Extremism

This will be one of the more pointed and political (ly incorrect) things I have written. But alas, I feel compelled to say a word or two about our current moral predicament involving religious extremism. As of November of 2015, the Islamic State in Iraq and Syria (ISIS) has gained a bit of press due to its direct threats (and now actions) against western nations. Touting itself as an educated Christian nation, one might expect the general public of the United States to have built up a rational, productive set of values to deal with cheap, cowardly acts like those perpetrated by "terrorists." This is being written in the wake of more tragic violence, so of course passions are high and irrational reactions can almost be understood. Almost. Calls to arms, talks of nuclear retaliation, and the laughable Monday-morning quarterbacking that has accompanied every terrorist attack that has come to our attention has been spewed from a disturbingly diverse collection of politicians, religious leaders and what I will politely call misled-but-patriotic Americans. I can only ask: do we really think that is the solution? Is this just the post-attack kool-aid talking, or are we just using this tragedy as an excuse to say what we've been thinking all along?

Sensationalism, however, has come to rule the day in this political and social epoch. It isn't a new principle, it's just been perfected. Outrage and calls to violent action can be seen in America history before American history was even a thing. A parallel pattern, however, is the unfailing ability of an almost entirely literate nation to squander every opportunity to take appropriate, cool-headed action in the wake of a national tragedy. Lusitania = WWI. Pearl Harbor = WWII. Gulf of Tonkin = Vietnam. Invasion of Kuwait (and cheap oil fields) = Gulf War. 9/11 = War on Terror. Why do we almost inevitably react to violence with violence? Perhaps an even better question: why the fudge does it keep happening?

It might sound strange, but I draw a correlation between the failure of the United States to effectively deal with violent extremism and bullying. What really causes kids in school to get picked on? Is it their physical weakness, their imperfections, etc.? I would argue that that is not the case. It is the kids who react defensively or violently to provocation that catch the most flak, because they give their bullies what they really want: a reaction. More specifically, they give their bullies proof that they are scared. Yes, what I'm trying to say is that the United States has a serious self-esteem problem. We don't want to look like pansies, so we react to every "threat" like a 7th grader who gets picked on all the time. We've gotten away with it thus far because we have two oceans and the world's largest military separating us from eveyone else's idea of normal. But the sad fact is neither of those things are effective in stopping the march of ideas. No one can drop a bomb on a concept or shell determination.

ISIS and most other violent minority groups understand this. They know better than anyone that their best recruiting tool is a bomb dropped by a plane from a western country. Their "jihad" has taken on a decidedly anti-western complexion because of our belief in our singular right to be the world's policeman instead of its teacher. We have made the (perhaps unconscious) decision to be the hammer of the world rather than the library. We've decided that appearing weak to anyone in any way is not acceptable. Yes, the United States has an obligation to share its wealth of resources and its prosperity with the rest of the world. But thus far, we have shared far more bullets than books. Against a nation like Japan during the Second World War, that was effective because we taught them our rules of war during the 1850's, which they followed (google it).

ISIS and groups like it, however, don't follow our rules. They are willing to blow themselves up not for family honor or their 72 virgins, they will do it because they know what affect their actions will have on the people they hate will be. They know we as westerners will take the bait without hesitation. So how do you fight aggression like this? How do you show people that violence will not get them what they want? If I or anyone else had a definitive answer to that question, I wouldn't be writing this right now (or so I hope). If the last several centuries has taught us anything, however, it is that responding with force is not the solution. We simply cannot hope for peace through war any longer. We've tried it for long enough for that to be an absolute certainty. Proponents of this strategy are of course playing right into the hands of extremist groups. I can think of no more fearful a statement than "you can pry my gun from my cold dead hands" or something of the like. One might as well say, "I am absolutely nothing without this instrument of destruction, and I know it."

Every head we've cut off in the Middle East has sprouted five more because we simply refuse to even try to understand the people we are fighting. We did not necessarily "create" ISIS, but what we certainly did was give them lots of weapons and a common enemy (the west in general). If we actually want to take power away from ISIS, we have to understand what motivates them. So what are their motives? I can't tell you all of them for certain, but the one that concerns me the most is placing emphasis on traits which make us different from one another. They act out of fear of that which they do not understand, and strive to project this fear onto others through violence. This of course leads to division and misunderstanding, which leads to even more fear.

