. One might summarize The Trial thus: between the time of his arrest and the day of his execution K. tries in vain to meet his accusers face to face. And the entire novel centers on "in vain," each chapter dealing with another aspect of it. Neither The Trial nor The Castle are novels in the traditional sense; each is composed of a string of nearly independent installments. To be sure, K.'s preoccupation with the trial grows, he increasingly neglects his customary life. One might expect a gradual and total disintegration of his intellectual capacity, but his deviation from normal conduct is not nearly as drastic as is the case of two other victims, the merchant Block and the worldly gentleman in the third chapter who completely loses his composure when asked a simple question. Even the end of the novel which shows an amazing degree of submission on K,'s part (very much in contrast to the preceding cathedral scene, a suddenness which is perhaps due to the fragmentary character of The Trial) pictures him fully capable of rational and critical thinking although, as in the case of Kafka's Country Doctor, it is a useless kind of superiority. Thus even here there is little change. From this point of view--and from this point of view alone--the whole recent quarrel over the proper order of individual chapters within the novels is a bit pointless; most of them are interchangeable, for they do not advance the plot. The novels move along a very narrow path defined by the one and only theme and the different chapters are illustrations of it.

Where Kafka chose the opposite way: condensing a potential novel to a short story rather than pursuing the same problem through endless variations of equal fruitlessness the results are masterpieces. The Hunger Artist (1922), for instance, is such a "condensed novel." The topic again is total frustration, viewed from every angle, presented in every possible light. Told in chronological order and expanded to 300 pages it would have been a novel like The Trial. Instead, it is a brilliant short story. This literary genre alone appears to be the adequate medium for both Kafka's single-mindedness and his analytical skill. The former loses its fascination in the course of a longer piece of prose, the latter tends to degenerate into mere intellectual play.

Duke University

Janacek's Katya Kabanova in London March 2010 (8)

Drama is great
Music anticipates Berg's Lulu
Coliseum already seen for Lennie's On the Town
Beautiful night

Janacek's Katya Kabanova in London March 2010 (7)