Review: How to Do Things with Music Author(s): Katherine Bergeron Reviewed work(s): Music as Cultural Practice 1800-1900 by Lawrence

Kramer Source: 19th-Century Music, Vol. 15, No. 3 (Spring, 1992), pp. 240-246 Published by: University of California Press Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/746429 Accessed: 25/05/2010 18:15
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CENTURY MUSIC

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How to Do Things with

Music
KATHERINE BERGERON
LawrenceKramer. Music as Cultural Practice 18001900. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1990. xv, 226 pp. There is a small illustration on the jacket of Music as Cultural Practice-a reproduction of Josef Danhauser's well-known portrait "Liszt at the Piano" - that presents a dreamy vision of music in the nineteenth-century salon. A huge, ghostly bust of Beethoven hovers on (or above) the piano, its enormous presence drawing our eye to the extreme right of the painting, where a window opens onto a troubled sky whose horizon appears to extend infinitely into the distance. Liszt is seated centrally, his hands arched, stroking the keyboard, his gaze turned upward (or inward), apparently fixed somewhere between Beethoven and the night sky, while Musset, Hugo, Paganini, Rossini, Marie d'Agoult, and Georges Sand listen on. Paganini looks melancholy and understanding. The trio of French writers is pale, wistful, pensif. Only Rossini appears content. If interpretation, as Lawrence Kramer suggests, is "an art modeled on the experience of music," this picture may offer us a view to understanding the nature of such experience for both performer and audience. Above all, something seems to be happening in this frozen moment. It is as if the painting captures a musical event in medias res (Liszt appears to hold a sound in his lifted hands), yet we see, rather than hear, the effect. That act of expression now resonates on the faces of those assembled, translated by the portrait artist as so many individual "expressions." Liszt's profile tells one story. Absorbed in the music, he is filled with what he is doing - with his intention. But what is Liszt's intention? What does he hear? And how do the others, caught in their own private reflections, understand it? The painting represents only the possibility of different responses.
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It is in this distance between the event and its reception, the difference between an utterance and its multiple interpretations, that the hermeneutic enterprise begins. In Music as Cultural Practice 1800-1900, Kramer's second book for the series California Studies in Nineteenth-Century Music, the enterprise becomes, like much of the music he discusses, grand, profound, virtuosic, dazzling, headstrong, sometimes unsettling, fragmented, chaotic, always searching. Indeed, with a sort of Lisztian bravura, he composes, case by case, an extensive program for a new musical hermeneutics, improvising on well-known themes, as well as venturing onto less familiar ground. Kramer's most ambitious proposition, which represents the real challenge of the book, is not that works of music have meanings, but that such meanings are, so to speak, legible, analogous to those of written texts ("there is and can be no fundamental difference between interpreting a written text and interpreting a work of music" [p. 6]). He conceives this interpretive similarity as a matter of attitude - what he calls the "hermeneutic attitude." The word "attitude" is significant, I think, because it locates his critical program not so much in a method as in a posture, a position. Kramer never explicitly defines this stance, except to posit all texts, including pieces of music, as "potentially secretive," as objects that "must be made to yield to understanding." The critic who attempts to interpret such texts behaves, then, something like a detective or a psychoanalyst-or (more crudely) like Geoffrey Hartman's football player, a figure invoked by Kramer in his earlier Music and Poetry: to uncover the meaning, "you spot a hole and you go through."' Fortunately, the metaphor Kramer develops in this book is less aggressive (and less obviously gendered) than Hartman's, although it tropes on a similar notion of a gap or opening within the otherwise "closed" text. We are

'Geoffrey Hartman, "The Voice of the Shuttle: Language from the Point of View of Literature," in Beyond Formalism: Literary Essays, 1958-1970 (New Haven, 1970), p. 351. Cited by Kramer in Music and Poetry: The Nineteenth Century and After (Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1984), p. 7.