Fear, I think we can all agree, is the most powerful weapon any person, group or nation can bring to bear. What troubles me greatly is that I see a whole lot of fear in America. "If we can't verify that every Syrian refugee isn't a terrorist, I don't want any in my state." "As long as Jihadists have guns, you're not going to take mine away from me." What these statements really say is "ISIS, YOU SCARE THE SHIT OUT OF ME," which is precisely what they want. Of course, people who are scared are inevitably more vocal about their fearlessness than those who are not. Our nation was founded with this power of the minority in mind, as Samuel Adams tells us, "It does not take a majority to prevail... but rather an irate, tireless minority, keen on setting brushfires of freedom in the minds of men." ISIS is playing our game, and if we are not careful, they will win it. 

Ruby

"Why did you give her a gypsy name?" This was my grandfather's reaction to hearing that we had named our newest addition to our family Ruby. It was suggested (for reasons I honestly still do not know) that we name her after a type of stone. Quartz was a bit bland, and Diamond was stripper-esque, so we settled on Ruby. She was a pure-bred German Shephard, the offspring of two beautiful dogs whose name I can't remember. Her father was an enormous and powerful dog, but incredibly obedient. We met her for the first time in a kennel and decided that the sable-coated pup with a hot pink collar would be part of our family. Very early on, we could see that she was not the type of dog we were accustomed to. Mutley, our mixed breed dog who was still alive when Ruby arrived, was the embodiment of "chill." It's my sad contention that the arrival of such a young, energetic dog might have hastened Mutley's departure, but Mutley lived a long life and for the most part they got along.

Ruby was not "chill." She never harmed a person intentionally, though I am absolutely certain that she would have if she felt that we were being threatened by one. One of my earliest interactions with Ruby was provoking her into a frenzy that is typical of young dogs, which involved her running around the room and jumping on everything she could in a big circle for about twenty seconds. Sometimes, these episodes would last a little longer and be a little more intense than expected, and she was liable to cause serious damage if she couldn't be stopped. Like the budding eight-year old genius I was, I decided to play with Ruby the morning that I was scheduled to take my third grade class picture. Now immortalized in glossy glory is a testament to what a young German Shephard is capable of: a frowning 8 year-old me with a large scratch under my eye, hating every single moment of that particular day.

She was not a big dog, particularly for a German Shephard. She was sable-coated and, though her ears would later prove to be an issue, a genuinely beautiful animal. She was relatively small for her breed, but stocky and muscular. Another early encounter I had with Ruby involved her chasing after our cat for about twenty feet, with me attached by way of a leash. That dog dragged me (probably over one hundred pounds at the time) a fair distance with relative ease. Once she had realized what she had done, she was clearly distraught, both by nearly killing me and by not catching that damned cat.

Ruby's general hatred of anything that moved on four legs (or wheels in some cases) is one of her enduring legacies. Her violent tendencies toward other dogs came to our attention in "doggie day-care," which my mother hoped would foster some manners in the young, instinctual Ruby. Instead, it only served to prove that where we lived was probably the only place a dog like Ruby would be able to function: in the middle of the woods. She was never entirely at ease, always alert and prepared for any real or imagined threat to her flock. To my eyes, she seemed most in her element watching intently over the forest while we worked in the garden or on other projects around the house. She did not always see things that struck her as worthy of her full attention. When she did, the gentle, caring dog we knew became the wolf from which her breed has decended.

I do not remember the first time Ruby killed a deer because it happened relatively often. I honestly believe that Ruby saw the care which we took to make our garden and our home worthwhile projects and felt obligated to keep hungry woodland creatures away. This sentiment would play perfectly into her prodigious territorial instincts. I don't use the word prodigious often, but in this particular situation, it fits. She had taken an unspoken vow to protect her home and family, and she would honor it her entire life. Yes, Ruby once chased a full grown black bear up a tree and would not let it down until we forced her inside. To her, any fauna within sight were plotting to not only eat our beans and collards, but kill us, take our money, use our toilets and leave the seats up. I can tell you that as a person living in the Pocono Mountains, I have become fairly familiar with the sight of dead animals on the sides of our roads. Watching a German Shephard make a meal of a full grown deer, however, is glimpse into the primal instincts of a natural predator.

