ÒWhen I die, itÕs hardly likely that someone will write a quartet dedicated to my memory. So I decided to write it myself. One could write on the frontispiece, ÔDedicated to the author of this quartet.ÕÓ
Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê ÑDSCH
Ê Ê Ê Ê IÕve always been somewhat puzzled by the term Òoff the deep end.Ó ItÕs used to describe a creature gone insane, you know, stark raving mad. That makes very little sense if you think about it. An insane creature is unaware, his senses have flown off and he floats in his own world, so to speak. Beneath a great depth of water, you know, the deep end, youÕre hardly floating. Rather, youÕd be under very enormous pressure from the water, pinned down instead of floating off. You can leave nothing behind in all that water, youÕre forever surrounded by its blue quandary. And thatÕs why I think Òoff the deep endÓ should refer not to the obliviously insane but rather the heavily depressed.
Ê Ê Ê Ê In my own thoughts, you know, I can use my own definitions for figurative terms like that. So one might therefore say that, upon returning from my discussion with Bolt, I was very far off the deep end. The meeting, so to speak, had resuscitated my soulÑa completely dead spirit cannot feel anything, it cannot be depressed. Until then, IÕd let all the negative events come and pass indifferently, inattentively. But upon being revived from that death and promptly depressed, I actually recognized in full what IÕd been through, what had happened, and what IÕd done. I saw IÕd done nothing at all while the truly insane workings of Mtsensk ranted on, tearing further into the world. IÕd let it all pass like a harmless parade. And not just the occurrences of when my soul was dead, but everything IÕd missed my whole lifeÑthe oppression of artists before IÕd felt it, the utter cruelty of the prison ward, the concept that some beasts will stoop to killing others for just violation of nonsensical Òrules.Ó That revelation was more overwhelming, so to speak, then it would be to have the entire Òdeep endÓ poured upon me. It was enough to make me wish for deathÑthe physical variety. A dead spirit still sees, but a dead bodyÕs eyes are closed.
Ê Ê Ê Ê Throughout history, famous creatures in tough situations have always wished for Òhonorable death,Ó so to speak. As it were, I couldnÕt have defined that term in the state I was in, and probably wouldnÕt have bothered seeking it had it been defined. I felt dirty and useless; objects defined by those adjectives are ones that should be thrown out, gotten rid of as efficiently as possible. But to continue on the issue of definitions, the most effective disposal method was another thing I wasnÕt certain about. You know IÕd never felt like that before, and so, naturally, IÕd never previously considered the issue. On that evening, though, many ideas ran through my pressured mind, each possible yet none seeming tolerable, nothing seeming something I could really do. (This does not surprise me now.) I wished I could just lie down and sleep forever, but that situation wasnÕt doable by will. Frustrated, but not abandoning the plan IÕd sunk to, I numbly made my way to the old music room, planning to further my consideration there.
Ê Ê Ê Ê For some time after VolklovÕs death IÕd avoided the old study, and with very little effort, you know. I wasnÕt certain if the guards had previously found the study or not, and so I steered clear. But in my newer situation, the chance that the guards did know suddenly appealed to me. Though it would have been a victory for Mtsensk, so to speak, had I died at the paws of the officials, it was an idea I could handle slightly better. Maybe that I couldnÕt approach doing away with myself subliminally meant I still had a will to live somewhere, though I only recognize that possibility in hindsight. As it were, letting the guards have their fun, so to speak, was what I would have gone for. I figured going and playing forbidden music on the piano in ZlayaÕs main hall would draw their attention soon enough. But in consideration of exactly which pieces to play, a totally new idea began to form in my mind, one that did involve postponing the guardsÕ arrival.