concerned now with opening windows "hermeneutic windows" (an image that becomes something of a Leitmotiv within Kramer's opening chapter), "through which the discourse of our understanding can pass" (p. 6; see also p. 9). The metaphor suggests, of course, an opening for the circulation of air, the passage of light. But it also suggests - as is evident from the impressive window in the Liszt portrait discussed above - a portal exposing a vast exterior, wholly "other," unknown. From this vantage point, it is the text that occupies the exterior, always receding from our vision. To open a window on it is thus to "see" that distance, to contemplate the cultural or historical circumstances that separate the text from our experience; and, further, it is to move through that space, to take the "view" inside, as it were, by some act of consciousness. Such a process constitutes the basic activity of hermeneutics, a discourse that assumes, as Paul Ricoeur has noted, "that cultural and temporal distance is not only an abyss to be bridged, but a medium to pass through."2 Kramer's "hermeneutic window" thus represents-if I may be permitted to graft on another metaphor - a sort of "window of opportunity," affording access to texts through interpretive acts that, in his view, are always "opportunistic" (p. 14). The dimension most susceptible to such critical fenestration is, it would appear, rhetorical-at least, for Kramer, "structural tropes" represent the most significant and "ultimately the most powerful" type of hermeneutic openings. A trope is, of course, a figure of meaning. A "structural" trope would refer, then, to an organizing strategy that carries some meaning for the work in question -not a specific meaning (as in a sign) but a more general sensibility. Kramer defines such tropes as "units of doing rather than units of saying" (p. 10). We might also think of the trope, according to its etymology, as a particular kind of doing -a "turning"- that can function at multiple levels within a discourse. In classical rhetoric, for instance, the principal tropes of Metaphor,

Metonymy, Synecdoche, and Irony offered a fourfold scheme to account for such "turning," or unfolding, in the presentation of thought.3 While Kramer may not intend anything as systematic as this tropology-as, for instance, Hayden White uses the tropes in his Metahistory to account for the modes of nineteenthdoes incentury historical consciousness-he voke the term to suggest a procedure that can explain "the contents of experience which resist description."4 A structural trope for Kramer is thus a term for characterizing (very generally) the sorts of expressive turns within a composition, a corpus, or an entire musical style - turns that are broad enough in their function to be found across a spectrum of "expressive activity": not just music, but poetry and painting, literature and psychoanalysis. Kramer proceeds to explore such expressive activity, turn by turn, in the four central chapters of the book. The tropes he isolates for examination are, it seems, not always easy to define. In certain instances, his own explanations appear to undergo a metaphorical expansion in the attempt to specify the precise nature of the activity. This is the case with the trope of "expressive doubling," which he explores in Beethoven's two-movement piano sonatas.

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2Paul Ricoeur, "Rhetoric-Poetics-Hermeneutics," in From Metaphysics to Rhetoric, ed. Michael Meyer (Dordrecht, 1989), p. 146.

3Metaphor (literally, "transfer") refers to a figure in which a name is transferred to some object different from (but analogous to) the object ordinarily associated with that name; hence it deals with correspondences or similarities among wholes. Metonymy (literally, "change of name") denotes a figure in which a name for a (whole) thing is changed the name of one its attributes. Synechdoche (literally, "to take with something else") relates to Metonymy, in that it also deals with part-to-whole correspondences, but it is a more comprehensive figure, allowing for the substitution of a greater term for a lesser term belonging to the same object, and vice versa. And Irony (literally, "dissimulation") is a figure that encompasses larger semantic units, where an intended meaning is the opposite of an expressed meaning; hence irony, since it also deals with the transfer of whole units (here as units of meaning), can be taken as an "inflation" of the trope of metaphor to a higher level of discourse. On the subject of such tropological inflation, see Hans Kellner, "The Inflatable Trope as Narrative Theory: Structure or Allegory?" Diacritics 11 (1981), 14-28. 4Hayden White, Metahistory: The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth-Century Europe (Baltimore, 1973), pp. 33-34. White explains: "By identifying the dominant mode (or modes) of discourse, one penetrates to that level of consciousness on which a world of experience is constituted prior to being analyzed." 241

