Monday, April 17, 2017

Tales From the Old New Land - Tale 4 1/2 - An Interview with Ivan Ticoczki - Taking Shape


AC Charlap: We have just heard the fourth and worst of the Psalm settings by the Composer of the Old New Land, Ivan Ticoczki, whose settings of the Psalms we broadcast all throughout our podcasts. Ticoczki is a recipient of the Polar Music Prize, known also as the Musical Nobel, and is known particularly for a joint statement of protest against his receiving the award co-signed by famous critics and musicologists Norman Lebrecht, Edward Said, Robert Craft, Richard Taruskin, Jay Nordlinger, Martin Bernheimer, Alan Rich, and John Simon as being the worst possible recipient of the Polar Music Prize. You responded in your acceptance speech that you agreed with them and said, and I quote: "when you survive the Camps they want to give you a lot of awards."

Ivan Ticoczki: That's true.

Charlap: Evidence was then presented that you were not in fact in the Camps and had escaped during World War II and at various points lived in New York, London, and Los Angeles.

Ticoczki: Also true.

Charlap: Whatever the truth, you've clearly lived an extremely fascinating life. You've at least claimed to have been witness to most of the major cultural developments of the last hundred-three years.

Ticoczki: Yes.

Charlap: How did this come to be, can you tell us where you're born?

Ticoczki: I was born in a town called Bransk.

Charlap: It's known for its Science Yeshiva yes?

Ticoczki: Yes.

Charlap: Now Bransk is in a part of Europe that has belonged at various points in your life to Austria-Hungary, Czarist Russia, Poland, the Free City of Danzig, The Soviet Union, Lithuania, Czechoslovakia, then Slovakia, and now I believe it's part of Belarus. Is that correct?

Ticoczki: Who cares.

Charlap: Fair enough.

Ticoczki: I did not live there long enough to go to the Bransk High School of Science, we left by the time I was three.

Charlap: And I believe you were born on June 28, 1914, the day of the assassination of Archduke Franz-Ferdinand is that also correct?

Ticoczki: Yes.

Charlap: It is said that there is a picture of you being held by your father in the October Revolution when he stood next to Lenin.

Ticoczki: Yes, my father was a Chassidicher Rabbi turned Orthodox Marxist who personally shot the family of Czar Nicholas.

Charlap: But the dates for that don't quite line up. Your father fell out of favor with Lenin because of his failure to starve more than half-a-million peasants by the time of the Treaty of Brest-Litovsk's signing so that the provisions Germans provided for Russia's withdrawal from the war would last the Red Army through the coming Civil War against the Whites. This was in March 1918, so your family escaped from the Soviet Union a full four months before Czar Nicholas the Second was assassinated.

Ticoczki: Is that my fault?

Charlap: I suppose not. But even if your father was not the assassin of Czar Nicholas, you played an pivotal role in the death of Walter Rathenau.

Ticoczki: Yes indeed, we had to make a living in Germany, and for a bit less than a year I was Rathenau's personal shoeshiner. I was not quite eight years old yet, and in the climate of Weimar, he did not even trust his personal chauffeur. He chose me because I told him I was fifteen, not eight. The circumstances of the death of Rathenau were very similar to that of the assassination of Archduke Franz-Ferdinand. I thought I knew a shortcut to the Foreign Office on Wilhelmstrasse. Unfortunately, we were intercepted on the way by right-wing extremists in a car with a machine gun. The machine gun missed me and may have missed Rathenau, but when they lobbed a grenade into my seat, I threw it in the direction of Rathenau, and it exploded half his body. This means that I may not only have been Rathenau's cause of death, but therefore the cause of eighteen-million more deaths due to Hitler - a fact of which I am both ashamed and deeply proud.

Charlap: It's also interesting because one of the first deaths at the hands of Nazis was your father's a year later.

Ticoczki: My father believed greatly in believing in things. He died in Munich during Hitler's Beer Hall Putsch the day after a Nazi threw a brick at him. He was so thrilled by the experience that he made me promise on his deathbed to try to join the Nazi Party.

Charlap: Records show that you became a Nazi party member in 1933 for exactly one day.

Ticoczki: Yes, I joined the Nazi Party in the hope of getting musical commissions from Albert Speer. We had an appointment to go swimming in a Berlin gymnasium followed by a Turkish Bath. My membership was revoked when it was discovered I was circumcised.

Charlap: How did you not see that coming?

Ticoczki: There were lots of Jews in 1933 who wanted to join the party.

Charlap: How can that be?

Ticoczki: We didn't think Hitler was serious!

Charlap: You didn't??

Ticoczki: He could a man that swish be a Nazi???

Charlap: But this was a very interesting period for you. In the Early 30's you lived in Berlin, and apparently had an affair with Hannah Arendt.

Ticoczki: Indeed.

Charlap: Apparently you went into hiding when your rival for Arendt, Martin Heidegger, put you on an arrest list, and escaped to Paris with Raymond Aron.

Ticoczki: Ja.

Charlap: And Aron would later claim that his book, The Opium of the Intellectuals in which he criticized the fashionable flirtation of intellectuals with totalitarian systems...

Ticoczki: ...was based on the contempt he felt after talking on the train with me. Arendt also later said that 'the banality of evil' was based on her experience of our relationship.

Charlap: That claim was proven to be a lie.

Ticoczki: If you say so.

Charlap: But let's stay on Berlin for a moment. You were also involved briefly with Lotte Lenya, weren't you?

Ticoczki: Everybody was. Brecht, Einstein, Heinrich Mann, Georg Grosz, Fritz Lang, one night she went home with the entire Frankfurt School.

Charlap: How did Kurt Weill feel about this?

Ticoczki: He didn't know.

Charlap: It's interesting that you mention Fritz Lang. When you were 17 you wrote a score to accompany M.

Ticoczki: Yes, Lang hated it so much that he burned it.

Charlap: Really?

Ticoczki:  He told me that he could just have Peter Lorre whistle Hall of the Mountain King and it would be better than what I wrote.

Charlap: That's pretty harsh.

Ticoczki: Nein, it was scheissemusik.

Charlap: Did you have any involvement with the great opera companies of 20's Berlin?

Ticoczki: Indeed I did. I sang third boy in The Magic Flute with Bruno Walter and he was so impressed with my performance that he immediately agreed to premiere my fourth symphony in his concert series at the Berlin Philharmonic.

Charlap: That was known as a disastrous premiere.

Ticoczki: Indeed, Bruno Walter had a stomach bug, but it was said that he was so disgusted with the music that after the symphony was over he threw up in the tuba.

Charlap: Nevertheless, shortly thereafter you got a commission from Otto Klemperer to write for the Kroll Opera.

Ticoczki: Ja, it was only a chamber opera for which I wrote the book in which the Emperor of a distant kingdom goes off in search of a woman with the perfect nosejob. It was six hours long, had a cast of a hundred fifty plus chorus and an orchestra of three hundred. It has not been staged in full since 1928.

Charlap: You absconded to Paris but you didn't spend much time there until after the war.

Ticoczki: Quite true.

Charlap: By 1934 you were living in Vienna.

Ticoczki: Yes, I went to Vienna to abandon music.

Charlap: Vienna is the city of Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, Brahms, Mahler... That seems rather counterintuitive.

Ticoczki: Perhaps, but I wanted to be a writer.

Charlap: Did you write anything?

Ticoczki: No.

Charlap: Then how were you a writer?

Ticoczki: There were lots of writers in Vienna who did not write.

Charlap: Then what did they do?

Ticoczki: They sat in the coffeehouses, where they would loudly proclaim witticisms to professionals who would make a great show of laughing, even though the din was so loud that they could not hear properly most of what we said.

Charlap: So, in a sense, you were a professional former of witticisms?

Ticoczki: Yes.

Charlap: Can you tell us any of them?

Ticoczki: No.

Charlap: You can't remember any of them?

Ticoczki: They lose meaning in translation.

Charlap: But surely...

Ticoczki: The Vienna of those years is impossible to convey to those who were not there. It was a great and unrepeatable gathering of intellect, and being intelligent was so important that nobody did anything.

Charlap: Fascinating.

Ticoczki: There were writers like Musil and Broch and Canetti who wrote very long books that we all claimed to have read and none of us made it past the second page.

Charlap: But you all read Stefan Zweig.

Ticoczki: Yes, but he paid us to read him.

Charlap: I'm told that when the Nazis came to Vienna you attempted suicide half-a-dozen times.

Ticoczki: This is true.

Charlap: You must have been quite despondent.

Ticoczki: No I actually felt I that in suicide finally had a metier to become a great artist. Suicide in Vienna was a great art into which many artists and philosophers put great effort into staging. I had a magnificent idea for a suicide in which I would be strung along by pulleys into a pile of marzipan, between getting my head caught in the pulleys and the molasses, I was sure I would die. Unfortunately, the pulley's broke, and I contracted diabetes for which I lost a foot in the Jewish hospital.

Charlap: You then arrived in London and claim you were the lover that drove Virginia Woolf to suicide.

Ticoczki: She was a very confused women. She was a lesbian who was also an anti-semite, but she was also attracted to particularly ugly and dwarf-like Jews, whom she thought possessed a cheap and low cunning which she found incredibly erotic. She could live very easily with her attraction to women and with infidelities to Leonard, but she hated herself for being attracted to Jews, and planned on blaming her suicide on me as an assassination. The famous suicide note she left for Leonard Woolf was in fact planted by me, when I realized that she would use her letter to frame me, and I made a copy of a new letter in her handwriting.

Charlap: This resulted in your being accused by George Orwell of having murdered Virginia Woolf.

Ticoczki: I will not answer any more questions about this matter.

Charlap: You also became a frequent houseguest of John Maynard Keynes in London.

Ticoczki: Yes, and he was a swine.

Charlap: What do you mean?

Ticoczki: I have known many many geniuses in my life, but Maynard Keynes was, without a doubt, the most unpleasant in addition to being one of the most brilliant. He was an anti-semite and a snob who was always trying to throw me out of his house for having sexual relations with people who were not him.

Charlap: Why didn't you leave?

Ticoczki: I had to have somewhere I could bring Virginia, and being at the receiving end of Maynard's abuse was much less boring than staying with Forester or Elliot...

Charlap: You also claim you were in Terezinstadt during this same period.

Ticoczki: I had a rich Capo who was a very great fan of music, and he allowed me week-long visits to Virginia and John in England on chartered planes for which he would pay the full expense.

Charlap: But there were so many great musical figures in this period living in Terezin in circumstances that were truly sub-human: Pavel Haas, Erwin Schulhoff, Viktor Ullmann, Hans Krasa, Karel Ancerl, Gideon Klein, Alma Rose, Ilse Weber....

Ticoczki: Oh... Ja, they were let out too.

Charlap: What??

Ticoczki: They went to see their various lovers in Prague and Vienna for weeks at a time on furlough so long as they promised to return.

Charlap: This will be news to the entire music world. Why did they return?

Ticoczki: They believed the camps were their best chance for survival.

Charlap: How is that possible?

Ticoczki: We all believed that Terezin would eventually change and be the humanitarian city for the Jews which the Fuhrer claimed it was.

Charlap: How could you have possibly believed that?

Ticoczki: In Vienna we were vermin. In Terezin we had a chance to be the most honored Jewish composers in history.

Charlap: That's the most incredible thing I've ever heard!