Ê Ê Ê Ê YouÕve probably heard my string quartet if youÕve heard any of my music at all. ItÕs certainly one of my more widely played pieces currently, the single piece most creatures know me by for its sound. If youÕve heard it, though, you certainly have no idea what it means. ItÕs an autobiographical quartet, so to speak, and I wrote it feverishly in three nights of depression in the old study. It was meant as a farewell to life, an attack on the evils I hated enough to push me to deathÑthe guards would hear it and kill me then, but at least I would have made one final statement against them, I wouldnÕt have died so easily, so unresolvedly. One might say itÕs a summary of all the pieces IÕd written to that point; I cried as I was writing it.
Ê Ê Ê Ê Very evident through the entire piece is my musical signature, my initials. And by that, I donÕt mean simply a motif I often use. I mean my signature, literally. I recall from when I was a student another notation system, a very old one based on an ancient alphabet thatÕs not used and makes no sense. IÕm not certain why I committed it to memory, actually, but it allowed me to put my initials to tones. In ancient notation, the sequence D-E flat-C-B familiarly becomes, oddly, M-S-H-KÑthat is, my initials. I was pleased with the idea when I first used it, though applied to the quartet it swirls through all four parts often and with no joy.
Ê Ê Ê Ê The first movement is slow, and it establishes my situation. My signature begins it and drifts through it mournfully in my very own states of mind. It crescendos, my self-criticism embodied, to fade to near inaudibility, the level I was at at the time of composition. It comes back up then to a single drifting melody line, a tragic monologue of introduction backed up by the soft, indifferent, drone of the other three parts. Those parts act as if to ignore; as I ignored so much, thatÕs why three players drone. I do eventually pull another moving voice to the fore, but the conversation is brief and subdued, soon releasing the second voice back to the dead drone, losing the one friendly contact. And from there the sounds build, mostly menacingly. At one point, the chords mimic the bells of a free place, almost holy in respect to the dark brooding tones that are quick to return, perhaps not as quickly as my own hopes were dashed, as my signature rises and falls again.
Ê Ê Ê Ê The second movement arrives immediately, loud, fast, rawly brutal like a DictatorÕs tirade or a physical sweep for prisoners. ItÕs relentless, unforgiving on performers and listeners alike, pressing forward jarringly but seeming to last forever in the same beating pattern. ItÕs a creature overwhelmed or a village stormed. Images from kithood flashed to me as I wrote, of soldiers overtaking my town, rampaging the streets, sabering old and young alike. Images flashed in foreboding of future wars, ventures I knew would be forthcoming and equal to what I saw in person. Just as nonsensical, as chaotically structured, perhaps worse. Twice over the din rises a screaming melody of pain, utter anguish, and helplessness, or of twisted victory over the previous. Interpret that as you willÑI meant it as both at once. My signature too storms through the melee, my revenge on myself for not paying attention to the realities before, for letting them storm past. As physical violent horror suddenly became so conspicuous to me, I placed myself as conspicuous in the portrayal.
Ê Ê Ê Ê The storm of the second movement breaks full force into the third. The third movement is slower, but itÕs still in a quick three. One might call the third movement a sick little disfigured waltz, so to speak. The meter and tempo are right for dancing, but the melody is a wraith of its own, twisting in ways that are undeniably devilish, ways that would certainly deter dancers. ItÕs too mocking to dance to, perhaps, and I meant it to be. The passive criticisms and insults of lesser authorities, mocking and decidedly wrong sounding. Though I did also mean it as a dance, the dance of prisoners into their open graves IÕd heard about and elaborated on in my mind. Percussive pizzicatos accent the upbeat in places, the swift arrowshots from the guards. In the middle of this movement as well, a solo rises, this time swaying as uncontrollably depressed, hopeless weeping. It comes from the creatures in the prison, perhaps, but from me as well, in reaction the the sight and sounds of such horrors as well as the prominent placement of my initials, mocking again, as mocking as the uniform IÕd willingly donned.