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"Doubling" may seem like an obvious enough process to discover within a set of pieces that come in two parts (and not in the usual three). Kramer takes this formal aberration as an opportunity to find meaning (these are pieces, he says, that are "not usually thought of together"). He defines doubling first as "a form of repetition in which alternative versions of the same pattern define a cardinal difference in perspective" (p. 22), a form whose meaning he then links to a series of Romantic aesthetic polarities, subject/object, low/high, actual/ideal. Doubling is described as "the trope of the possible, the extra, the unforseen" (p. 36), which, in addition, may articulate a state of both "transferred" (p. 31) and "deferred" (p. 33) ambivalence. The difficulty with such definitions may arise simply from the attempt to give too precise a name to a very broad, or even vague, tendency - a tendency that Beethoven presumably found "'in the air' around him" (p. 25). In the next chapter, on the A-Minor Prelude of Chopin (op. 28), we encounter a similar difficulty in Kramer's notion of the "impossible object," which, stated in that form, is less a trope than a sort of incongruous imago. Kramer's analysis begins with straightforward statements about the nature of the Prelude (it is a "study in dialectic," he asserts [p. 73]), an introduction that merges into a discussion of Romantic desire. The impossible object itself appears midway through the essay, defined first as something "excessive either in beauty or deformity"; it has an "irrevocable strangeness" and "exerts a fascination" (p. 85). Later it assumes a form that incorporates the whole problematic nature of human subjectivity: "impossible objects mitigate the excesses of Romantic subjectivity. ... [They] are projected fragments of the subject's incoherence .... [They] tend to disguise their origin" (p. 89). By the end we may feel that the metaphor itself has become as incoherent as the Romantic subject it represents. The going gets a little easier in the next two chapters, perhaps because Kramer no longer has to press his own metaphors into service. In his discussion of Liszt's Faust Symphony, in fact, the term "structural trope" does not even appear, as the analysis of gender representation within the symphony centers on the idea of the
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male gaze. And in chapter 5, on "Musical Form and Fin-de-Siecle Sexuality," Kramer reinterprets the famous deceptive cadence in Wagner's Tristan Prelude as a manifestation of Lust (hence the principal activity of the contrapuntal complex becomes the "Lust-trope"), which he relates to emerging notions of desire as theorized in Freud's early Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality. All these "units of doing," as Kramer variously defines them, could be seen themselves to turn on the classical rhetorical categories of Metaphor, Metonymy, Synecdoche, and Irony, with their respective functions of representing, reducing, integrating, or negating.5 In this sense, the so-called tropes of Lust and "the gaze" in Wagner and Liszt appear essentially Metaphorical, where the music is heard to represent, more or less directly, the operations of libido, on the one hand, and specular desire, on the other. The "doubling" manifested in the Beethoven sonatas suggests the modes of Metonymy and especially Synecdoche, in their play upon the relations among parts and wholes.6 And, along the same lines, Kramer's "impossible object" appears as a manifestation of the trope of Irony, whose modality is, of course, dialectical. In other words, Kramer's analysis of the tropes within these various nineteenth-century repertories could be seen to reflect the very scheme from which he himself borrows the notion of trope. His own thinking is tropological, despite the absence of such a self-conscious scheme in his own outline. It would remain only to determine the significance of these four master tropes for a hermeneutics of music. If I overinterpret in proposing to schematize Kramer's categories in this way, it is in order to

5See again White, Metahistory, p. 34: "Irony, Metonymy, and Synecdoche are kinds of Metaphor, but they differ from one another in the kinds of reductions or integrations they effect on the literal level of their meanings and by the kinds of illuminations they aim at on the figurative level. Metaphor is essentially representational, Metonymy is reductionist, Synecdoche is integrative, and Irony is negational." 6Indeed, the notion that, in Beethoven's piano sonatas, the second movement might represent an idealized version of the first strongly suggests the Synecdochic "mythos" White finds within the Romantic historical narratives of Hegel and Ranke. See White, Metahistory, chaps. 2 and 4.

discover a deeper conceptual basis for his project. What is characteristic, and for me somewhat disturbing, is the way he himself eschews such a systematic presentation, offering "outlines" and "roadmaps" in place of more coherent models. Terms like "hermeneutic window" and "structural trope" appear to stand for some larger concept, to allude to a theory; but in the end, we have only the terms (and the allusions) to fall back on.7 Kramer's explanatory gestures in the opening chapter make this stance clear. The one "strategic map" of musical hermeneutics he does provide reads like a parody of Continental criticism, with its conceived by one notorious playfulness, steeped in a tradition of Anglo-American pragmatism. Here is the final piece of critical advice: "[Step] 5. Perform these steps in any order and as often as you like, omitting any that you do not need.... In fact, throw away this map before you use it" (p. 14). We should take this parting shot not as a "joke," he explains, but as "a sober recognition of the character of interpretation." In other words, while Kramer appeals to us to expand our vision of a musical hermeneutics, he also resists analyzing that vision in greater detail. It is like a curious manifestation of the Lust-trope he invokes in chapter 4: for those interested in resolving the complex of issues he introduces, it is a climactic "occasion of unfulfillment." Kramer, of course, wants to be read in this way. If his hermeneutic attitude is committed to anything, I think, it is to the idea that meaning, like Freudian desire, is always "fluid." Hence the idea of constructing a theory of musical hermeneutics becomes impossible when the very set of terms on which such a theory might be based would itself be fluid, open to continuous reinterpretation. "Rapturous unfulfillment" takes on a kind of tactical necessity. Indeed, chapter 5 offers a passage that is illuminating in the context. Referring