Ticoczki: Remember, none of us thought that the Deutschen Volk would be as stupid as they were. Eventually, the German people would rise up and atone for their sins and we would be the honored artists of the Deutschen Reich who were rewarded extra performances for our persecution.

Charlap: But you never returned to that area after the war.

Ticoczki: Not to live no....

Charlap: In fact, during that period of the early 40's, both Stravinsky and Schoenberg claimed you took lessons with them in Los Angeles.

Ticoczki: Ja. I was on furlough from Terezin.

Charlap: They flew you there and back from California???

Ticoczki: Why is this so unbelievable.

Charlap: You'll just have to permit me a minute of disbelief.

Ticoczki: I learned very little from either Schoenberg or Stravinsky.

Charlap: They both seem to have agreed with that statement.

Ticoczki: Ja...

Charlap: Schoenberg apparently wrote of you to Thomas Mann and said that 'He is by such great a margin the most incompetent pupil I ever had that even John Cage is Mozart in comparison.'

Ticoczki: I can't help it if Schoenberg did not accept the theories of music I tried to teach him.

Charlap: You had theories you tried to teach Schoenberg???

Ticoczki: Ja! He was so rigid and dogmatic. His music required such great order that it sounded like disorder. I told him that the crucial key to writing great music which he missed was incompetence and amateurism. I deliberately wrote terrible part exercises to show him that bad musicianship is more beautiful than good.

Charlap: He claimed that you wouldn't know how to write better counterpoint even if you tried.

Ticoczki: What does that matter?!?

Charlap: In any event, one thing at which you were clearly not an incompetent at was bartending. In fact, when not even a teenager, you were remembered as the youngest bartender in Paris.

Ticoczki: Oui, I was still only eleven and a bit over four feet tall. So I would stand on the bar of the Moulin Rouge and take the orders of many Americans like Hemingway and the Fitzgeralds, at twelve I lost my virginity to Josephine Baker and again to Sergei Diaghilev. I threw Hemingway out of the Moulin Rouge many times and nearly beat him to death with the soprano saxophone of Sidney Bechet. And I was drawn by Jean Cocteau, Picasso, Dali, Chagall, Matisse, Mogdiliani.

Charlap: All of these drawings, by the way, are evidently lost.

Ticoczki: They were confiscated from my Ile Saint-Louis flat by Vichy.

Charlap: I see.

Ticoczki: I also invented the Boulevardier for Zelda Fitzgerald and the Jack Rose for Maurice Chevalier.

Charlap: Did you have much to do with music during this time?

Ticoczki: I wrote a lot of Charleston Dances for Josephine and ghostwrote about a hundred thirty pieces for Darius Milhuad, but no. Not really.

Charlap: Your biography says that immediately after the war you went to New York.

Ticoczki: Yes, this period was the favorite period of my life, but I'm afraid I must get some sleep now.

Charlap: Can we talk about it when you wake up?

Ticoczki: We can talk about it when you come back in a year or two, I'll still be here.




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Charlap: About four years before you got the Polar Music Prize, you published a rather infamous memoir.

Ticoczki: I don't understand what was so infamous about it.

Charlap: Well, first of all because it was a three volume, twenty-eight hundred page memoir in which you claimed yourself the greatest cultural figure since King David. 

Ticoczki: Is it such a crime to be a great man? 

Charlap: Don't you find the claim rather extravagant?

Ticoczki: Is it my fault to be what I am?

Charlap: Well regardless of what you are, I think a lot of people thought you should have been more charitable to others?

Ticoczki: What about this world is charitable? The charity of tolerance has given us the chaos of the twentieth century. I strive to bring a bit of order to a world experiencing much chaos. 

Charlap: Your opinion is your opinion, but it does not seem to be shared by anyone.

Ticoczki: History will vindicate me. 

Charlap: Well, let's take just a few examples of your... we'll just call them uncommon opinions. For example this one: "The music of Bach is the Christian lie set in musical form. It presents an all-knowing, infinitely compassionate God whom in his ever loving mercy sends all but a hundred-forty-four thousand of us to hell. Bach's music is supposedly the music emanating from Heaven's organ-loft, but it is in fact the Devil's Trill."

Ticoczki: What's wrong with that opinion?

Charlap: Well nothing's wrong with it, but you must admit that your opinion is uncommon.

Ticoczki: Common opinions are for common people. I still believe that Bach was a minorly great composer after a fashion and it is not Bach's fault that he was the instrument through which posterity subsumed an entire millennium's worth of Christian music, but the music of Christianity is a music of a transcendence that does not exist nor would it be desirable if the world allowed for it. 

Charlap: Well then there's the infamous passage when you said that there were a half dozen better composers in the generation preceding you than Stravinsky, Bartok, or Schoenberg. Milan Kundera pointed out in 'Testaments Betrayed' that you excoriate Stravinsky for having abandoned feeling and Bartok for having abandoned didacticism in the same paragraph.

Ticoczki: You should not forget that I also attacked Hindemith in this passage for abandoning both. But it is not my doing. I cannot help it if Bartok's two transcendent masterpieces are musical instruction manuals.

Charlap: You mean the 44 Violin Duets...

Ticoczki: ...and the Mikrokosmos. In the growth of this music's sophistication we hear the evolution of intellect and human soul to its full capacities. 

Charlap: But these are instructional pieces to help children play their instruments.

Ticoczki: I knew Bartok, you didn't. He was a human robot, only his children moved him. 

Charlap: But what about your praise of pieces like the Third Piano Concerto and the Concerto for Orchestra?

Ticoczki: Yes, they still have problems but they are better.

Charlap: And you really believe that Kodaly is a better composer than Bartok?

Ticoczki: Insofar as his artistic priorities are more correct, yes.

Charlap: There are people who dislike Bach, but this is an opinion shared by literally no one.

Ticoczki: History will prove me right.

Charlap: And then you talk about Stravinsky, from whom you received an enormous amount of financial help in Los Angeles during the War, and you say that after Les Noces he should have never written another note because all he ever produced was notes. 

Ticoczki: Stravinsky wouldn't have given me a penny if he wasn't interested in my ex-wife. 

Charlap: But nothing Stravinsky did was worth anything? Oedipus? The Rake's Progress? Agon? The Symphony of Psalms? The Fairy's Kiss? The Violin Concerto?

Ticoczki: Well, the last three you mentioned are better. Stravinsky wasn't a composer, he was a brilliant musical thief. 

Charlap: That's a direct quote from your autobiography.

Ticoczki: Yes. When he stole from the Russian sources that meant something to him, his thievery was very moving, but when he tried to steal from other cultures the act of stealing meant nothing to him. 

Charlap: Speaking about what you said about your wife, you also seem to allude to the idea that Stravinsky....

Ticoczki: Yes, he stole my wife too, but she was German, and therefore his act of theft was not sincere at all.

Charlap: You also say that there have only ever been exactly nine great composers, and every other composer is at best a composer who wrote great music by accident.

Ticoczki: Monteverdi, Mozart, Beethoven, Schumann, Mussorgsky, Janacek, Mahler, Ives, Shostakovich.

Charlap: You then talk of nine levels of lesser greatness - you call it 'lesser receptivity.'

Ticoczki: Yes, the first and highest level of receptivity are those composers whose ears act as the crown from which you can survey the entire kingdom of music, and can absorb and adapt all modes of influence into their music and render them in such a way that any expressive or emotional reaction is possible. They are pure expression through sound. I then refer to the nine lesser levels of receptivity under different names, there are nine different composers in each category, because there are exactly nine great composers, exactly eighteen composers who are good, and exactly twenty-seven who are decent, and exactly thirty-six composers who are competent. It is my belief that there will be another ten composers who are greater than incompetent before music ceases to be altogether.

Charlap: I suppose our audience will want to know which composers are which.

Ticoczki: The good composers are divided between the wise composers: like Haydn and Mendelssohn and Liszt and Brahms and Nielsen who are masculine, and the intuitive composers like Schubert and Dvorak and Bizet and Poulenc and Gershwin who are feminine.

Charlap: That's truly insightful.

Ticoczki: We then move to realms of the decent composers. The kind composers like Faure and Copland and Vaughan Williams, severe composers like Schoenberg and Bartok and Sibelius, the beautiful composers like Chopin and Debussy and Purcell. Beneath them lies the realm of the competent composers: the eternal composers like Bruckner and Messiaen and Josquin, the splendid composers like Richard Strauss and Handel and Berlioz, and the foundational composers like Bach and Gluck and Machaut. Underneath them, you have the king-composers. A king is an unjust man who takes what should be rightfully the property of others, therefore they are the composers who emulate other composers but are in fact only imitative of greater voices. Neo-classical composers are particularly in this sphere: Stravinsky is one, Hindemith is another, Prokofiev, Milhaud, Martinu, but also Wagner, and pre-classicists like Vivaldi, Lassus and Palestrina who plagiarized themselves hundreds of times.

Charlap: But isn't this a little too mathematically neat?

Ticoczki: That is not possible. Music requires formal cohesion.

Charlap: But isn't it possible you have to make exceptions for composers you haven't heard yet?

Ticoczki: Do not question me.

Charlap: Alright. I'm sure you know what the obvious question is about your nine great composers...

Ticoczki: No.

Charlap: What made them great?

Ticoczki: I already defined them. These are the nine which had the correct artistic priorities.

Charlap: Which are?

Ticoczki: I explained it as simply as I could, and if it could be properly explained I would do so.

Charlap: But you spend 450 pages doing exactly that.

Ticoczki: But that is a failure, I estimate that it would require another eight-thousand pages.

Charlap: Nevertheless, I'm going to quote you. "The correct artistic priorities are a willingness to be open to all the diverse possibilities of the universe's expression. All expression of human experience, animal and plant experience, biological, chemical, physical, must manifest themselves in the greatest music, and one must have an omnipresent sense of the unpredictability of experience's totality."

Ticoczki: I would not be nearly so dogmatic today. I was a young man when I wrote that.

Charlap: You were eighty-five.

Ticoczki: Nevertheless...

Charlap: You also write of tragic examples of composers who came close enough to the correct artistic priorities that we can only mourn that their music is not better than it is.

Ticoczki: Rather more numerous.

Charlap: You pretty much rip apart every composer who ever lived for their badness. Henri Dutilleux commented that he wasn't sure his music was any good because he was not at the receiving end of your abuse.

Ticoczki: He was alive when I wrote that book, I prefer not to talk about the living.

Charlap: You talk for ten pages about how horrible you find Arvo Part!

Ticoczki: He's not alive.

Charlap: Sure he is!

Ticoczki: His music is not alive.

Charlap: Well what about other living composers?

Ticoczki: Their priorities are generally not mine.

Charlap: Meaning that their priorities are incorrect?

Ticoczki: I did not say that.

Charlap: Surely there are living composers whose music you love.

Ticoczki: Of course there are, but I do not find their priorities appropriate.

Charlap: What does that even mean?

Ticoczki: You seem to know my book better than I do so I shall defer to you for an answer.

Charlap: Well in the book you even say that there are at least a few dozen reasonably famous composers of whose work you're reasonably fond. Can you tell us who they are?

Ticoczki: I cannot.

Charlap: Why not?

Ticoczki: Because that will be three-hundred-fifty pages in the fourth volume of the autobiography.

Charlap: Well, I see then... When will that be released?

Ticoczki: Sometime between 2019 and 2021. It will be fourteen-hundred-eighty pages long.

Charlap: Why so long?

Ticoczki: It is not long, the editor insisted I cut another twelve-hundred pages from this volume. In this volume I outline the importance and purpose of the Psalm project.