The next chapter of the Ruby saga begins somewhere deep in the forest, where an exceedingly charming dog successfully courted the fierce princess. During her periodic romps through the woods after deer, Ruby scheduled several rendezvous with this charming dog. A few months later, our house became a puppy kennel overnight. I distinctly remember my fifth grade teacher approaching me during class to tell me that my mother had gone home because Ruby had "given birth." Seven healthy puppies would become the talk of the house for a few months. Ruby was the protective, firm and gentle mother that we all expected her to be. We of course decided to keep the largest of litter, who was by far the laziest, and named him Shep, after the suitor with which we had originally intended Ruby to pursue a romantic relationship. As the other puppies went their separate ways, Shep seemed unaffected by the commotion, content with eating, sleeping, and generally being the clumsy, lovable dog that he still is today.

Understandably, Ruby began to lose her characteristic physical vigor after Shep and his sibblings arrived. Although she still managed to wrangle a few deer (perhaps trying unsuccessfully to teach her fierceness to her son), more and more she would only chase other animals to the edge of the property. She remained muscular and tough throughout her life, but running appeared painful as she aged. Her ears were a chronic problem, and constant draining of fluid from them left them collapsed and wrinkled, eventually creating such an issue that we decided that her best option was to have them cropped off. I always sensed that this was extremely embarrassing and demoralizing for her, and that such a proud dog could never survive long in so depressed a state.

She eventually developed several inoperable tumors, a possible product of either her food or even the water that she drank. I can remember going to the veterinarian's office several times, embarrassed by Ruby's behavior and incredibly sad as I began to understand that she would soon be gone. In hindsight, her health deteriorated very quickly. She suffered a stroke following one of her visits to the vet, and the tumors multiplied quickly after that. Of course the visits were necessary, but I know that putting a dog like Ruby in such a stressful, uncomfortable situation at her age did little to help her.

The night before her final visit to the veterinarian, we all said our goodbyes. She always sensed when something was wrong with us, and though I honestly believe that she knew what was going on, she remained stoic. Unshakable. She had stared down animals five times her size ,and it seemed so ridiculous to me, as I think it probably did to my sisters and my parents, that she should meet her end in a veterinarian's office. The next morning it was over in barely an hour. "I'm sorry" was the last thing my father said to his beloved dog. I can certainly romanticize about a noble death at the place where she had lived and protected her flock for her entire life, as I know this was what my father wanted for her, but it was not to be. Burying her was the most difficult part. My mother stood and watched, freezing to death in the cloudy December weather as my father and I made the grave. We laid her to rest on the same rug that she laid on for years in front of the fireplace, and wrapped her in a plaid jacket we used when we worked outside. When the work was finished, we took turns to say our last goodbyes. I wept like I have very few times in my life.

Much is made of the connection between pets and their masters. The concept of dogs in particular creating a special bond with their caretakers is well documented. In my experiences, however, there still exists a great emotional and intellectual divide between most animals and their owners. As a student of social sciences, I could certainly make a historical correlation between the subjugation and emotional detachment from other living things and our modern concept of household pets. That is to say, we have learned to not listen to other animals much in the same way we have learned to not truly listen to each other. Despite the fact that by any serious estimation most other species have existed far longer than humans have, little credence is given to their natural wisdom and intellectual endowment. Popular sentiment seems to dictate that animals, particularly those that are domesticated, only provide mankind with entertainment, sustinence, and perhaps quiet companionship, but little more. I can only say that my time with Ruby disproved this. Animals may not speak languages common to human ears, but they communicate knowledge constantly in ways that have been deemed insignificant. They understand things we as humans can never hope to understand, but since they do not look like us and sound like us, they are altogether separate from us, and certainly can not contribute anything of substantive value to our lives. To call an animal noble or caring or brave, however sincere, is generally considered symbolic. Real nobility and bravery, as most understand it, are attributes that are worthy of genuine recognition when they are used to describe humans. I felt this way when I was young. The beautiful Shepherd that was a part of my life for ten short years forced me to rethink my relationship with other living things, including other people. She showed me that everything, be it a dog, a person, a blade of grass or a drop of water, can be learned from and appreciated, and therefore has value.  She embodied the spirit of the name given to her breed. She was the Good Shepherd. She taught me as much in her short time on earth about things like dignity, bravery and loyalty as any person ever has. I loved her and I miss her very, very much.