to Freud's own discussion of "libido" in the Three Essays, Kramer notes that within less than half a page ... Freuddescribes the libido as increasing and diminishing, distributing and displacing itself, concentrating on objects, becoming fixed on them, abandoning them, moving between objects, and directing the subject's . .. activity (p. 141). This could be a description of one of Kramer's own chapters. "Within half a page" we too are likely to find him offering multiple descriptions of a single phenomenon, introducing and displacing concepts, breathlessly moving between examples of poetry, philosophy, music, fixing on some, abandoning others. From this perspective, we could say that the "model" of interpretation that Music as Cultural Practice offers is essentially libidinal: the fluidity of meaning generates a mobile criticism. A clue to this critical model comes, in fact, early in the book. Kramer turns in the first chapter to J. L. Austin, whose notion of "performative" language he introduces as part of the intellectual background to his argument. The aspect of the performative most useful to Kramer is its quality of force ("illocutionary force," in Austin's terms): the power of an utterance to do, rather than say, something. Kramer develops this notion, following the critique of Austin by Derrida, to include - indeed, to emphasizethe power of statements to do things other than what they intend. "Illocutionary force" (a term that quickly becomes central to his critical enterprise) thus appears to stand as a sign of the disruptive power of words, a power that sets meaning in motion. Such a privileging of mobility gives rise to what could be called a "performative" hermeneutics, an interpretive practice that plays on the fluidity of forms and meanings by moving virtuosically from example to example. Kramer anticipates the ability of language constantly to "misfire," as he puts it, by aiming in all directions at once. The result is often a sort of titillating montage (as in MTV), where "meaning" would seem to lie not in any single image but in the movement between them. Perhaps the most representative chapter in this respect is "Impossible Objects: Apparitions, Reclining Nudes, and Chopin's Prelude in A Minor,"
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7One such allusion is the largely undefined notion of "hermeneutics" itself, the single reference to Gadamer's Truth and Method relegated to a hasty footnote in the opening chapter.