Ê Ê Ê Ê All of the movements are continuous; the third dies away as one may turn or walk away, return to sit in his quarters and ruminate. And then the fourth interrupts, initiated with three loud, sharp, very purposeful blasts of sound. Three knocks on the door, repeated as thereÕs no answer. IÕm too terrified to answer, I was terrified in memory when I wrote those notes, terrified those knocks would reoccur in reality as I wrote. I still jump when someone knocks innocently in that rhythm, for I always fear the incessant accusatory ranting I portray next in screamed three-way unison, one other note barely holding out against it, overwhelmed. The knocks punctuate the whole movement as they still haunt me, coming even when they wouldnÕt have. Before a section of hopeless minor musing, then again before the only major-key segment of the piece. You canÕt call that segment peaceful, though; itÕs a drawn out longing for something, itÕs fantasizing on an unreachable, be it freedom from oppression or forever abandoning the decapacitating terror, the state of being a creature bound in blind fear by three knocks on a door!
Ê Ê Ê Ê The fifth movement serves as a conclusion; it represents no event that actually happened. Rather, it becomes a fugue on a permutation of my signature, a slow sort of relentless this time, the driving insanity of acute depression. The sound swells like a rounded wave, rolling up then sliding back down to near loss at the deep end. And then I bring back the beginning, the exact same sequence with which I open the piece. There is a difference, though, in that after another relayance of my signature, no solo ensues but rather a held minor chord, held to last until the sound completely dies away. To start again, perhaps, but never to finish because of being more completely finished. The story of this piece, my life...
Ê Ê Ê Ê I was wet when I put the final double bar down on the page, three nights after IÕd started composing. Wet from sweat and, of course, from tears. Probably more from the second. I stared at the manuscript, hot on the desk, so to speak. What to do with it then? Still feverish, I decided IÕd play through it once on the big piano. If that didnÕt get me killed, IÕd try to take it to Evgeny and Venyamin Sobareka myself. I didnÕt plan on anything beyond thatÑI was certain that IÕd be dead upon getting that far. But the quartet would be the last words from my physical self. Either way, itÕd be played, others would hear, could interpret. And, as I would be dead, hatred and misinterpretation could not hurt me. At the time I conceived it, my plan made me happy indeed, the happiest IÕd been in a long time.
Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê Ê ÑDSCH
Ê Ê Ê Ê IÕve always been somewhat puzzled by the term Òoff the deep end.Ó ItÕs used to describe a creature gone insane, you know, stark raving mad. That makes very little sense if you think about it. An insane creature is unaware, his senses have flown off and he floats in his own world, so to speak. Beneath a great depth of water, you know, the deep end, youÕre hardly floating. Rather, youÕd be under very enormous pressure from the water, pinned down instead of floating off. You can leave nothing behind in all that water, youÕre forever surrounded by its blue quandary. And thatÕs why I think Òoff the deep endÓ should refer not to the obliviously insane but rather the heavily depressed.
Ê Ê Ê Ê In my own thoughts, you know, I can use my own definitions for figurative terms like that. So one might therefore say that, upon returning from my discussion with Bolt, I was very far off the deep end. The meeting, so to speak, had resuscitated my soulÑa completely dead spirit cannot feel anything, it cannot be depressed. Until then, IÕd let all the negative events come and pass indifferently, inattentively. But upon being revived from that death and promptly depressed, I actually recognized in full what IÕd been through, what had happened, and what IÕd done. I saw IÕd done nothing at all while the truly insane workings of Mtsensk ranted on, tearing further into the world. IÕd let it all pass like a harmless parade. And not just the occurrences of when my soul was dead, but everything IÕd missed my whole lifeÑthe oppression of artists before IÕd felt it, the utter cruelty of the prison ward, the concept that some beasts will stoop to killing others for just violation of nonsensical Òrules.Ó That revelation was more overwhelming, so to speak, then it would be to have the entire Òdeep endÓ poured upon me. It was enough to make me wish for deathÑthe physical variety. A dead spirit still sees, but a dead bodyÕs eyes are closed.