....................................................................................................................................

Ticoczki: I chose to focus on the first seven in this interview because these seven animate a very important didactic philosophical principle.

Charlap: Which is?

Ticoczki: Untranslatable into verbal language.

Charlap: Can you try?

Ticoczki: Why must you push me?

Charlap: Talking about the Psalms is sort of the point of this broadcast.

Ticoczki: Well, what's important to say about it is that I have made a bargain with God, and He will keep me alive until I complete all one-hundred fifty Psalms.

Charlap: You've made a bargain with God?

Ticoczki: Yes, I have had a vision.

Charlap: A vision?

Ticoczki: A vision, it may have been induced by the medication.

Charlap: What was the vision?

Ticoczki: i'm a hundred-three years old, I was ninety-nine when I had the vision. How should I remember what the vision was?

Charlap: So this interview was all for nothing?

Ticoczki: Perhaps.

Charlap: Well, can you try at least?

Ticoczki: In order to talk about it I must speak about my encounter with Yossele Rosenblatt in Berlin on February 27th, 1933, the day of the Reichstag fire. The world's greatest cantor was in the middle of a world tour and exhausted, he had been swindled by two New York journalists who wanted to start a Yiddish paper to compete with the forty-nine Yiddish papers already in New York. Rosenblatt was not a practical man and the venture was a disaster that resulted in a mountain of debt which he had to pay off in the middle of a Great Depression which cursed the whole world. I have heard all the great tenors: Caruso, Gigli, Melchior, Vickers, Corelli, del Monaco, De Stefano, Domingo, Pavarotti, but none were as great as Rosenblatt and he had standing offers from every opera house in the world to sing but he was too orthodox to sing anything but Jewish music. Needing the money and realizing that he could make more, I came to him with an offer to write him Jewish music in the style of Verdi.

Charlap: That sounds amazing but Rosenblatt was already long since living in Jerusalem by then.

Ticoczki: Whatever. I told him that the most obvious Biblical Texts to set are the Psalms, the Tehillim. I told him by '35 I could write him all 150. He was very enthusiastic but told me he didn't have much money so I just write him one and he would tell me as we go how many he could pay for and wire me payment upon receipt. I wrote him the first Psalm and sent it to him in Jersualem, but in July it was returned to me in a package that said 'returned upon death of recipient.'

Charlap: Well, whatever the truth, that's a shame.

Ticoczki: So the first Tehilah was written in 1933, just as Hitler came to power. The project then languished for eighty years until I had a vision from God.

Charlap: And the vision was?

Ticoczki: Well, it wasn't technically God. It was more some combination of the archangel Michael and Elijah and Moses, telling me some end of the world stuff.

Charlap: They told you the world is ending?

Ticoczki: Not ending, just taking a break.

Charlap: What does that mean?

Ticoczki: Not the world, just this particular era, epoch, of the world.

Charlap: How do you explain that?

Ticoczki: This is where the didactic philosophical principle happens.

Charlap: OK...

Ticoczki: My music is not very good. We've established that and everybody agrees.

Charlap: They most certainly do, but what then is the point?

Ticoczki: The didactic philosophical principle is to point a way forward for music in a new dark age when Jews will be coerced back into the ghettos and shtetlach.

Charlap: What??

Ticoczki: The lack of specifically liturgical Jewish art music is an embarrassment. We now have a long tradition of secular art music with Mahler including Klezmer and Bloch providing a poetic Judaism of the spirit and Bernstein providing dramatic reenactments of scenes and dialogues with God. But Christians have a long tradition of their greatest composers providing settings of the mass and Biblical texts in Latin and Greek. We have nothing yet to compete.

Charlap: So you're trying to compete with composers like Byrd and Tallis and Palestrina and Machaut?

Ticoczki: Not particularly. Their music is grounded in the Christian eschatology: salvation, redemption, judgement, the material world being a test and foretaste of the greatness of the world to come. Eschatology is not the purpose of Judaism, the purpose is teleology - direct action and experience bringing us closer to God through a series of tactile actions.

Charlap: So your music then is didactic spur to action?

Ticoczki: No. Jews are not a particularly musical culture. We are, as the Islamic saying goes, the 'people of the book,' and the greater share of Jewish contemplation is not of the world to come but of how to act in our world. Art and music in Judaism cannot provide a spur to direct action, but a didactic spur to contemplate the sacred texts. Particularly in such a visual age, when literacy is so trivial that there is no longer great spiritual impact in reading.

Charlap: That all sounds full of shit.

Ticoczki: You are the one who wanted this interview!

Charlap: Have you said a single thing that is true this whole time?

Ticoczki: Probably not.

Charlap: So what am I supposed to do with all this footage?

Ticoczki: What should I care?

Charlap: Alright,... so can I get you to talk more about each of the first seven Psalms?

Ticoczki: I already told you about the first Psalm. It was written in 1933 against the backdrop of Hitler in the style of Rosenblatt's Shir HaMaalos. it includes a brief quote from that piece's melody.

Charlap: What about Psalm 2?

Ticoczki: I'M GETTING THERE!

Charlap: Alright.

Ticoczki: Psalm 2 was written eighty years later if you must know, Psalm 2 is a War Psalm full of apocalypse and carnage. I developed from a first version of it I wrote in 1946 after hearing about the camps.

Charlap: I thought you were in the camps!

Ticoczki: Of course I was in the camps! But I didn't die in the camps!

Charlap: Alright, (sighs)... just keep going...

Ticoczki: What I realized was that the ending of it was always unsatisfactory, so I had to rewrite much of it, and it is no simple task to write choral music in 2013 that approximates a style of orchestral music written by Shostakovich and Mahler as I did then. I could not simply write myself back into a style I used seventy years ago, particularly because at the time I could not think of a satisfactory ending, so I incorporated a much more modern style like the Rendering of Schubert by Berio or the rearrangement of the Vier Erste Gesangen by Glanert. it was a self-rendering.

Charlap: Was there a particular point to Psalm 2?

Ticoczki: Yes. It the most difficult and the least liked of the Psalm settings, but I think it is the finest.






Charlap: This sounds a bit like Rothko, who wanted to create a new artistic language to compete with his great heroes like Rembrandt and Turner and Michelangelo.

Ticoczki: No this is not Rothko. Marcus was an artist of inspirational integrity but he believed in tragedy, he believed the importance of the human was such that only tragedy was worth any rendering into art. He had no sense of absurdity and did not assimilate himself to comedy which surrounded him everywhere in New York. The suicide of such men is foreordained.  What I wish to create is an artistic world that resembles The Bible in all its diversity in which every character has space to be human yet what matters is the totality to which they contribute.

Charlap: But you're a musician. 


Charlap: I understand you're quite fond of some popular musicians too.

Ticoczki: Certainly. I think their artistic priorities are better.

Charlap: Can we try to get a better definition of what you mean by artistic priorities?

Ticoczki: I'd rather let my work speak for itself.

Charlap: But how many people want to read twenty-eight hundred pages.

Ticoczki: You cannot contain the complexity of the world. It must contain all the nuances and details of the world at hand.

Charlap: That makes no sense.

Ticoczki: Because you do not examine the full complexity of the statement.

Charlap: Can you convey it?

Ticoczki: Not in the time allotted for this interview. 

Sunday, April 16, 2017

Tales From the Old New Land - Tale 4 1/2 - An Interview with Ivan Ticoczki - More than a beginning.

AC Charlap: We have just heard the fourth and worst of the Psalm settings by the Composer of the Old New Land, Ivan Ticoczki, whose settings of the Psalms we broadcast all throughout our podcasts. Ticoczki is a recipient of the Polar Music Prize, known also as the Musical Nobel, and is known particularly for a joint statement of protest against his receiving the award co-signed by famous critics and musicologists Norman Lebrecht, Edward Said, Robert Craft, Richard Taruskin, Jay Nordlinger, Martin Bernheimer, Alan Rich, and John Simon as being the worst possible recipient of the Polar Music Prize. You responded in your acceptance speech that you agreed with them and said, and I quote: "when you survive the Camps they want to give you a lot of awards."

Ivan Ticoczki: That's true.

Charlap: Evidence was then presented that you were not in fact in the Camps and had escaped during World War II and at various points lived in New York, London, and Los Angeles.

Ticoczki: Also true.

Charlap: Whatever the truth, you've clearly lived an extremely fascinating life. You've at least claimed to have been witness to most of the major cultural developments of the last hundred-three years.

Ticoczki: Yes.

Charlap: How did this come to be, can you tell us where you're born?

Ticoczki: I was born in a town called Bransk.

Charlap: It's known for its Science Yeshiva yes?

Ticoczki: Yes.

Charlap: Now Bransk is in a part of Europe that has belonged at various points in your life to Austria-Hungary, Czarist Russia, Poland, the Free City of Danzig, The Soviet Union, Lithuania, Czechoslovakia, then Slovakia, and now I believe it's part of Belarus. Is that correct?

Ticoczki: Who cares.

Charlap: Fair enough.

Ticoczki: I did not live there long enough to go to the Bransk High School of Science, we left by the time I was three.

Charlap: And I believe you were born on June 28, 1914, the day of the assassination of Archduke Franz-Ferdinand is that also correct?

Ticoczki: Yes.

Charlap: It is said that there is a picture of you being held by your father in the October Revolution when he stood next to Lenin.

Ticoczki: Yes, my father was a Chassidicher Rabbi turned Orthodox Marxist who personally shot the family of Czar Nicholas.

Charlap: But the dates for that don't quite line up. Your father fell out of favor with Lenin because of his failure to starve more than half-a-million peasants by the time of the Treaty of Brest-Litovsk's signing so that the provisions Germans provided for Russia's withdrawal from the war would last the Red Army through the coming Civil War against the Whites. This was in March 1918, so your family escaped from the Soviet Union a full four months before Czar Nicholas the Second was assassinated.

Ticoczki: Is that my fault?

Charlap: I suppose not. But even if your father was not the assassin of Czar Nicholas, you played an pivotal role in the death of Walter Rathenau.

Ticoczki: Yes indeed, we had to make a living in Germany, and for a bit less than a year I was Rathenau's personal shoeshiner. I was not quite eight years old yet, and in the climate of Weimar, he did not even trust his personal chauffeur. He chose me because I told him I was fifteen, not eight. The circumstances of the death of Rathenau were very similar to that of the assassination of Archduke Franz-Ferdinand. I thought I knew a shortcut to the Foreign Office on Wilhelmstrasse. Unfortunately, we were intercepted on the way by right-wing extremists in a car with a machine gun. The machine gun missed me and may have missed Rathenau, but when they lobbed a grenade into my seat, I threw it in the direction of Rathenau, and it exploded half his body. This means that I may not only have been Rathenau's cause of death, but therefore the cause of eighteen-million more deaths due to Hitler - a fact of which I am both ashamed and deeply proud.

Charlap: It's also interesting because one of the first deaths at the hands of Nazis was your father's a year later.

Ticoczki: My father believed greatly in believing in things. He died in Munich during Hitler's Beer Hall Putsch the day after a Nazi threw a brick at him. He was so thrilled by the experience that he made me promise on his deathbed to try to join the Nazi Party.

Charlap: Records show that you became a Nazi party member in 1933 for exactly one day.

Ticoczki: Yes, I joined the Nazi Party in the hope of getting musical commissions from Albert Speer. We had an appointment to go swimming in a Berlin gymnasium followed by a Turkish Bath. My membership was revoked when it was discovered I was circumcised.