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whose very title gives an indication of the range of territory to be covered. The discussion of Chopin takes into account (in the following order): a passage from Gide; Keat's "Ode to a the Cristabel; Nightingale"; Coleridge's A-Minor Prelude itself (together with its slew of interpreters); Wordsworth and Goethe; a Kafka parable; Wordsworth's "Resolution and Independence"; E. T. A. Hoffmann's "A New Year's Adventure"; Gericault's Study of Dissected Limbs; then, in a section about "disruptive interludes," discussions of Beethoven, Mahler, Schubert, Berlioz, Goethe, and Coleridge; and, to close, a glance at Manet's Olympia and a passage from one of Chopin's letters ("a chapter devoted to incoherence should not tie things up too neatly" [p. 97]). The most vertiginous moment in my reading occurs, as it happens, at the section introducing the "disruptive interlude" (p. 93), where the section heading, a Roman numeral III, becomes itself a force of disruption, "problematizing a boundary," as it marks a division in the text we have already reached: Section III has appeared, once before, on page 84. The whole section thus seems to announce an idea "in flux," calling into question the very chronological basis of argument. Yet the moment simply emphasizes what is obvious in Kramer's practice all along. The disruptive interludes, the vertiginous leaps are manifestations of his interpretive libido. This performative hermeneutics is all about, in a word, "force": the force of the critic to assert, to do something. Kramer's references to Nietzsche on the "dance" of writing in the final chapter, together with the prominent reference to Derrida on the very question of force simply re-in-force for the reader the book's essential bias toward the fluidity of meaning. Indeed, it might be that Kramer actually models himself in this book after the dancing Nietzsche, who says: "I have many stylistic possibilities - the most multifarious art of style that has ever been at the disposal of one man" (pp. 178-79). Kramer cites this passage as an example of his (infelicitously named) trope of "other-voicedness," whose function, it seems, is to mark his own stance as a deconstructive critic. But I would rather think of his criticism as somehow polyphonic: not so much "othervoiced," as "many-voiced." Readers who have
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followed Kramer's writings over the last decade will, of course, be familiar with his signature style, a "double-voiced" criticism, which moves from literary to musical analysis with equal fluency. In this book, he seems to take flight into an even more elaborate polyphony; the number of "voices" has substantially increased. It is as if Kramer were attempting to embody, in a single work, the essential nature of hermeneutics, which, according to Ricoeur, is "multivocal.'"8 Yet the force of the polyphonic readings, the multiple analogies, may sometimes promote a type of critical blindness (or deafness, to sustain the metaphor). There are times in my reading when, swept along by the examples, I simply wonder what Kramer is hearing. In his discussion of the Chopin Prelude, for example, the force of one image - that of a mirror - leads him to conclude that the Prelude itself embodies a mirroring activity: "[it] makes a disturbed reflection the sign of subjective extravagance" (p. 96). His idea comes from an analysis of the Prelude that demonstrates its unfolding of two "structural descents of a minor seventh," from e1 down to f#, then from a down to B (shown on p. 93). The octave transfer that yields his "structural" seventh in the first half of the piece needs some justification. Such a reading immediately privileges middleground over foreground, a bias that seems surprising given Kramer's intensive attention to surfaces elsewhere in the book. Indeed, the surface of the piece suggests not two melodic statements, but something more like a tiny strophic song-or a strophic song gone awry. From this perspective we have an initial statement or "strophe" followed by a second (transposed up a fifth), and then a third (transposed again). The third time around, however, the opening gesture breaks the pattern, a turn that silences the accompaniment and allows the voice momentarily to sing alone only to be interrupted by a highly formal closing gesture, whose stolid sonorities seem to rehabilitate the murky bass that had earlier
8"Under this fundamental condition, interpretation- the central theme of hermeneutics-is seen to be a theory of multiple Ricoeur, "Rhetoric-Poeticsmeaning." Hermeneutics," p. 144.

sustained the melody. In such a reading, the melody does not suggest an easy binary division; rather, it suggests a cycle that could, in fact, go on - that might (if the pattern were not broken) keep reiterating itself, each time in increasingly problematic contexts. This rhetorical strategy calls to mind not a mirror but, oddly enough, the notion of "stanzaic doubling," which Kramer had earlier introduced in reference to Beethoven's and Goethe's "Kennst du das Land." A second, briefer example raises similar questions. Kramer's reading of Beethoven's op. 78 suggests that the first theme of the second movement is "a jumble" that "celebrate[s] the mercurial, slightly malicious pleasures of discontinuity." This is brought about, he says, by "three, parallel but disjointed statements of a melodic fragment" (p. 44). My point here is smaller (perhaps pickier), but it focuses again on what might be called the rhetorical dimension of the musical text. The opening twelvemeasure period is indeed "discontinuous," but in a very specific way. It is the second phrase that is out of whack; for the first four-measure phrase actually forms the antecedent to the last four-measure's consequent. The unfinished opening is emphasized by the interruption of the second phrase, a phrase that seems, in a sense, to come from the "wrong" period. The rhetorical surface of the statement as a whole suggests an idea that does not know how to end. Discontinuity hence comes not from "fragmentation" per se, but from the disruption of the order of events that would constitute a "normal" statement. Of course, these sorts of questions can always be raised about musical interpretations. Indeed, one might say that, from a hermeneutical perspective, Kramer has no responsibility at all to persuade me of the "rightness" of his interpretation. (He himself argues, on p. 15, that "for any given interpretation, an alternative always exists.") Ricoeur has suggested that such freedom marks the essential difference between hermeneutics and rhetoric, an art whose fundamental purpose is to persuade an audience: the task of an art of interpretation,comparedto one of argumentation, is less to win acceptance for one