The Gettysburg Address

In describing the largest and most costly conflict in the history of The United States, the right words can sometimes be difficult to find. Time has given us the luxury of perspective that no one alive as it occurred enjoyed. So much has been written, analyzed, rewritten and reanalyzed about it that a clear, concise description of the true reason that six hundred-thousand Americans were killed is usually slow in coming. Discussions about it routinely become bogged down in statistics and descriptions of battles, which while significant, rarely delve into the conflict's meaning. With these struggles still present a century and a half after the conflict, it is easy to see why many Americans who lived during it struggled to comprehend the Civil War that was raging around them and delivering death and destruction at an almost unbearable rate. Effective leadership in such conflicts requires an ability to both disregard emotion and embrace it, along with an ability to find the root of conflict and remain focused on resolving it. When words become too emotional or unemotional, the essence of a problem is lost, and the words themselves become lost and forgotten by history. It is when those in positions of power use their influence through their words that history is made, great leaders are recognized, and great conflicts are given perspective. It is during these times of great confusion and desperation that reaffirmation of a country's core values and its greater purpose as a means to improve the lives of its citizens in the presence of so much death can unite an entire nation. Perhaps no better example of such a situation and such words came about on November 19th, 1863, at the dedication of a cemetery in the town of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania.

By all accounts, 1863 was not an easy time to be the President of the United States. The war between the states which had remained loyal to Washington, D.C and those who had formed their own confederacy led from Richmond, Virginia had reached its third year and had grown to proportions which were unthinkable at its onset. What was supposed to be a small, limited conflict now pitted two of the largest land armies in history against each other. As with most American wars, the tactics were slow to adjust to the technological advances in weaponry, which would lead to a series of disastrous confrontations. American ingenuity took American lives at a frightening pace as muskets and artillery designed during the Revolutionary War were being quickly replaced by more effective killing machines like the Henry Repeating Rifle and the Gatling Rotary Cannon. The generally accepted military procedure to that point had been to mass men in lines and march toward the enemy to engage in mostly hand-to-hand combat. This practice would be used with disastrous effect throughout the war, and southern commanders like Nathan Bedford Forrest, who employed alternative strategies such as cavalry flanking, were extremely successful in negating the North's daunting advantage in sheer numbers.

The Battle of Gettysburg was one of the most brutal and ultimately pivotal confrontations in the course of the war. Southern general Robert E. Lee led his Army of Northern Virginia north to invade Pennsylvania, which southern leaders hoped would earn European support for the confederacy, which supplied much of Europe with its abundance of cheap, slave-harvested cotton. Gettysburg, a small college town forty miles south of the state capitol of Harrisburg would become the scene of a truly historic struggle as Lee's forces dug in and awaited the arrival of Union General George G. Meade's forces. From July 1-3 of 1863, the fields outside of Gettysburg would play host to a sprawling battle that would yield 51,000 casualties. The final, and ultimately most costly maneuver of the battle by Lee would come to be known as Pickett's charge, which saw one of The Army of Northern Virginia's most successful divisions practically annihilated. George Pickett, the Confederate Major General for whom the offensive would be named, never forgave Robert E. Lee for the mistake, which would be one of the few military miscalculations Lee would ever admit to. The defeat at Gettysburg pushed the Confederate forces off of Union territory for the remainder of the war, and as such would come to be considered by many as the central turning point of the entire conflict.

In November of that year, it was decided by the community of Gettysburg to construct a large, official cemetery to act as a proper resting place for the 7,550 men who perished there during the battle. The dedication ceremony was scheduled for November 19th, with Edward Everett, a widely renowned speaker and former senator, designated to be the featured orator. President Abraham Lincoln was invited comparatively as an afterthought, and would speak second. Everett's speech lasted approximately two hours, and was met with generally positive reception from the crowd . Lincoln then rose and spoke for barely two minutes, saying:

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.
Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.
But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate -- we can not consecrate -- we can not hallow -- this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us -- that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion -- that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain -- that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom -- and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

Applause was relatively light. There were no great rousing cheers from the 15,000 in attendance. Many seemed surprised and somewhat disappointed. The cameraman, who had expected to be able to prepare and focus his camera during a lengthy speech, was only able to snap a blurry picture of the president as he exited the stage. Lincoln himself felt his words were not well received. One Harrisburg newspaper called the president's speech "silly" and that it would soon vanish behind the "veil of oblivion." A writer at the Chicago Times used the unconventional use of the president's time in the national spotlight to point out how uncultured he seemed to many in high society. Describing his words as "dish-watery utterances," the article would go on to describe Lincoln as "the man who has to be pointed out to intelligent foreigners as President of the United States." 