Charlap: How did you not see that coming?

Ticoczki: There were lots of Jews in 1933 who wanted to join the party.

Charlap: How can that be?

Ticoczki: We didn't think Hitler was serious!

Charlap: You didn't??

Ticoczki: He could a man that swish be a Nazi???

Charlap: But this was a very interesting period for you. In the Early 30's you lived in Berlin, and apparently had an affair with Hannah Arendt.

Ticoczki: Indeed.

Charlap: Apparently you went into hiding when your rival for Arendt, Martin Heidegger, put you on an arrest list, and escaped to Paris with Raymond Aron.

Ticoczki: Ja.

Charlap: And Aron would later claim that his book, The Opium of the Intellectuals in which he criticized the fashionable flirtation of intellectuals with totalitarian systems...

Ticoczki: ...was based on the contempt he felt after talking on the train with me. Arendt also later said that 'the banality of evil' was based on her experience of our relationship.

Charlap: That claim was proven to be a lie.

Ticoczki: If you say so.

Charlap: But let's stay on Berlin for a moment. You were also involved briefly with Lotte Lenya, weren't you?

Ticoczki: Everybody was. Brecht, Einstein, Heinrich Mann, Georg Grosz, Fritz Lang, one night she went home with the entire Frankfurt School.

Charlap: How did Kurt Weill feel about this?

Ticoczki: He didn't know.

Charlap: It's interesting that you mention Fritz Lang. When you were 17 you wrote a score to accompany M.

Ticoczki: Yes, Lang hated it so much that he burned it.

Charlap: Really?

Ticoczki:  He told me that he could just have Peter Lorre whistle Hall of the Mountain King and it would be better than what I wrote.

Charlap: That's pretty harsh.

Ticoczki: Nein, it was scheissemusik.

Charlap: Did you have any involvement with the great opera companies of 20's Berlin?

Ticoczki: Indeed I did. I sang third boy in The Magic Flute with Bruno Walter and he was so impressed with my performance that he immediately agreed to premiere my fourth symphony in his concert series at the Berlin Philharmonic.

Charlap: That was known as a disastrous premiere.

Ticoczki: Indeed, Bruno Walter had a stomach bug, but it was said that he was so disgusted with the music that after the symphony was over he threw up in the tuba.

Charlap: Nevertheless, shortly thereafter you got a commission from Otto Klemperer to write for the Kroll Opera.

Ticoczki: Ja, it was only a chamber opera for which I wrote the book in which the Emperor of a distant kingdom goes off in search of a woman with the perfect nosejob. It was six hours long, had a cast of a hundred fifty plus chorus and an orchestra of three hundred. It has not been staged in full since 1928.

Charlap: You absconded to Paris but you didn't spend much time there until after the war.

Ticoczki: Quite true.

Charlap: By 1934 you were living in Vienna.

Ticoczki: Yes, I went to Vienna to abandon music.

Charlap: Vienna is the city of Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, Brahms, Mahler... That seems rather counterintuitive.

Ticoczki: Perhaps, but I wanted to be a writer.

Charlap: Did you write anything?

Ticoczki: No.

Charlap: Then how were you a writer?

Ticoczki: There were lots of writers in Vienna who did not write.

Charlap: Then what did they do?

Ticoczki: They sat in the coffeehouses, where they would loudly proclaim witticisms to professionals who would make a great show of laughing, even though the din was so loud that they could not hear properly most of what we said.

Charlap: So, in a sense, you were a professional former of witticisms?

Ticoczki: Yes.

Charlap: Can you tell us any of them?

Ticoczki: No.

Charlap: You can't remember any of them?

Ticoczki: They lose meaning in translation.

Charlap: But surely...

Ticoczki: The Vienna of those years is impossible to convey to those who were not there. It was a great and unrepeatable gathering of intellect, and being intelligent was so important that nobody did anything.

Charlap: Fascinating.

Ticoczki: There were writers like Musil and Broch and Canetti who wrote very long books that we all claimed to have read and none of us made it past the second page.

Charlap: But you all read Stefan Zweig.

Ticoczki: Yes, but he paid us to read him.

Charlap: I'm told that when the Nazis came to Vienna you attempted suicide half-a-dozen times.

Ticoczki: This is true.

Charlap: You must have been quite despondent.

Ticoczki: No I actually felt I that in suicide finally had a metier to become a great artist. Suicide in Vienna was a great art into which many artists and philosophers put great effort into staging. I had a magnificent idea for a suicide in which I would be strung along by pulleys into a pile of marzipan, between getting my head caught in the pulleys and the molasses, I was sure I would die. Unfortunately, the pulley's broke, and I contracted diabetes for which I lost a foot in the Jewish hospital.

Charlap: You then arrived in London and claim you were the lover that drove Virginia Woolf to suicide.

Ticoczki: She was a very confused women. She was a lesbian who was also an anti-semite, but she was also attracted to particularly ugly and dwarf-like Jews, whom she thought possessed a cheap and low cunning which she found incredibly erotic. She could live very easily with her attraction to women and with infidelities to Leonard, but she hated herself for being attracted to Jews, and planned on blaming her suicide on me as an assassination. The famous suicide note she left for Leonard Woolf was in fact planted by me, when I realized that she would use her letter to frame me, and I made a copy of a new letter in her handwriting.

Charlap: This resulted in your being accused by George Orwell of having murdered Virginia Woolf.

Ticoczki: I will not answer any more questions about this matter.

Charlap: You also became a frequent houseguest of John Maynard Keynes in London.

Ticoczki: Yes, and he was a swine.

Charlap: What do you mean?

Ticoczki: I have known many many geniuses in my life, but Maynard Keynes was, without a doubt, the most unpleasant in addition to being one of the most brilliant. He was an anti-semite and a snob who was always trying to throw me out of his house for having sexual relations with people who were not him.

Charlap: Why didn't you leave?

Ticoczki: I had to have somewhere I could bring Virginia, and being at the receiving end of Maynard's abuse was much less boring than staying with Forester or Elliot...

Charlap: You also claim you were in Terezinstadt during this same period.

Ticoczki: I had a rich Capo who was a very great fan of music, and he allowed me week-long visits to Virginia and John in England on chartered planes for which he would pay the full expense.

Charlap: But there were so many great musical figures in this period living in Terezin in circumstances that were truly sub-human: Pavel Haas, Erwin Schulhoff, Viktor Ullmann, Hans Krasa, Karel Ancerl, Gideon Klein, Alma Rose, Ilse Weber....

Ticoczki: Oh... Ja, they were let out too.

Charlap: What??

Ticoczki: They went to see their various lovers in Prague and Vienna for weeks at a time on furlough so long as they promised to return.

Charlap: This will be news to the entire music world. Why did they return?

Ticoczki: They believed the camps were their best chance for survival.

Charlap: How is that possible?

Ticoczki: We all believed that Terezin would eventually change and be the humanitarian city for the Jews which the Fuhrer claimed it was.

Charlap: How could you have possibly believed that?

Ticoczki: In Vienna we were vermin. In Terezin we had a chance to be the most honored Jewish composers in history.

Charlap: That's the most incredible thing I've ever heard!

Ticoczki: Remember, none of us thought that the Deutschen Volk would be as stupid as they were. Eventually, the German people would rise up and atone for their sins and we would be the honored artists of the Deutschen Reich who were rewarded extra performances for our persecution.

Charlap: But you never returned to that area after the war.

Ticoczki: Not to live no....

Charlap: In fact, during that period of the early 40's, both Stravinsky and Schoenberg claimed you took lessons with them in Los Angeles.

Ticoczki: Ja. I was on furlough from Terezin.

Charlap: They flew you there and back from California???

Ticoczki: Why is this so unbelievable.

Charlap: You'll just have to permit me a minute of disbelief.

Ticoczki: I learned very little from either Schoenberg or Stravinsky.

Charlap: They both seem to have agreed with that statement.

Ticoczki: Ja...

Charlap: Schoenberg apparently wrote of you to Kandinsky and said that 'He is by such great a margin the most incompetent pupil I ever had that even John Cage is Mozart in comparison.'

Ticoczki: I can't help it if Schoenberg did not accept the theories of music I tried to teach him.

Charlap: You had theories you tried to teach Schoenberg???

Ticoczki: Ja! He was so rigid and dogmatic. His music required such great order that it sounded like disorder. I told him that the crucial key to writing great music which he missed was incompetence and amateurism. I deliberately wrote terrible part exercises to show him that bad musicianship is more beautiful than good.

Charlap: He claimed that you wouldn't know how to write better counterpoint even if you tried.

Ticoczki: What does that matter?!?

Charlap: In any event, one thing at which you were clearly not an incompetent at was bartending. In fact, when not even a teenager, you were remembered as the youngest bartender in Paris.

Ticoczki: Oui, I was still only eleven and a bit over four feet tall. So I would stand on the bar of the Moulin Rouge and take the orders of many Americans like Hemingway and the Fitzgeralds, at twelve I lost my virginity to Josephine Baker and again to Sergei Diaghilev. I threw Hemingway out of the Moulin Rouge many times and nearly beat him to death with the soprano saxophone of Sidney Bechet. And I was drawn by Jean Cocteau, Picasso, Dali, Chagall, Matisse, Mogdiliani.

Charlap: All of these drawings, by the way, are evidently lost.

Ticoczki: They were confiscated from my Ile Saint-Louis flat by Vichy.

Charlap: I see.

Ticoczki: I also invented the Boulevardier for Zelda Fitzgerald and the Jack Rose for Maurice Chevalier.

Charlap: Did you have much to do with music during this time?

Ticoczki: I wrote a lot of Charleston Dances for Josephine and ghostwrote about a hundred thirty pieces for Darius Milhuad, but no. Not really.

Charlap: Your biography says that immediately after the war you went to New York.

Ticoczki: Yes, this period was the favorite period of my life.


-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Charlap: About four years before you got the Polar Music Prize, you published a rather infamous memoir.

Ticoczki: I don't understand what was so infamous about it.

Charlap: Well, first of all because it was a three volume, twenty-eight hundred page memoir in which you claimed yourself the greatest cultural figure since King David. 

Ticoczki: Is it such a crime to be great? 

Charlap: Don't you find the claim rather extravagant?

Ticoczki: Is it my fault that I hear wrong things in everyone else's music?

Charlap: I think a lot of people thought you should have been more charitable.

Ticoczki: What does charity give people? It 

Charlap: Your opinion is your opinion, but it does not seem to be shared by anyone.

Ticoczki: History will vindicate me. 

Charlap: Well, let's take just a few examples of your... we'll just call them uncommon opinions. For example this one: "The music of Bach is the Christian lie set in musical form. It presents an all-knowing, infinitely compassionate God whom in his ever loving mercy sends all but a hundred-forty-four thousand of us to hell. Bach's music is supposedly the music emanating from Heaven's organ-loft, but it is in fact the Devil's Trill."

Ticoczki: What's wrong with that opinion?

Charlap: Well nothing's wrong with it, but you must admit that your opinion is uncommon.

Ticoczki: Common opinions are for common people. I still believe that Bach was a minorly great composer after a fashion and it is not Bach's fault that he was the instrument through which posterity subsumed an entire millennium's worth of Christian music, but the music of Christianity is a music of a transcendence that does not exist nor would it be desirable if the world allowed for it. 