opinion over another than it is to allow a text to signify as much as it can, not to signify one thing rather than another, but to "signify more," and thus to make us "think more" according to Kant's expression in the Critique of Judgment.9 But the question of audience (as suggested at the beginning of this essay) is significant for Kramer's hermeneutics. As in the Liszt portrait, there appear to be, in fact, two different audiences for this performance: the musicians who (like the Italian duo) stand to face the music; and the literati who tend instead to face the viewer, their turned heads signifiying various attitudes of attention or inattention (Marie d'Agoult is the decorous exception). A view of Kramer's work would likewise suggest such a dual audience, having potentially divergent responses and occupying different registers or spaces within the work as a whole. Musicologists are, of course, the most prominent contingent (witness the pantheon that makes its appearance on p. 18, all speaking for Berlioz); but there is a moment in the final chapter where the second audience, that of literary scholars, comes into view more prominently. The moment becomes, so to speak, a hermeneutic window for my own understanding of Kramer's text. The chapter itself, entitled "As if a Voice Were in Them," centers on the question of narrative in music, a topic that has been explored in the recent work of a number of musicologists, most notably Anthony Newcomb and Carolyn Abbate. Kramer devotes a substantial portion of the chapter to Newcomb, to whose concept of narrative he responds with a deconstructive ("other-voiced") counterargument, drawing principally on the work of Paul de Man to question the reliability of the narrative procedures Newcomb ascribes to instrumental music. Later in the chapter, after a brief discussion of Beethoven's "La Malinconia," he concludes with a series of questions about the modes of musical understanding and calls on one more literary critic. I will cite the passage in full: As [...] JeromeMcGann has argued, the Romantic ideal sometimes called unity of being- "a complete"Ibid., p. 146.

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ness of idea, completeness of culture, perfection of art"-is typically theorized in fragmentary forms, "brilliant,argumentative,ceaseless, exploratory,incomplete, and not always very clear." Romantic poems take a parallel position; they observe "the realm of the ideal ... as precarious- liable to vanish or move beyond one's reach at any time"; they "take up transcendent and ideal subjects because these subjects occupy areas of critical uncertainty," and their aim "is to rediscover the ground of stability in these situations." To all of which I would
add: yes, but ... But consider Schumann's Carnaval [...] (p. 210).

The passage reveals a telling aspect of what we could call the politics of Kramer's hermeneutics. For it shows Kramer speaking no longer to musicologists, but directly to the literati, to those with their heads turned away from the music, as if to take them from their reverie, from their potential inattention. The

rhetorical shift in the chapter away from Newcomb toward McGann shows, indeed, Kramer's awareness of a dual audience for his work. But it also points up how Kramer positions himself as a mediator between those two audiences. He "plays" to both, in a most unusual way. Here he plays to McGann with Schumann, where earlier he played to Newcomb (and to us?) with de Man and Freud and Derrida. The sort of polyphonic hermeneutics he performs helps him to do this, providing him with different voices ("other-voices") with which to speak. The "yes, but ..." becomes the critical turn in a performance designed to reach a diverse body of listeners. But there may be another, unspoken advantage to this turn, one that reveals the ultimate privilege of the critic. For through such a performative strategy Kramer maintains, like Liszt at the piano, his centrality as masterinterpreter, as prestidigitator - a position that is, in the end, difficult to speak against.

Themes and Variations

JOHN DAVERIO Brahms Studies: Analytical and Historical Perspectives. Edited by George S. Bozarth. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1990. xi, 472pp. Just a little over a century ago, Friedrich Nietzsche queried churlishly in the Second Postscript to his Der Fall Wagner: "What does Johannes Brahms matter now?"' To judge from the activities of the last decade's Brahms Year, which saw among other events no fewer than seven conferences devoted to the master and his music in London, Florence, Vienna, Hamburg, Leipzig, Kiel, and Washington, D.C., the answer to Nietzsche's question, at least in 1983, was-very much indeed. While the papers from four of these colloquia (Kiel, Hamburg, London, Vienna) were published within a reasonably short time of the sesquicentennial celebrations,2 the appearance of the Washington Conference essays has been anxiously
2Brahms-Analysen: Referate der Kieler Tagung 1983, ed. Friedhelm Krummacher and Wolfram Steinbeck (Kassel, 1984); Brahms und seine Zeit: Symposion Hamburg 1983 (Laaber, 1984); Brahms 2: Biographical, Documentary and Analytical Studies, ed. Michael Musgrave (Cambridge, 1987); Brahms-Kongress, Wien, 1983: Kongressbericht, ed. Susanne Antonicek and Otto Biba (Tutzing, 1988). The Fall 1983 issue (vol. 69) of Musical Quarterly was likewise devoted to a series of Brahms articles.

'Friedrich Nietzsche, The Birth of Tragedy and The Case of Wagner, trans. Walter Kaufman (New York, 1967), p. 187.

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