Obviously historical consensus has proven these to be examples of short-sighted journalism, but important nonetheless. Lincoln was not entirely given to Presidential traditions, particularly in presentation. He was sometimes rumpled, always sported a beard, and was known to be ungainly and even clumsy at times. Those who could not see through these assaults on presidential grace felt that regardless of the precise and beautifully crafted words that routinely flowed from him, Lincoln was at best a well-meaning simpleton unequal to the task before him. These comments on perhaps the greatest speech ever given speak to the enormous pressures under which Lincoln operated continuously as he struggled to keep the nation, and himself at times, focused on the ideas he outlined at Gettysburg.  

Positive reviews of the speech were more common. Many in attendance and many who would later read the transcript latched onto its clarity and lack of frivolity and pomp that was common in oratory at that time. Though it did not seem that way initially, Lincoln had summed up an entire nation's essence in two minutes at a time when many had begun to doubt whether the nation had an essence at all.  The address would later be and still is often quoted by politicians and common Americans alike. Many who were in attendance at the ceremony were family members of soldiers who had died in the battle. Lincoln's simple, straightforward speech seemed disingenuous at first, but most understood his message: the devotion and memory of those who died could only properly be honored through an even greater dedication to not only completing the task they set out to do, but to create a society even more firmly based in the principles upon which it was founded. Volumes of meaning had been boiled down into a two minute speech. This is a feat which cannot be understated given the political and emotional climate of the time. 

Perhaps the thread that ties every important theme of the Civil War together has been the struggle to define our value on human life as Americans. Lincolns words, when interpreted through the lense of slavery, spoke to the heart of what was dividing the nation: the subjugation and exploitation of an entire race. From the perspective of American families who had sent sons to war, the speech declared the invaluable nature of the young men who had given their lives for a cause they knew was more important than states rights. The higher, nobler purpose of the conflict was to recognize the failure of the United States to fulfill the promise upon which it was founded. If a meaningful solution to this problem was not found through this conflict, Lincoln argued, then battles like the one at Gettysburg were little more than young men killing each other for petty political squabbles. This, Lincoln knew, was unacceptable to the thousands of Americans that now lived without husbands, brothers, fathers and sons. Through his words, Abraham Lincoln gave hope to Americans that through their "increased devotion," they could ensure that their lives, the lives of the thousands who were still yet to die, and those whose lives were wasting away in chains were and are of value. It would require five years and six hundred thousand lives to achieve Lincoln's vision. Perhaps Edward Everett captured the essence of the Gettysburg Address best in a letter to Lincoln the next day: “I wish that I could flatter myself that I had come as near to the central idea of the occasion in two hours as you did in two minutes." Everett knew, as most Americans would soon know, that the world would indeed long remember what was said that day in Gettysburg, as it would long remember the man who said them.

Alexander the Great?

An analysis of the "greatness" of Alexander of Macedon must first begin with the question of what greatness has meant to certain societies over time. In general, history has regarded "great" leaders as those who have not only protected their constituents, but also expanded the territory over which they rule, both physically and psychologically. The ancient Persian rulers were considered successful when they overthrew smaller surrounding territories and unsuccessful when they could not. A modern example of this would be the success of the United States' "Manifest Destiny," which involved not only claiming huge swaths of untamed land as their own, but forcibly taking it from natives. Other societies, which place less emphasis on conquest (though virtually all place at least some value on it) and more on other endeavors such as ancestral veneration or religion, may fail to see greatness in acquisition of land. Alexander of Macedon certainly acquired territory, but I tend to believe that his universal glorification is merited. An amazing military tactician? Obviously. A great ruler? I argue that the opportunity to to prove that trait was never fully realized. It is my belief that while his conquest and unification of much of the known world ranks his among extremely limited company, he most likely died before he could have proved true greatness by keeping his hastily constructed empire intact.

Before discussing the achievements of Alexander in depth, one must acknowledge the great debt he owes to his father, Philip II. Uniting the weakened but still very independent and militaristic city-states of Greece is a feat that is often overshadowed by Alexander's campaigns, but was perhaps equally remarkable. Unity amongst Greek city states to that point had only been achieved militarily in the face of foreign enemies that threatened to conquer the entire Greek world. Philip brought virtually the whole of Greece under a single rule by force, and would cultivate the army Alexander used to carry out his conquests.