Charlap: Well then there's the infamous passage when you said that there were a half dozen better composers in the generation preceding you than Stravinsky, Bartok, or Schoenberg. Milan Kundera pointed out in 'Testaments Betrayed' that you excoriate Stravinsky for having abandoned feeling and Bartok for having abandoned didacticism in the same paragraph.

Ticoczki: You should not forget that I also attacked Hindemith in this passage for abandoning both. But it is not my doing. I cannot help it if Bartok's two transcendent masterpieces are musical instruction manuals.

Charlap: You mean the 44 Violin Duets...

Ticoczki: ...and the Mikrokosmos. In the growth of this music's sophistication we hear the evolution of intellect and human soul to its full capacities. 

Charlap: But these are instructional pieces to help children play their instruments.

Ticoczki: I knew Bartok, you didn't. He was a human robot, only his children moved him. 

Charlap: But what about your praise of pieces like the Third Piano Concerto and the Concerto for Orchestra?

Ticoczki: Yes, they still have problems but they are better.

Charlap: And you really believe that Kodaly is a better composer than Bartok?

Ticoczki: Insofar as his artistic priorities are more correct, yes.

Charlap: There are people who dislike Bach, but this is an opinion shared by literally no one.

Ticoczki: History will prove me right.

Charlap: And then you talk about Stravinsky, from whom you received an enormous amount of financial help in Los Angeles during the War, and you say that after Les Noces he should have never written another note because all he ever produced was notes. 

Ticoczki: Stravinsky wouldn't have given me a penny if he wasn't interested in my ex-wife. 

Charlap: But nothing Stravinsky did was worth anything? Oedipus? The Rake's Progress? Agon? The Symphony of Psalms? The Fairy's Kiss? The Violin Concerto?

Ticoczki: Well, the last three you mentioned are better. Stravinsky wasn't a composer, he was a brilliant musical thief. 

Charlap: That's a direct quote from your autobiography.

Ticoczki: Yes. When he stole from the Russian sources that meant something to him, his thievery was very moving, but when he tried to steal from other cultures the act of stealing meant nothing to him. 

Charlap: Speaking about what you said about your wife, you also seem to allude to the idea that Stravinsky....

Ticoczki: Yes, he stole my wife too, but she was German, and therefore his act of theft was not sincere at all.

Charlap: You also say that there have only ever been exactly nine great composers, and every other composer is at best a composer who wrote great music by accident.

Ticoczki: Monteverdi, Mozart, Beethoven, Schumann, Mussorgsky, Janacek, Mahler, Ives, Shostakovich.

Charlap: You then talk of nine levels of lesser greatness - you call it 'lesser receptivity.'

Ticoczki: Yes, the first and highest level of receptivity are those composers whose ears act as the crown from which you can survey the entire kingdom of music, and can absorb and adapt all modes of influence into their music and render them in such a way that any expressive or emotional reaction is possible. They are pure expression through sound. I then refer to the nine lesser levels of receptivity under different names, there are nine different composers in each category, because there are exactly nine great composers, exactly eighteen composers who are good, and exactly twenty-seven who are decent, and exactly thirty-six composers who are competent. It is my belief that there will be another ten composers who are greater than incompetent before music ceases to be altogether.

Charlap: I suppose our audience will want to know which composers are which.

Ticoczki: The good composers are divided between the wise composers: like Berlioz and Brahms and Vaughan Williams who are masculine, and the intuitive composers like Schubert and Dvorak and Gershwin who are feminine.

Charlap: That's truly insightful.

Ticoczki: We then move to realms of the decent composers. The kind composers like Haydn and Copland and Liszt, severe composers like Schoenberg and Bartok and Sibelius, beautiful composers like Chopin and Debussy and Dvorak. Beneath them lies the competent composers: the eternal composers like Bruckner and Messiaen and Josquin, the splendid composers like Richard Strauss and Berlioz and Tallis, and the foundational composers like Bach and Gluck and Machaut. Underneath them, you have the king-composers. A king is an unjust man who takes what should be rightfully the property of others, therefore they are the composers who emulate other composers but are in fact only imitative of greater voices. Neo-classical composers are particularly in this sphere: Stravinsky is one, Hindemith is another, Prokofiev, Milhaud, Martinu, but also pre-classicists: Handel, Vivaldi, Lassus and Palestrina who plagiarized themselves hundreds of times.

Charlap: But isn't this a little too mathematically neat?

Ticoczki: That is not possible. Music requires formal cohesion.

Charlap: But isn't it possible you have to make exceptions for composers you haven't heard yet?

Ticoczki: Do not question me.

Charlap: Alright. I'm sure you know what the obvious question is about your nine great composers...

Ticoczki: No.

Charlap: What made them great?

Ticoczki: I already defined them. These are the nine which had the correct artistic priorities.

Charlap: Which are?

Ticoczki: I explained it as simply as I could, and if it could be properly explained in words I would do so.

Charlap: But you spend 450 pages doing exactly that.

Ticoczki: And I fail.

Charlap: Nevertheless, I'm going to quote you. "The correct artistic priorities are a willingness to be open to all the diverse possibilities of the universe's expression. All expression of human experience, animal and plant experience, biological, chemical, physical, must manifest themselves in the greatest music, and one must have an omnipresent sense of the unpredictability of experience's totality."

Ticoczki: I would not be nearly so dogmatic today. I was a young man when I wrote that.

Charlap: You were eighty-five.

Ticoczki: I was young.

Charlap: You also write of tragic examples of composers who came close enough to the correct artistic priorities that we can only mourn that their music is not better than it is.

Ticoczki: Rather more numerous.

Charlap: You pretty much rip apart every composer who ever lived for their badness. Henri Dutilleux commented that he wasn't sure his music was any good because he was not at the receiving end of your abuse.

Ticoczki: He was alive when I wrote that book, I prefer not to talk about the living.

Charlap: You talk for ten pages about how horrible you find Arvo Part!

Ticoczki: He's not alive.

Charlap: Sure he is!

Ticoczki: Listen to his music.

Charlap: Well what about other living composers?

Ticoczki: Their priorities are generally not mine.

Charlap: Meaning that their priorities are incorrect?

Ticoczki: I didn't say that.

Charlap: Surely there are living composers whose music you love.

Ticoczki: Of course there are, but I do not find their priorities appropriate.

Charlap: What does that even mean?

Ticoczki: You seem to know my book better than I do. You tell me.

Charlap: Well in the book you even say that there are at least a few dozen reasonably famous composers of whose work you're reasonably fond. Can you tell us who they are?

Ticoczki: I cannot.

Charlap: Why not?

Ticoczki: Because that will be three-hundred-fifty pages in the fourth volume of the autobiography.

Charlap: Well, I see then... When will that be released?

Ticoczki: Sometime between 2019 and 2021. It will be fourteen-hundred-eighty pages long.

Charlap: Why so long?

Ticoczki: It's not that long, the editor insisted I cut another twelve-hundred pages from this one. In this volume I outline the importance and purpose of the Psalm project.

Charlap:

Charlap: I understand you're quite fond of some popular musicians too.

Ticoczki: Certainly. I think their artistic priorities are better.

Charlap: Can we try to get a better definition of what you mean by artistic priorities?

Ticoczki: I'd rather let my work speak for itself.

Charlap: But how many people want to read twenty-eight hundred pages.

Ticoczki: You cannot contain the complexity of the world. It must contain all the nuances and details of the world at hand.

Charlap: That makes no sense.

Ticoczki: Because you do not examine the full complexity of the statement.

Charlap: Can you convey it?

Ticoczki: Not in the time allotted for this interview. 

Saturday, April 15, 2017

Tales From the Old New Land - Tale 4 1/2 - An Interview with Ivan Ticoczki - Beginning

AC Charlap: We have just heard the fourth and worst of the Psalm settings by the Composer of the Old New Land, Ivan Ticoczki, whose settings of the Psalms we broadcast all throughout our podcasts. Ticoczki is a recipient of the Polar Music Prize, known also as the Musical Nobel, and is known particularly for a joint statement of protest against his receiving the award co-signed by famous critics and musicologists Norman Lebrecht, Edward Said, Robert Craft, Richard Taruskin, Jay Nordlinger, Martin Bernheimer, Alan Rich, and John Simon as being the worst possible recipient of the Polar Music Prize. You responded in your acceptance speech that you agreed with them and said, and I quote: "when you survive the Camps they want to give you a lot of awards."

Ivan Ticoczki: That's true.

Charlap: Evidence was then presented that you were not in fact in the Camps and had escaped during World War II and at various points lived in New York, London, and Los Angeles.

Ticoczki: Also true.

Charlap: Whatever the truth, you've clearly lived an extremely fascinating life. You've at least claimed to have been witness to most of the major cultural developments of the last hundred-three years.

Ticoczki: Yes.

Charlap: How did this come to be, can you tell us where you're born?

Ticoczki: I was born in a town called Bransk.

Charlap: It's known for its Science Yeshiva yes?

Ticoczki: Yes.

Charlap: Now Bransk is in a part of Europe that has belonged at various points in your life to Austria-Hungary, Czarist Russia, Poland, the Free City of Danzig, The Soviet Union, Lithuania, Czechoslovakia, then Slovakia, and now I believe it's part of Belarus. Is that correct?

Ticoczki: Who cares.

Charlap: Fair enough.

Ticoczki: I did not live there long enough to go to the Bransk High School of Science, we left by the time I was three.

Charlap: And I believe you were born on June 28, 1914, the day of the assassination of Archduke Franz-Ferdinand is that also correct?

Ticoczki: Yes.

Charlap: It is said that there is a picture of you being held by your father in the October Revolution when he stood next to Lenin.

Ticoczki: Yes, my father was a Chassidicher Rabbi turned Orthodox Marxist who personally shot the family of Czar Nicholas.

Charlap: But the dates for that don't quite line up. Your father fell out of favor with Lenin because of his failure to starve more than half-a-million peasants by the time of the Treaty of Brest-Litovsk's signing so that the provisions Germans provided for Russia's withdrawal from the war would last the Red Army through the coming Civil War against the Whites. This was in March 1918, so your family escaped from the Soviet Union a full four months before Czar Nicholas the Second was assassinated.

Ticoczki: Is that my fault?

Charlap: I suppose not.

Ticoczki: My father believed greatly in believing in things. He died in Munich during Hitler's Beer Hall Putsch the day after a Nazi threw a brick at him. He was so thrilled by the experience that he made me promise on his deathbed to try to join the Nazi Party.

Charlap: Records show that you were a Nazi party member for exactly one day.

Ticoczki: Yes, in 1933, I joined the Nazi Party in the hope of getting musical commissions from Albert Speer. We had an appointment to go swimming in a Berlin gymnasium and then a Turkish Bath, my membership was revoked when it was discovered I was circumcised.

Charlap: How did you not see that coming?

Ticoczki: There were lots of Jews in 1933 who wanted to join the party.

Charlap: How can that be?

Ticoczki: We didn't think Hitler was serious!

Charlap: You didn't??

Ticoczki: He could a man that swish be a Nazi???

Charlap: But this was a very interesting period for you. In the Early 30's you lived in Berlin, and apparently had an affair with Hannah Arendt.

Ticoczki: Yes, she was quite a Korva in those days.

Charlap: Apparently you went into hiding when your rival for Arendt, Martin Heidegger, put you on an arrest list, and escaped to Paris with Raymond Aron.

Ticoczki: Ja.