Ê Ê Ê Ê Throughout history, famous creatures in tough situations have always wished for Òhonorable death,Ó so to speak. As it were, I couldnÕt have defined that term in the state I was in, and probably wouldnÕt have bothered seeking it had it been defined. I felt dirty and useless; objects defined by those adjectives are ones that should be thrown out, gotten rid of as efficiently as possible. But to continue on the issue of definitions, the most effective disposal method was another thing I wasnÕt certain about. You know IÕd never felt like that before, and so, naturally, IÕd never previously considered the issue. On that evening, though, many ideas ran through my pressured mind, each possible yet none seeming tolerable, nothing seeming something I could really do. (This does not surprise me now.) I wished I could just lie down and sleep forever, but that situation wasnÕt doable by will. Frustrated, but not abandoning the plan IÕd sunk to, I numbly made my way to the old music room, planning to further my consideration there.
Ê Ê Ê Ê For some time after VolklovÕs death IÕd avoided the old study, and with very little effort, you know. I wasnÕt certain if the guards had previously found the study or not, and so I steered clear. But in my newer situation, the chance that the guards did know suddenly appealed to me. Though it would have been a victory for Mtsensk, so to speak, had I died at the paws of the officials, it was an idea I could handle slightly better. Maybe that I couldnÕt approach doing away with myself subliminally meant I still had a will to live somewhere, though I only recognize that possibility in hindsight. As it were, letting the guards have their fun, so to speak, was what I would have gone for. I figured going and playing forbidden music on the piano in ZlayaÕs main hall would draw their attention soon enough. But in consideration of exactly which pieces to play, a totally new idea began to form in my mind, one that did involve postponing the guardsÕ arrival.
Ê Ê Ê Ê YouÕve probably heard my string quartet if youÕve heard any of my music at all. ItÕs certainly one of my more widely played pieces currently, the single piece most creatures know me by for its sound. If youÕve heard it, though, you certainly have no idea what it means. ItÕs an autobiographical quartet, so to speak, and I wrote it feverishly in three nights of depression in the old study. It was meant as a farewell to life, an attack on the evils I hated enough to push me to deathÑthe guards would hear it and kill me then, but at least I would have made one final statement against them, I wouldnÕt have died so easily, so unresolvedly. One might say itÕs a summary of all the pieces IÕd written to that point; I cried as I was writing it.
Ê Ê Ê Ê Very evident through the entire piece is my musical signature, my initials. And by that, I donÕt mean simply a motif I often use. I mean my signature, literally. I recall from when I was a student another notation system, a very old one based on an ancient alphabet thatÕs not used and makes no sense. IÕm not certain why I committed it to memory, actually, but it allowed me to put my initials to tones. In ancient notation, the sequence D-E flat-C-B familiarly becomes, oddly, M-S-H-KÑthat is, my initials. I was pleased with the idea when I first used it, though applied to the quartet it swirls through all four parts often and with no joy.
Ê Ê Ê Ê The first movement is slow, and it establishes my situation. My signature begins it and drifts through it mournfully in my very own states of mind. It crescendos, my self-criticism embodied, to fade to near inaudibility, the level I was at at the time of composition. It comes back up then to a single drifting melody line, a tragic monologue of introduction backed up by the soft, indifferent, drone of the other three parts. Those parts act as if to ignore; as I ignored so much, thatÕs why three players drone. I do eventually pull another moving voice to the fore, but the conversation is brief and subdued, soon releasing the second voice back to the dead drone, losing the one friendly contact. And from there the sounds build, mostly menacingly. At one point, the chords mimic the bells of a free place, almost holy in respect to the dark brooding tones that are quick to return, perhaps not as quickly as my own hopes were dashed, as my signature rises and falls again.