Several events during Alexander's war of revenge against Persia reveal significant flaws in Alexander's character that made him a very effective leader of an army, but would likely have perhaps made him a poor leader of an empire at peace. His willingness to execute his subordinates after little or no trial points to paranoia that would not have translated well to a stable government. His famous fondness for Persian dress and customs (including taking an Asian wife) alienated his army and distanced him from the men who began to believe that they were fighting more for Alexander's glory than that of their nation. These and various other episodes (such as his acqusition of the title of the son of Ammon in Egypt) and likely only inflated Alexander's prodigious megalomania, a trait that, when untempered by outside advice, can be a ruler's downfall.

The chaotic aftermath of Alexander's death reveals further problems that would have face Alexander had he lived longer. As with most things in history that take shape over a very short period of time, Alexander's empire quickly devolved following his death. Predictably, the shaky division of kingdoms agreed upon by prominent generals who had known nothing but war for several years led to conflict. This led to the formation of three large states in Greece, Egypt, and the former Persian Empire. Although they were initially led by successors of Alexander, they essentially would develop independent of each other. It would have taken a monumental effort (and philosophical change) on Alexander's part to keep his new empire stable much longer than his successors did.

Of course, we will never know if Alexander would have been able to bring his ambition under control and effectively rule his empire. If a leader like Cyrus the Great is to be a standard, I would argue that Alexander's chances were doubtful at best. It seems to me that while he was obviously willing to accept his subjects' customs, he was out of touch with what needed to be done beyond his military capacity to keep his vast lands under control. It seems fitting to me that so soon after his military campaign ended, Alexander mysteriously died. Men who revel in conflict often find peacetime unbearable and even physically draining (see: George S. Patton). It was perhaps in the best interest of his future image that Alexander die so young. Had he lived longer, I believe that while he was certainly a great general, he would have made a poor peacetime ruler. A modern example of this principle can be found in Nazi Germany, where had its leader died at the peak of his country's territorial expansion, he would not have been blamed for its downfall.

Trees

My first memories are of trees.

As little as I can remember about my childhood, I know unequivocally that there were trees.

To this day, nothing evokes sentimental and pleasant emotions in me like autumn at my home among trees.

Attempts could be made to rationalize these phenomena.

They would be wasteful.

The combination of the changing colors, falling temperatures and the smell of rotting leaves and smoke from a wood burning stove is one of the few things left in my life that truly overwhelms me.

Every year I fear that the feelings that autumn has given me since I was a child will not return, and every year I am pleasantly surprised when they do.

There is no sensible reason to explain why autumn weather caused me to run to the end of the street when I was young just to better soak in the moonlight on clear nights.

It comforts me to know that there are still such mysteries.

Watergate

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Glenn Gould

I became interested in Glenn Gould for the same reason most do: I wanted to play the piano the way that he did. Though his polarizing, eccentric personality does not appeal to everyone who is familiar with him and his work, I do not think anyone can with any degree of legitimacy deny the beauty of his work. I have been somewhat frustrated to learn that I lack both the talent and the passion necessary to play the piano the way Glenn Gould did, but I take solace in knowing that I am not alone. A novel by the German author Thomas Bernhard (aptly called The Loser) describes a similar situation, though in significantly more detail. In the novel, the narrator describes a series of events that begins with he and his partner, both renowned pianists, meeting a young Canadian piano prodigy named Glenn Gould. The story then describes the descent of both the narrator and his partner into crushing depression as a horrible reality grips them both: though they had spent far longer than Gould perfecting their craft, neither could even fathom playing the instrument with the groundbreaking beauty that Gould could. This realization would have a far more pronounced affect on the characters in Bernhard's book than it has on me. The narrator eventually suffered a nervous breakdown, sold his piano and would never play again. His partner was so distraught, he committed suicide.

Like all who possess true genius, Glenn Gould strikes many as a man with great talent and an even greater desire to showcase it. When asked about him, many contemporary pianists have less than flattering words for Gould. Almost without exception, professional pianists train rigorously to play the notes in front of them, and sometimes to interpret how they should be played. Significant departures from what is on the page are rare. Gould saw little need for such fettered musicianship, although his technique and ability to control every sound his instrument made was and still is the envy of every serious pianist. His willingness to depart from traditional interpretations of classical standards is legendary, if not infamous. When questioned about his choice of tempo or dynamics for a given work, Gould would almost invariably crack a wry smile, look about in obviously contrived contemplation, and lead the interviewer on a sort of journey to nothing of significance. He was a living, breathing, and incalculably frustrating contradiction. "What's the point of playing a piece the same way everyone else does?" he once asked. He was a man committed to innovation and constant improvement, and he was a man committed to either ignoring or intentionally opposing traditional attitudes towards music.