Charlap: And Aron would later claim that his book, The Opium of the Intellectuals in which he criticized the fashionable flirtation of intellectuals with totalitarian systems...

Ticoczki: ...was based on the contempt he felt after talking on the train with me. Arendt also later said that 'the banality of evil' was based on her experience of our relationship.

Charlap: That claim was proven to be a lie.

Ticoczki: If you say so.

Charlap: But let's stay on Berlin for a moment. You were also involved briefly with Lotte Lenya, weren't you?

Ticoczki: Everybody was. Brecht, Einstein, Heinrich Mann, Georg Grosz, Fritz Lang, one night she went home with the entire Frankfurt School.

Charlap: How did Kurt Weill feel about this?

Ticoczki: He didn't know.

Charlap: It's interesting that you mention Fritz Lang. When you were 17 you wrote a score to accompany M.

Ticoczki: Yes, Lang hated it so much that he burned it.

Charlap: Really?

Ticoczki:  He told me that he could just have Peter Lorre whistle Hall of the Mountain King and it would be better than what I wrote.

Charlap: That's pretty harsh.

Ticoczki: No, it was scheisse.

Charlap: You absconded to Paris but you didn't spend much time there until after the war.

Ticoczki: Quite true.

Charlap: By 1934 you were living in Vienna.

Ticoczki: I went to Vienna to abandon music.

Charlap: That seems rather counterintuitive.

Ticoczki: Perhaps, but I wanted to be a writer.

Charlap: Did you write anything?

Ticoczki: No.

Charlap: Then how were you a writer?

Ticoczki: There were lots of writers in Vienna who did not write.

Charlap: Then what did they do?

Ticoczki: They sat in the coffeehouses, where they would loudly proclaim witticisms to professionals who would make a great show of laughing, even though the din was so loud that they could not hear properly most of what we said.

Charlap: So, in a sense, you were a professional former of witticisms?

Ticoczki: Yes.

Charlap: Can you tell us any of them?

Ticoczki: No.

Charlap: You can't remember any of them?

Ticoczki: They lose meaning in translation.

Charlap: But surely...

Ticoczki: The Vienna of those years is impossible to convey to those who were not there. It was a great and unrepeatable gathering of intellect, and being smart was so important that nobody did anything.

Charlap: Fascinating.

Ticoczki: There were writers like Musil and Broch and Canetti who wrote very long books that we all claimed to have read and none of us made it past the second page.

Charlap: But you all read Stefan Zweig.

Ticoczki: Yes, but he paid us to read him.

Charlap: I'm told that when the Nazis came to Vienna you attempted suicide half-a-dozen times.

Ticoczki: That is true.

Charlap: You must have been quite despondent.

Ticoczki: No, actually I felt I that in suicide finally had a metier to become a great artist. Suicide in Vienna was a great art into which many artists and philosophers put great effort into staging. I had a magnificent idea for a suicide in which I would be strung along pulleys into a pile of marzipan, between getting my head caught in the pulleys and the molasses, I was sure I would die. Unfortunately, the pulley's broke, and I was sent to the Jewish hospital for an overdose of sugar.

Charlap: You then arrived in London and claim you were the lover that drove Virginia Woolf to suicide.

Ticoczki: She was a very confused women. She was a lesbian who was also an anti-semite, but she was perversely attracted to particularly ugly, dwarf-like Jews, whom she thought possessed a cheap and low cunning which she found incredibly erotic. She could live very easily with her attraction to women and with infidelities to Leonard, but she hated herself for being attracted to Jews, and planned on blaming her suicide on me as a murder. The famous suicide note she left for Leonard was in fact planted by me, when I realized that she would use her letter to frame me, and I made a copy of a new letter in her handwriting.

Charlap: This resulted in your being accused by George Orwell of having murdered Virginia Woolf.

Ticoczki: I will not answer any more questions about this matter.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Charlap: About four years before you got the Polar Music Prize, you published a rather infamous memoir.

Ticoczki: I don't understand what was so infamous about it.

Charlap: Well, first of all because it was a three volume, twenty-eight hundred page memoir in which you claimed yourself the greatest cultural figure since King David. 

Ticoczki: Is it such a crime to be great? 

Charlap: Don't you find the claim rather extravagant?

Ticoczki: Is it my fault that I hear wrong things in everyone else's music?

Charlap: I think a lot of people thought you should have been more charitable.

Ticoczki: What does charity give people? It has given us the current mediocrity. 

Charlap: Your opinion is your opinion, but it does not seem to be shared by anyone.

Ticoczki: History will vindicate me. 

Charlap: Well, let's take just a few examples of your... we'll just call them uncommon opinions. For example this one: "The music of Bach is the Christian lie set in musical form. It presents an all-knowing, infinitely compassionate God whom in his ever loving mercy sends all but a hundred-forty-four thousand of us to hell. Bach's music is supposedly the music emanating from Heaven's organ-loft, but it is in fact the Devil's Trill."

Ticoczki: What's wrong with that opinion?

Charlap: Well nothing's wrong with it, but you must admit that your opinion is uncommon.

Ticoczki: Common opinions are for common people. 

Charlap: Well then there's the infamous passage Milan Kundera pointed out in 'Testaments Betrayed' in which you excoriate Stravinsky for having abandoned feeling and Bartok for having abandoned didacticism in the same paragraph.

Ticoczki: Can I help it if Bartok's only transcendent masterpieces are instruction manuals? 

Charlap: You mean the 44 Violin Duets...

Ticoczki: ...and the Mikrokosmos. In the growth of this music's sophistication we hear the evolution of intellect and human soul to its full capacities. 

Charlap: But these are instructional pieces to help children play their instruments.

Ticoczki: I knew Bartok, you didn't. He was a human robot, only his children moved him. 

Charlap: And then you talk about Stravinsky, from whom you received an enormous amount of financial help in Los Angeles during the War, and you say that after Les Noces he should have never written another note because all he ever produced was notes. 

Ticoczki: Stravinsky wouldn't have given me a penny if he wasn't interested in my ex-wife. 

Charlap: But nothing Stravinsky did was worth anything? Oedipus? The Rake's Progress? Agon? The Symphony of Psalms? The Fairy's Kiss? The Violin Concerto?

Ticoczki: Well, the last three you mentioned are better. Stravinsky wasn't a composer, he was a brilliant musical thief. 

Charlap: That's a direct quote from your autobiography.

Ticoczki: Yes. When he stole from the Russian sources that meant something to him, his thievery was very moving, but when he tried to steal from other cultures the act of stealing meant nothing to him. 

Charlap: Speaking about what you said about your wife, you also seem to allude to the idea that Stravinsky....

Ticoczki: Yes, he stole my wife too, but she was German, and therefore his act of theft was not sincere at all.

Charlap: You also say that there have only ever been a nine great composers, every other composer is at best a composer who wrote great music by accident.

Ticoczki: Monteverdi, Mozart, Beethoven, Schumann, Mussorgsky, Janacek, Mahler, Ives, Shostakovich.

Charlap: I'm sure you understand what the next obvious question is.

Ticoczki: These are the nine composers who had the correct artistic priorities.

Charlap: Which are?

Ticoczki: If I could explain it in words I would do so.

Charlap: But you spend 450 pages doing exactly that.

Ticoczki: And I fail.

Charlap: Nevertheless, I'm going to quote you. "The correct artistic priorities are a willingness to be open to all the diverse possibilities of the universe's expression. All expression of human experience, animal and plant experience, biological, chemical, physical, must manifest themselves in the greatest music, and one must have an omnipresent sense of the unpredictability of experience's totality."

Ticoczki: I would not be nearly so dogmatic today. I was a young man when I wrote that.

Charlap: You were eighty-five.

Ticoczki: I was young.

Charlap: You also write of tragic examples of composers who came close enough to the correct artistic priorities that we can only mourn that their music is not better than it is.

Ticoczki: Rather more numerous. Vivaldi, Handel, Haydn, Rossini, Chopin, Verdi, Dvorak, Puccini, Richard Strauss, Ravel, Poulenc, Copland, Messiaen, Britten, Lutoslawski, and Schnittke.

Charlap: This is a bit like an honor roll of the world's greatest composers, and yet there are no living composers among them!

Ticoczki: I prefer not to talk about the living.

Charlap: You talk for ten pages about how horrible you find Arvo Part!

Ticoczki: He's not alive.

Charlap: Sure he is!

Ticoczki: Listen to his music.

Charlap: Well what about other living composers?

Ticoczki: Their priorities are generally not mine.

Charlap: Meaning that their priorities are incorrect?

Ticoczki: I didn't say that.

Charlap: Surely there are living composers whose music you love.

Ticoczki: Of course there are, but I do not find their priorities appropriate.

Charlap: What does that even mean?

Ticoczki: You tell me.

Charlap: You even say in the book that there are at least a few dozen reasonably famous composers of whose work you're reasonably fond. Can you tell us who they are?

Ticoczki: I cannot.

Charlap: Why not?

Ticoczki: Because that will be three-hundred-fifty pages in the fourth volume of the autobiography.

Charlap: Well, I see then... When will that be released?

Ticoczki: Sometime between 2019 and 2021.

Charlap: I understand you're quite fond of some popular musicians too.

Ticoczki: Certainly. I think their artistic priorities are better.

Charlap: Can we try to get a better definition of what you mean by artistic priorities?

Ticoczki: I'd rather let my work speak for itself.

Charlap: But how many people want to read twenty-eight hundred pages.

Ticoczki: You cannot contain the complexity of the world. It must contain all the nuances and details of the world at hand.

Charlap: That makes no sense.

Ticoczki: Because you do not examine the full complexity of the statement.

Charlap: Can you convey it?

Ticoczki: Not in the time allotted for this interview. 

Saturday, April 8, 2017

What Kafka Tells Us About 2017

Whenever I teach, I've learned over time to write out what I want to say and then divert from it in class, so here's the prepared text.

We're going to start, as every talk about Kafka ever does, by reading his quick parable from The Trial, 'Before The Law'. 