Ê Ê Ê Ê The second movement arrives immediately, loud, fast, rawly brutal like a DictatorÕs tirade or a physical sweep for prisoners. ItÕs relentless, unforgiving on performers and listeners alike, pressing forward jarringly but seeming to last forever in the same beating pattern. ItÕs a creature overwhelmed or a village stormed. Images from kithood flashed to me as I wrote, of soldiers overtaking my town, rampaging the streets, sabering old and young alike. Images flashed in foreboding of future wars, ventures I knew would be forthcoming and equal to what I saw in person. Just as nonsensical, as chaotically structured, perhaps worse. Twice over the din rises a screaming melody of pain, utter anguish, and helplessness, or of twisted victory over the previous. Interpret that as you willÑI meant it as both at once. My signature too storms through the melee, my revenge on myself for not paying attention to the realities before, for letting them storm past. As physical violent horror suddenly became so conspicuous to me, I placed myself as conspicuous in the portrayal.
Ê Ê Ê Ê The storm of the second movement breaks full force into the third. The third movement is slower, but itÕs still in a quick three. One might call the third movement a sick little disfigured waltz, so to speak. The meter and tempo are right for dancing, but the melody is a wraith of its own, twisting in ways that are undeniably devilish, ways that would certainly deter dancers. ItÕs too mocking to dance to, perhaps, and I meant it to be. The passive criticisms and insults of lesser authorities, mocking and decidedly wrong sounding. Though I did also mean it as a dance, the dance of prisoners into their open graves IÕd heard about and elaborated on in my mind. Percussive pizzicatos accent the upbeat in places, the swift arrowshots from the guards. In the middle of this movement as well, a solo rises, this time swaying as uncontrollably depressed, hopeless weeping. It comes from the creatures in the prison, perhaps, but from me as well, in reaction the the sight and sounds of such horrors as well as the prominent placement of my initials, mocking again, as mocking as the uniform IÕd willingly donned.
Ê Ê Ê Ê All of the movements are continuous; the third dies away as one may turn or walk away, return to sit in his quarters and ruminate. And then the fourth interrupts, initiated with three loud, sharp, very purposeful blasts of sound. Three knocks on the door, repeated as thereÕs no answer. IÕm too terrified to answer, I was terrified in memory when I wrote those notes, terrified those knocks would reoccur in reality as I wrote. I still jump when someone knocks innocently in that rhythm, for I always fear the incessant accusatory ranting I portray next in screamed three-way unison, one other note barely holding out against it, overwhelmed. The knocks punctuate the whole movement as they still haunt me, coming even when they wouldnÕt have. Before a section of hopeless minor musing, then again before the only major-key segment of the piece. You canÕt call that segment peaceful, though; itÕs a drawn out longing for something, itÕs fantasizing on an unreachable, be it freedom from oppression or forever abandoning the decapacitating terror, the state of being a creature bound in blind fear by three knocks on a door!
Ê Ê Ê Ê The fifth movement serves as a conclusion; it represents no event that actually happened. Rather, it becomes a fugue on a permutation of my signature, a slow sort of relentless this time, the driving insanity of acute depression. The sound swells like a rounded wave, rolling up then sliding back down to near loss at the deep end. And then I bring back the beginning, the exact same sequence with which I open the piece. There is a difference, though, in that after another relayance of my signature, no solo ensues but rather a held minor chord, held to last until the sound completely dies away. To start again, perhaps, but never to finish because of being more completely finished. The story of this piece, my life...
Ê Ê Ê Ê I was wet when I put the final double bar down on the page, three nights after IÕd started composing. Wet from sweat and, of course, from tears. Probably more from the second. I stared at the manuscript, hot on the desk, so to speak. What to do with it then? Still feverish, I decided IÕd play through it once on the big piano. If that didnÕt get me killed, IÕd try to take it to Evgeny and Venyamin Sobareka myself. I didnÕt plan on anything beyond thatÑI was certain that IÕd be dead upon getting that far. But the quartet would be the last words from my physical self. Either way, itÕd be played, others would hear, could interpret. And, as I would be dead, hatred and misinterpretation could not hurt me. At the time I conceived it, my plan made me happy indeed, the happiest IÕd been in a long time.