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Surely in music there had never been a more beautiful, a more profound evocation of tranquillity and Arcadian peace, spun out in music of incomparable freshness and perfection of gesture and pace. There have been only those two interruptions, with their brassy fanfares. What follows is a rending scream.
Surely, there had never been more peaceful music.
What follows.is a rendering scream.
Richard Wagner would call it "the terror fanfare."
In the first movement of the symphony, for the last time he buried the hero and the heroic ideal once exalted in the Eroica. Now through Schiller he replaced that ideal with a new one: the perfected society that begins in the freedom, happiness, and moral enlightenment of each person, growing from inside outward to brothers and friends and lovers, from there in a mounting chorus outward to universal brotherhood, the world Schiller named for the ancient Classical paradise: Elysium.
Beethoven buried the hero and replaced him with inner peace and satisfaction; universal brotherhood - Elysium
When the bass soloist speaks the first words in the finale, an invitation to sing for joy, Beethoven’s words are addressed to everybody, to history. There’s something singularly moving about that moment when this man—deaf and sick and misanthropic and self-torturing, at the same time one of the most extraordinary and boundlessly generous men our species has produced—greets us person to person, with glass raised, and hails us as friends.
Here is where the solipsism that had been with him since his youth, which his friends and admirers had always understood and largely forgiven, turned on him with devastating effect. And yet, now, finally, he bent. Holz and Stephan von Breuning pressed him to let Karl join the army as he wanted
The C-sharp Minor is an integration of the Poetic style with the organic quality of his earlier music. Each movement is tightly made, with one or two leading ideas and contrasts subdued (except in the variations). The textures are simple and open, which is to say Classical.
The circle around the deathbed had been counting days and then hours. Now they counted minutes. At 5:45, lightning lit up the chamber and there was a terrific clap of thunder. Suddenly Beethoven jerked into life, opened his eyes, raised his clenched fist into the air as if in defiance of it all, the whole mess of fate, the fickle gods, the worthless Viennese and corrupt aristocracy, the whole damned comedy. His hand fell, his eyes half closed. Hüttenbrenner had a hand under Beethoven’s head, the other over his breast. He found no breath, no heartbeat.
So much of what we know about Beethoven, we best forget when we come to his art. The limits and the pettiness of humanity held up against the illusion of the limitless in art were never more pointed as with him. He understood people little and liked them less, yet he lived and worked and exhausted himself to exalt humanity.