an Easter egg
Scottie Bowman (bowman@mail.indigo.ie)
Fri, 10 Apr 1998 08:19:52 +0000
An acquaintance of mine works as the lead violinist
in the Radio Eireann string quartet. In the early days
of our friendship, I was trying in my usual phoney way
to give the impression of being a very sensitive lover of music
but - not wishing to get out of my depth in chamber music
(joaque) - one who felt handicapped by a very wobbly
understanding of the `structure' of pieces. I was never sure
what was the first statement, second statement, recapitulation
& so on. I really only responded to the toons.
This was actually more honest than it must have sounded.
With an extremely derisive look, Gregory told me to stop being
so `intellectual' about the whole thing. I was spoiling it for
myself. Certainly, he said, what he himself was primarily
interested in was the *emotional* content of the music.
Coming out of his particular mouth, that remark left me
speechless.
It was particularly ironic, though, because Greg's position on
music was more or less identical with mine on writing.
In the recent exchanges on Salinger criticism, there seems to be
a general feeling that, while a very great deal of it is garbage
there are some absolute gems that can only deepen & enrich
one's enjoyment of the original. Anyone who shuns these is
simply choosing the dumb, empoverished option. What's the point
of a Salinger list except to exchange views & introduce new insights
into the reading of the man ? When, once on the Hemingway list,
I questioned the whole critical process I was told that what
I seemed to be advocating was the `point & grunt' school of literary
appreciation, analagous - I presume - to a gorilla surveying a pile
of bananas.
But isn't it possible that there is, indeed, something to be said
for this approach ? Perhaps there *is* something basically
destructive in any analytical process. When a writer has
a technique that I wish to emulate or steal from - like old man Hem,
or Graham Greene, for example - I can't stop myself getting out
the microscope. But immediately, something is lost forever.
The willing suspension of disbelief is no longer possible. Just as
too many films about the life & machinery backstage have destroyed
any enjoyment I might have had in the `living theatre', so I can't
really ever again get that tingle up my spine when I read about
Pilar's young days in Valencia, or Jake Barnes walk down a street
in Paris on a spring morning - because I now understand rather
too well how it's done.
Critics & scholars must eat, of course. But I wonder if they could
possibly be kept in reservations where they can work away & talk
to each other in a protected environment & where members of
the general public would be allowed admission only after careful
screening as to their motives & where the appropriate inoculations
had been completed.
Or maybe we already have such places ?
Scottie B.