(Call on someone to read it)

Before the Law stands a doorkeeper on guard. To this doorkeeper there comes a man from the country who begs for admittance to the Law. But the doorkeeper says that he cannot admit the man at the moment. The man, on reflection, asks if he will be allowed, then, to enter later. 'It is possible,' answers the doorkeeper, 'but not at this moment.' Since the door leading into the Law stands open as usual and the doorkeeper steps to one side, the man bends down to peer through the entrance. When the doorkeeper sees that, he laughs and says: 'If you are so strongly tempted, try to get in without my permission. But note that I am powerful. And I am only the lowest doorkeeper. From hall to hall keepers stand at every door, one more powerful than the other. Even the third of these has an aspect that even I cannot bear to look at.' These are difficulties which the man from the country has not expected to meet, the Law, he thinks, should be accessible to every man and at all times, but when he looks more closely at the doorkeeper in his furred robe, with his huge pointed nose and long, thin, Tartar beard, he decides that he had better wait until he gets permission to enter. The doorkeeper gives him a stool and lets him sit down at the side of the door. There he sits waiting for days and years. He makes many attempts to be allowed in and wearies the doorkeeper with his importunity. The doorkeeper often engages him in brief conversation, asking him about his home and about other matters, but the questions are put quite impersonally, as great men put questions, and always conclude with the statement that the man cannot be allowed to enter yet. The man, who has equipped himself with many things for his journey, parts with all he has, however valuable, in the hope of bribing the doorkeeper. The doorkeeper accepts it all, saying, however, as he takes each gift: 'I take this only to keep you from feeling that you have left something undone.' During all these long years the man watches the doorkeeper almost incessantly. He forgets about the other doorkeepers, and this one seems to him the only barrier between himself and the Law. In the first years he curses his evil fate aloud; later, as he grows old, he only mutters to himself. He grows childish, and since in his prolonged watch he has learned to know even the fleas in the doorkeeper's fur collar, he begs the very fleas to help him and to persuade the doorkeeper to change his mind. Finally his eyes grow dim and he does not know whether the world is really darkening around him or whether his eyes are only deceiving him. But in the darkness he can now perceive a radiance that streams immortally from the door of the Law. Now his life is drawing to a close. Before he dies, all that he has experienced during the whole time of his sojourn condenses in his mind into one question, which he has never yet put to the doorkeeper. He beckons the doorkeeper, since he can no longer raise his stiffening body. The doorkeeper has to bend far down to hear him, for the difference in size between them has increased very much to the man's disadvantage. 'What do you want to know now?' asks the doorkeeper, 'you are insatiable.' 'Everyone strives to attain the Law,' answers the man, 'how does it come about, then, that in all these years no one has come seeking admittance but me?' The doorkeeper perceives that the man is at the end of his strength and that his hearing is failing, so he bellows in his ear: 'No one but you could gain admittance through this door, since this door was intended only for you. I am now going to shut it.' "

Has there ever been a more Jewish paragraph than this? Kafka spent two pages making fun of characters who tried to interpret the parable and how pointless it is to try to interpret something so open-ended, so since it's so stupid to try to interpret it, let's try to do exactly that. 


What do you think it means?

(when ready to transition)

So I maintain, this is just about the most Jewish secular text that's ever been set down on paper. First you have a parable that is so open-ended that it can mean anything at all, which means that thinking people will never be able to resist the temptation to ascribe meaning to its ambiguities. In two-thousand years, they're still going to try to interpret this paragraph and come up with ever new meanings for it. 

So why is this Jewish? I would answer that what makes it Jewish is the idea that the authorities, out of spite, went to the trouble to design a door tailor made to bewitch you to the point that all you can do is look at the door for your entire life? Christianity would never say that, Christianity would say that God loves you and he wants you to go through the door made for you. Atheism or hedonism would say, 'just walk away, there are other doors, and you don't even have to walk through a friggin' door', but Judaism, or for that matter, Existentialism, believes that there are doors that you will always have to struggle to walk through, and you might as well pick a door that appeals to you. Judaism is in large part based on the idea that you're going to wrestle or at least grapple intellectually and emotionally with God, it not only puts a door in front of you whose appeal to you is impossible to resist, but puts a guard who warns you that even if you get through the guard and though the door, you'll have to face a new and even more alluring door with a guard who is even stronger. "He who increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow" 

What door does America stand in front of in 2017? Some say the door is Trump, some last year said the door was Bernie, some say it's the status-quo, some say it's capitalism, some say it's liberalism, some say it's immigration, some say it's nativism, but the one thing we all seem to agree on is that Modern America is stuck in front of a door, can't get through it, and refuses to walk away.

Assuming that we can walk away, what would be so terrible if we did? Again, Kafka has a kind of answer.


I

ran past the first watchman. Then I was horrified, ran back and said to the watchman: "I ran through here while you were looking the other way." The watchman gazed ahead of him and said nothing. "I suppose I really oughtn't to have done it," I said. The watchman still said nothing. "Does your silence indicate permission to pass?". . . 




I'm not going to ask a rather pointed question here. In order to ask what this answer means, I'm going to first ask, is this an answer?

(allow for discussion, when it winds down) 

I'll say about this that to my way of thinking, this is an answer by being a non-answer. When this guy goes through a door with a watchman, his first thought is if he had permission. I suppose it then follows that the next question is, what will the watchman do in response to his going through the door without permission? Will there be retaliation, will there be consequences, what's being risked? Is this guy even a watchman? Like the object in every parable, the door itself is just a McGuffin - it's the device to move the story forward, and it means everything and nothing - in other words, whatever you want it to mean. I take that to mean that whatever the situation in our lives, among our families and friends and communities, among our cities and countries, there is no way of knowing what comes next. All we have is the anxiety of knowing that even if we have the most infinitesimal choices in our lives, we still have an infinity of choices within that infinitessence, and we will always worry that we didn't pick the best choice, because of course we never do. That's life, that's existence which either precedes essence, as existentialism would have it, or is of an essence that we can never truly know, as the Tanakh and the Kabbalah would tell us. 

Now Kafka was a fantastic middle point between Judaism and Existentialism - influenced enormously on the one hand by the stories of the Tanakh and of, believe it or not, both the Yiddish Theater and Reb Nachman of Bretslav, and on the other by existentialists like Dostoevsky and Kierkegaard and Nietzsche. His great talent was as a teller of Bible-like parables. His novels are not quite as good because they're really just a loose collection of parables with filler. But unlike Reb Nachman, who used his parables to show the existence of God, Kafka used these parables, and he'd often use Reb Nachman's framework, to show that God is immaterial to how we ought to live. God may very well be there, but we have to proceed as though he isn't. 

So let's skip to the second-to-last parable (call on someone to read):

The Messiah will come as soon as the most unbridled individualism of faith becomes possible--when there is no one to destroy this possibility and no one to suffer its destruction; hence the graves will open themselves. This, perhaps, is Christian doctrine too, applying as much to the actual presentation of the example to be emulated, which is an individualistic example, as to the symbolic presentation of the resurrection of the Mediator in the single individual.
The Messiah will come only when he is no longer necessary; he will come only on the day after his arrival; he will come, not on the last day, but on the very last.

Now, if this strikes you as controversial to Judaism, I would refer you to another Reb Nachman, Nachmanides, who said, or at least according said to that 70's movie The Disputation with Christopher Lee, that Moshiach will only come when we deserve him. And it's entirely possible that we will only deserve him by being so good that we no longer have need of him. 

So now we have to talk about how do we get to the point where we can either be worthy of Moshiach's coming or no longer have need of him? And in order to do that, we have to talk at least a little bit about the milleu in which Kafka was himself. 

He grew up in Prague, which was, perhaps, the Boston of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. It wasn't Capital City and far from the Largest City, it was a small, beautiful, culturally relevant, relatively prosperous third city of an Empire that only took up the East Coast of the German speaking lands. And unlike Germany, which was basically monoglot and as Hitler proved, rather uniform in its ethnicity and culture, though that never stopped the various provinces from hating each other, the Austro-Hungarian Empire was probably the most multi-cultural place in the world. There were something like two-dozen separate nationalities, all of which spoke different languages, hated each other, an hated being part of the Empire. As my father pointed out to me, the only people who loved the Austro-Hungarian Empire, including the Austrians whom, as Hitler proved, wanted to be German, was the Jews - who had no territory on which they could aspire to nationhood. The Austro-Hungarian Empire was, like all Empires really, an autocracy, but was, relatively speaking a liberal one. In terms of advancement and the suffrage of the various issues on which citizens could vote, it was more liberal and tolerant than any truer democracy of its age. And Jews prospered accordingly in it.

The Prague of its time was emblematic of the Jewish situation everywhere at every time. There were 30,000 German speakers in this town of 300,000 who ruled Prague as a ruling class. Half were gentile, half were Jewish. If Jewish history tells us anything, it's that the rich prosper and constantly elevate the Jews as a kind of civil servant class. We're the world's 'middlemen.' We'll leave cultural explanations of why for another day, but what it inevitably means is that Jews inevitably become the symbol of the occupying class. Everywhere, we are seen as a foreign import that prospers on the backs of a native underclass that is more deserving than we, and we become the symbols of their oppression. We are the evil Christkillers who prevent Jesus from returning, we are the evil monotheists who turned the classical world away from reason, we are the evil bloodsucker race who pollutes the purity of the great race's blood, and now we are the evil occupiers and imperialists who prevent self-determination. The antisemitic blood libel always changes but it's always there, and some Jews believe it themselves as well as gentiles, and it's always easy to believe, because in a perverted way, it has a film of truth. If human nature were different and less ambiguous, perhaps all those things which fanatical ideologies wanted would be possible. But Judaism, wherever it's gone, has been the great exception, and drives people who have a two-dimensional view of the world insane. And because we're not protected the way the real rulers are, we're the only people upon whom really meaningful retribution on ruling class is taken. It hasn't happened here yet, but if it never does, it'll be the first place for which that is true.

So let's switch gears again and talk about some Kafka stories.

Kafka began his mature writing the night after Yom Kippur in 1912, almost exactly two years before World War I, with the short story, The Judgement - you can infer the Jewish connotation for yourself. It was part of, as he saw it, a tryptich of three stories in which fathers triumph over sons. We can spend the whole rest of the time talking about Kafka's relationship to his father and his characterization of fathers. But instead of talking about fathers in of themselves, it's better to talk about fathers as metaphors. A metaphor for a dying society in which an older generation simply won't give way, they have a more old-fashioned, more authoritarian, more patriarchal way of looking at the world, and by sheer will to power, they are triumphing over a new way of life that is more sensitive and more accepting. Now in today's America, both the right and the left have their patriarchal resentments. The right talks about paternalism, the father state telling us what's best for us. The left talks about patriarchy, the system by which men pose as father figures who know best and keep women subservient. 

All throughout history, 'father' has been a poetic metaphor for a larger superstructure that keeps people in place. The more present the structure feels, the more like a prison it feels, no matter how objectively good this structure provides for in people's lives, it does not feel that way. When we're in the middle of the chaos of war and poverty, we have a longing to return to order. But when we are, as Kafka was, from an assimilated upper-middle class background where it is clear that life, however disappointing, is not going to get any better than it is right now, the chaos of the outside world calls out to us, and there's a homing device in all of us that's receptive to returning to it. It often seems as though the more privileged we become, the more all of us have a longing to smash that privilege into a million pieces, because the privilege reminds us of what we still don't have, and teases us with how tantalizingly close we are to a better life. Whether you're liberal or conservative, alt right or intersectional warrior for social justice, it all seems to be part of the zeitgeist we feel today. Our prosperity doesn't make us more satisfied, it makes us less. America is, by any objective standard, a better country to live in now for more people than ever before, and yet, ever since the beginning of the 21st century, we've been miserable as a country. One thing after another - Lewinsky, Bush v Gore, 9/11, Iraq, Katrina, the Great Recession, Obamacare, the 2016 election, wherever we fall on the political spectum, the polarizing debates about these things have made us feel less trusting, less happy, and more powerless.

So let's talk about The Judgement for a second. It is about nothing more or less than a father who sentences his son to death by drowning, and the son obliges. Don't look at this as a familial tale, look at this as an American one, look at it from the point of view of Social Security, a program founded when there were 27 workers for every retiree, and when the last Baby Boomer retires, there will be less than 3 workers for every Baby Boomer retiree, and that's before the effects of mass automation on employment. While my parents are in many ways the precise opposite of this Baby Boom phenomenon to leave their children worse than they found them, the entire millenial generation has been handed something not unlike a financial death sentence by our parents and grandparents that will indenture us at best to US student loans and at worst to East Asia who bails us out at still worse rates of exchange.