Born in Canada to middle class parents, Gould was exposed to a great deal of music at a very early age, mostly by his doting mother. He was influenced by the great Polish pianist Josef Hofmann, who was the first musician Gould ever saw play publicly. In listening to and watching Hofmann's work (the unfortunately small amount that is available), the relation between the two can easily be seen: clear, gripping, beautiful music, and incredible virtuosity. Gould would graduate from the Royal Conservatory for Music at age twelve, and at that time became, for all intents and purposes, a professional pianist. He would continue to amaze live audiences from that time until 1964, when he abandoned touring altogether (for reasons I will explain later). He would devote the remainder of his life to recording and other other projects, such as radio broadcasts, conducting, and a small amount of composition. His death at the age of fifty was no doubt a result of his hypochondria, which would become far more pronounced later in his life.                                                                                                              

Of course one cannot fully understand Glenn Gould without discussing his eccentricities. Like many musicians, to hear and to see him perform are two entirely different experiences. His most noticeable physical trait was his tendency to wear heavy clothing regardless of the temperature. He is so associated with this look that a statue made in his honor in his hometown depicts him in his scarf, hat and overcoat. His hands were also striking, as he often would soak them in scalding water for long periods of time before performances, turning them bright red. His playing technique, however effective, is still considered unorthodox. He almost always played while sitting in a small, custom-made chair that he would use at every one of his performances and recordings during his career. The chair, barely a foot off the ground, placed Gould far lower at the keyboard than most other pianists. This allowed him to "pull down" on the keys rather than push them. A both visibly and audibly unusual trait of Gould's work is the fact that he can often be heard vocalizing the music, or "humming" along to what he is playing. He claims this is came about during his childhood when his mother encouraged him to sing while he played, thus the habit was born.

His home life fostered a love of being alone, as he was an only child of a family that lived in a relatively secluded area of Canada. This environment fostered not only a remarkable ability to focus, but a need for extremely particular working conditions. Gould's obsession over every aspect of his recording sessions (everything from placements of microphones to the exact humidity of the recording space) often created tense moments between himself and those he worked with. Later in his life, his anxiety regarding public presentation caused him to demand that all of his appearances before camera or microphone be rigidly scripted. All of these traits were exacerbated by Gould's hypochondria, which he closely documented in a journal which was discovered after his death. He would obsessively take his own blood pressure at all hours of the day and would receive prescriptions for medications for many illnesses from many doctors, obviously a very destructive and ultimately fatal behavior.

In any case, it would turn out that I had come to hear the music and would stay to learn about the man. Many have tried, and perhaps all have failed, to find what truly made Gould who he was. He is an example of someone who was given a talent which most can only imagine and used in a way he felt he should use it, rather than how others might have liked that he use it. This was apparently a sticking point in his personal and professional development. Despite his aversion to concert performance, he reluctantly toured often during his early years. This can be seen in many with unorthodox perspectives on well established fields: one must first conquer the traditional route in order to gain credibility for more adventurous and fulfilling endeavors. Credibility, as I will later touch on, bore some significance with Gould.

Even his traditional foray into concerts was done in his own style, as he often cancelled tours for such reasons as his hotel being too drafty or his suffering from some real or imagined illness. He was known to wake late in the afternoon and call one of many people who were willing to listen to him and speak to them about whatever struck his fancy that day, sometimes for hours. This was indicative of both his desire to communicate and reach an audience while still keeping his distance, as well as his lack of regard for the time and interests of others, which I believe is typical of most people blessed with both talent and passion. One of the most daring moments of his career was his tour of Russia during the 1957, during which he brazenly played mostly the work of German composers. The Soviet public obviously put aside their misgivings about all things German, as the large and enthusiastic crowds for which he played often demanded multiple encores. Anyone who could make Soviet citizens in 1957 demand more of something that is explicitly German obviously transcends our typical interpretation of a musician.

Though he is generally known most for his talents at the piano, Gould considered himself a "musician who sometimes expressed himself through the piano." Later in his life, he would devote a great deal of his effort to other projects, an example of which is an oral tone poem called "The Idea of North." This recording used the voices of several people describing their personal experiences in the isolated northern parts of Canada. Using each separate recording, Gould created a symphony of voices that are describing similar experiences in different ways and in different tones, and yet in harmony. He obviously takes this contrapuntal approach from Bach, whose polyphonic work intertwined two or more melodies that could perhaps stand apart from each other as separate pieces, but create incredible harmony when combined, much like the voices in Gould's work.