Let's now think about Metamorphosis. You all know the story: Prague Salesman turns into giant bug. The original translation into English translation is a gigantic insect. But here, there is a very specific problem. To say that someone is turned into an insect is value neutral, it emphasizes the absurdity of what happens and gives definition to Kafka's idea that isn't really there in the German. The problem though is that Kafka insect, he said 'monstrous vermin', or in German 'ungeheuren ungezeifer', a spiritual insect. When you hear 'ungeheuren ungezeifer', you realize that what's important is not that he's an insect, but that he's vermin. Now think of that Freud phrase: The narcissism of small differences. Gregor might not even be an insect, he is just seen as an insect. Maybe he's a schizophrenic who's convinced himself that he's an insect and is therefore treated like vermin by his family, or maybe vermin is just a metaphor for how he's viewed by the people in his life, and he's simply internalized it. We just don't know, but what we do know is that if there were two words Hitler loved to use in his speeches, it's 'ungeheur' and 'ungezeifer'.

As he acclimates to his new condition, his vision and memory dims, so does his ability to think verbally, but that's no different than how a malnourished prisoner would decline. He eats rotting food, he has an offensive odor that permeates everything, and even the sister, supposedly the most sympathetic member of the family to him, can't bear to look at Gregor. This is the moment when we realize that prison reform is at the back end of the liberal policy dreams, and we have more prisoners in this country than any substantial in the world either in raw tallies or per capita, and that includes authoritarian regimes like China and Russia

But imagine prisoners who seem insect-like and are not secluded in far-away prisons, but right next to you, on Park Heights Avenue and North Avenue and around the looted CVS at Penn Quarter. When you're in Station North, when was the last time was that you looked into the eye of a North Avenue beggar? You know that there is a less than 1% of a 1% chance that anything will happen except that he'll try a little harder to make you give him money, but the panic it triggers in you is unmistakable. As a bug, Gregor can't make himself understood in German anymore, but even were Gregor not a bug, even if this bug spoke something like German, would he be able to make their plight understood considering that everybody is already pre-conditioned to find the point of view of someone who looks different unsympathetic? When he dies, he's emptied out with the garbage. I don't need to tell you more about what Jewish experience The Metamorphosis can give us an uncanny look into except to point out that Gregor was the only person in the family who works, and the rest of the family has nothing to do but further resent the vermin in their lives. What ultimately was the problem which brought Hitler to power? It was jobs, Hitler was supposed to be the 'jobs Chancellor.' How did Hitler bring jobs? By making war on people he said were vermin. How was he able to do this? Because the biggest problem of unemployment is not necessarily the chance of starvatio,n because in a first-world country there a relatively small chance of that, it is the injured sense of humiliation unemployment gives, and when people are humiliated, they will do anything to retaliate.

So let's now think of what I'd call the greatest of Kafka's short stories, The Penal Colony. This is the one about 'The Machine' which The Princess Bride so memorably riffed on. In this colony, if the prisoner is handed a death sentence, it's by one officer who serves as judge, jury, lawyer, and executioner. No trial, the officer simply hooks the prisoner up to a machine designed to kill the prisoner over a period of twelve hours by writing the crime into the prisoner's back with needles - literally a tattoo of flesh. The similarity to the death camps doesn't need any elaboration, but what does need elaboration is the officer's description of the machine at its height, and I'll do a slight dramatic reading here about the decline of the machine that will hopefully prove that Kafka can be shockingly funny.

"How different an execution was in the old days! A whole day before the ceremony the valley was packed with people; they all came only to look on; early in the morning the Commandant appared with his ladies; fanfares roused the whole camp; I reported that everything was in readiness; the assembled company--no high official dared to absent himself--arranged itself around the machine; this pile of cane chairs is a miserable survival from that epoch. The machine was freshly cleaned and glittering, I got new spare parts for almost every execution. Before hundreds of spectators--all of them standing on tiptoe as far as the heights there--the condemned man was laid under the Harrow by the Commandant himself. What is left today for a common soldier to do was then my task, the task of the presiding judge, and was an honor for me. And then the execution began! No discordant noise spoiled the working of the machine. Many did not care to watch it but lay with closed eyes in the sand; they all knew: Now Justice is being done. In the silence one heard nothing but the condemned man's sighs, half muffled by the felt gag. Nowadays the machine can no longer wring from anyone a sigh louder than the felt gag can stifle, but in those days the writing needles let drop an acid fluid, which we're no longer permitted to use. Well, and then came the sixth hour! It was impossible to grant all the requests to be allowed to watch it from nearby. The Commandant in his wisdom ordained that the children should have the preference; I, of course, because of my office had the privilege of being at hand; often enough I would be squatting there with a small child in either arm. How we all absorbed the look of transfiguration on the face of the sufferer, how we bathed our cheeks in the radiance of that justice, achieved at last and fading so quickly! What times these were, my comrade."

So this of course begs a question, when any form of justice is improperly applied, do you then blame the improper application, or do you blame the form of justice?

So here, for what it's worth, is my answer. Justice, when improperly applied, is not justice. The results, statistically and conceptually, will always speak for itself. If you have to justify any system by saying that it's simply been improperly applied, be it Communism and Socialism, or libertarian views of capitalism, or imperial conquest, or a cult of personality around a Presidential candidate, if the vast majority of the results you can point to is failure, then the problem is not that it's been improperly applied, the problem is that you have a conception of human nature that requires the neatness of a machine, and is therefore inhuman. There was never any chance that your belief was ever going to be anything but a disaster when implemented.

So what happens at the end of The Penal Colony? The Officer, realizing that the machine will never be used again, sacrifices himself to be the machine's last victim. He believes in his mode of justice so greatly that he's willing to kill any number of people, including himself. We used to see this kind of ideological fanaticism in Europe, but who can look at 2016 and not think to ourselves that it's come to America? There are 300 million privately held guns in this country, any number of which could be in the hands of vigilantes, and don't just think to yourself that these vigilantes can only come from the Right, it's entirely possible when apprehended, the vigilante will say that he did what he did in the name of social justice.

We could do similar interpretations with The Burrow and The Hunger Artist and various parts of Kafka's novels, there's even a very short story called 'The Bucket Rider' about a dystopian world in which survival depends on coal. In the 19th century, that was absolutely true, and it would appear that in the 21st century, we could be heading back there... But I'm worried we're running out of steam, so let's talk about the story that most obviously parallels 2017: The Great Wall of China.

There's so much that can be said about its contemporary relevance, but the story i not at all what you'd expect, It has the tone of a scholarly article, and it has a weird spiral logic with parables within the parables, it's more like Borges than Kafka and it's kind of dry as Kafka admittedly can be. But there are three brief quotes worth saying aloud here on the second paper I provided.

The first is, in a rather grotesque parallel, Kafka writes

"the command deliberately chose the system of piecemeal construction. But the piecemeal construction was only a makeshift and therefore inexpedient. Remains the conclusion that the command willed something inexpedient...",

Here's the second quote. Try to reverse the polarities in your mind:

"Against whom was the Great Wall to serve as a protection? Against the people of the north. Now, I come from the southeast of China. No northern people can menace us there. We read of them in the books of the ancients; the cruelties they commit in accordance with their nature make us sigh in our peaceful arbors. The faithful representations of the artist show us these faces of the damned, their gaping mouths, their jaws furnished with great pointed teeth, their half-shut eyes that already seem to be seeking out the victim which their jaws will rend and devour. When our children are unruly we show them these pictures, and at once they fly weeping into our arms. But nothing more than that do we know about these northerners. We have not seen them, and if we remain in our villages we shall never see them, even if on their wild horses they should ride as hard as they can straight toward us--the land is too vast and would not let them reach us, they would end their coarse in the empty air." 

The meaning of the parallels here are so clear that I think we should just let them speak for themselves. So let's end with Kafka's second attempt at a story about building a wall. But before we read it, let me ask that you try to think of what this means in a world where there are so many sources, so disputed, that we don't know what's true anymore. Kafka lived at the end of the European era, and in some ways marked the beginning of the Jewish one. Jews always flourish when the world is in transition, we've been so adaptable that we often seem to be the yeast through which history works, and many people mistaken that for parasitism. Just consider that since Biblical times, there was no universally accepted great Jewish writer of fiction until Franz Kafka. The whole Renaissance and Enlightenment passed us by, Shakespeare, Cervantes, Milton, Moliere, Goethe, Jane Austen, Dickens, Tolstoy, Ibsen, Dostoevsky, Melville, Flaubert,  all hugely influenced by Jewish writing, and all of whom have things to say about individual will and character and destiny, and posterity hardly remembers a single Jew is present to say anything about it. No doubt, a large part of that's due to antisemitism, but it's also partly because individuality is only a primary concern in Judaism when we talk about the individual's relationship to a community. But the modern era comes along, with all its anxieties about how communities and the systems which hold communities in place can rub out individuality, and how an individual can struggle to survive and maintain his dignity in a place where everything conspires to rob him of it, and suddenly Jewish fiction writers proliferate like rabbits. That starts with Kafka, but how much longer can it last? In the online era, algorithms can predict our future choices better than we can ourselves, and it's possible that the people who control that information can form us into anything they want. Human nature may have been solved. So if that's the case, then the modern era is very much like the medieval one, and as accelerated as the progress of our world seems today, we may be, as unlikely as it still seems, headed for a very different, superstitious world again, in which religion will have to be our great consolation. And with that in mind, let's read this last fragment. Don't read it as a piece of nostalgia from the distant past, read it as a potential warning for our future.

Call on someone


The news of the building of the wall now penetrated into this world. This, too, arrived late, some thirty years after its announcement. It was on a summer's evening. Ten years old, I stood on the bank of the river with my father. As befits the significance of this much discussed moment, I remember the smallest circumstances. He held me by the hand--he liked to do that even when he was very old--and with his other hand he stroked his long and very thin pipe as if it were a flute. His large, sparse, stiff beard moved in the wind; enjoying his pipe, he looked upwards across the river. This made his pigtail, which was an object of reverence to children, sink lower, softly rustling against the gold-embroidered silk of his holiday gown. At that moment a bark came to a stop in front of us; the boatman beckoned to my father to descend the slope, while he himself climbed up to meet him. They met each other in the middle; the boatman whispered something in my father's ear. To get even closer to him, he embraced him. I did not understand what was said and saw only that my father did not seem to believe the news. The boatman tried to convince him that it was the truth, but Father still could not believe it; the boatman, with all the passion of a sailor, almost tore his clothes open on his breast in order to convince him that it was so. Father became quieter, and the boatman leaped back into the bark with a clatter and sailed away. Meditatively, my father turned his back toward me, knocked out his pipe and stuck it in his belt, stroked my cheek, and pulled my head toward him. This was what I liked most, it made me very happy, and so we returned home. There the rice soup was already steaming on the table, several guests were already gathered, and the wine was just being poured into the cups. Without paying any attention to all this, my father began to report from the threshold what he had heard. Naturally, I have no exact recollection of his words, but because of the extraordinary nature of the circumstances involved, which was enough to impress even a child, their meaning sank into me so deeply that I stil feel able to give a kind of verbatim version of them. And I do so now because these words were very characteristic of the popular interpretation. Thus, my father said more or less the following: A strange boatman--I know all who usually sail past here, but this one was a stranger--has just told me that a great wall is going to be built to protect the Emperor. As you may know, the infidel nations, wth demons among them too, often gather in front of the imperial
Kafka never finished many of his stories, but like in Michelangelo, he always gets to the essence in what's already there. As Orwell said, the object of power is power, and if the wall is built, it's not built to keep East Asians or Russians or Near-Eastern infidels or Mexicans out, but to keep us in. Here endeth the lesson.