Gould's decision to stop performing publicly is one that to most today obviously needs a good deal of explanation. Concert pianists, in the 1950's as they are now, were in an enviable financial situation. Gould, however, had philosophical misgivings about the modern concert, saying that there seemed to be a great barrier between the performer and the audience. This, he believed, was a great tragedy in the history of music, as the distance between performer and audience, which was far less pronounced in the early days of musical performance, has only grown since Gould's time. Of course one could easily claim that his anxiety towards public performance (and his anxiety in general) contributed greatly to this decision. He also cited what he considered the "blood-sport" of audiences only attending to witness a catastrophic lapse in the performer's concentration. Whatever the reason, Gould would devote the rest of his career to a more user-friendly form of music: mass produced recordings, which he predicted would evolve into platforms which would allow listeners to either create their own music using pre-recorded parts (garageband?) or listen to any recording they wished at any time they wished (YouTube, Itunes, Pandora, etc.). Clearly, the man had the mind and talent to be an incredibly well-known and influential figure in modern music, but perhaps lacked the technology. Though he was influential, he was relegated to physically snipping and pasting reels of recordings. One can only imagine what Gould might be able to accomplish with the tools available to any one of us today.

Glenn Gould's life and work have continued to fascinate me since the day I first listened to his recording of Bach's French Suites on the internet. The more I learned about the man, the more I realized that he, like his music, was a great piece of art, able to be described in many different ways by many different observers. Many have tried, but none have succeeded in definitively pinpointing what was most exceptional about his life and career. He seems to me to have been a man with his finger firmly on the pulse of not only the tastes of his time, but also the tastes of times to come. And yet, he is also blessed with the foresight to ignore immediate personal gain and strive for something more meaningful to music. This is not to say that this decision was altogether charitable. He stated several years after his departure from concert performance that he had only delved into it in order to gain credibility and notoriety for his recordings.

However, it is this desire to reach the common person, rather than those who are able to afford a ticket to the show, that I find admirable. I have found that people, though they strive for independence, will always seek a way to raise a person or group of people above themselves in admiration (like writing a lengthy essay about them). I believe that though it is perhaps natural to do this, a separation between the performer and the audience creates a separation between the music and the audience. How many of us who attend concerts and idolize musicians understand (or even care to understand) the process and inspiration behind what we are listening to? This of course can be applied to other aspects of our lives, such as politics or sports. Immense success and talent often create a seemingly unbridgeable divide between those who are talented and successful in particular arenas and those who are not. When we stop believing that we can achieve a level of success in areas (especially the arts) where extremely talented people have excelled, we stop understanding what they are doing and become fixated on the talented person, rather than the craft that most have dedicated their lives to in ways we do not fully understand. This is to say that in regarding a person, however talented, as more than human, we unwittingly imply that there exist some who are less than human, which is unacceptable. Of course, I do not know for certain if this is what Gould was really striving for by choosing the career path that he did, but I like to believe it is.

My personal love of Gould's music lies in a correlation between the nature of a work like "The Idea of North" and the nature of human interaction: our lives (and indeed the lives of all things, living or otherwise) are all invariably intertwined on some degree, creating any number of interactions and harmonies. But of course any life can stand as its own narrative, its own melody, so to speak. One of the most meaningful things Gould said about Bach's music is that it flows, undulates, moves constantly, often without creating a discernible melody. Though its harmonic brilliance is heard throughout, Bach's music lacks the iconic passages and flourishes typical of Mozart or Beethoven's music. In this, one can see Gould's aversion to the public's attachment to singular performances, or an individual's ability to perform. Performances are but tiny glimpses into the complexity of the what is being conveyed, be it music, sports, or anything in which perfection is the goal, though it is never truly attained. I feel, as perhaps Gould felt, that Bach's music is an allegory for the flow of time itself: it is not the singular moments and sudden flourishes that constitute it, but rather its continuity; its entirety. It emulates the incredibly methodical rhythms of the universe through relentless motion and change. Bach, Glenn Gould, and truly moving music will continue to inspire and fascinate us in ways one single performance never will. Indeed, even after the last piano is built and the last pianist is long dead, Glenn Gould's interpretation of Bach will continue to entertain and inspire the stars: a recording of Gould playing a section of Bach's "Well-Tempered Clavier" was selected to be included on the musical recordings on the Voyager 1 spacecraft, which will continue to travel unguided to the distant reaches of space for eternity.