Computer/Video Game Development Karen Petersen Lead Gameplay Programmer Telltale Games.
ReflectionsDecember 17, 2012 Issue Some Notes on Attunement€¦ · Elkie had that telltale rasp in...
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8/9/2019 Some Notes on Attunement | The New Yorker https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2012/12/17/some-notes-on-attunement 1/15 T I he ȩrst time I heard her I didn’t hear her at all.My parents did not prepare me. (The natural thing in these situations is to blame the parents.) She was nowhere to be found on their four-foot-tall wood-veneer hi-ȩ. Given the variety of voices you got to hear on that contraption, her absence was a little strange. Burning Spear and the Beatles; Marley, naturally, and Chaka Khan; Bix Beiderbecke, Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, and James Taylor; Luther Vandross, Anita Baker, Alexander O’Neal. And Dylan, always Dylan.Yet nothing of the Canadian with the open-tuned guitar. I don’t see how she could have been unknown to them—it was her peculiar curse to never really be unknown. Though maybe they had heard her and simply misunderstood. My parents loved music, as I love music, but you couldn’t call any of us whatever the plural of “muso” is. The Smiths owned no rare tracks, no fascinating B-sides (and no records by the Smiths). We wanted songs that made us dance, laugh, or cry.The only thing that was in any way unusual about the collection was the manner in which it combined, in one crate, the taste of a young black woman and an old white man. It had at least that much eclecticism to it. However, we did not tend to listen to white women singing very often. Those particular voices were surplus to requirements, somehow, having no natural demographic within the household. A singer like Elkie Brooks (really Elaine Bookbinder—a Jewish girl, from Salford) was the closest we got, though Elkie had that telltale rasp in her throat, linking her, in the Smith mind, to Tina Turner or Della Reese. We had no Kate Bush records, or even the slightest hint of Stevie Nicks, raspy though she may be. The ȩrst time I was aware of Debbie Harry’s existence, I was in college. We had Joan Armatrading and Aretha and Billie and Ella. What did we need with white women? t was the kind of college gathering where I kept sneaking Blackstreet and Aaliyah albums into the CD drawer, and friends kept replacing them with other things. And Some Notes on Attunement A voyage around Joni Mitchell. By Zadie Smith December 9, 2012
Transcript of ReflectionsDecember 17, 2012 Issue Some Notes on Attunement€¦ · Elkie had that telltale rasp in...
8/9/2019 Some Notes on Attunement | The New Yorker
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he�rsttimeIheardherIdidn’thearheratall.Myparentsdidnotprepareme.(Thenaturalthinginthesesituationsistoblametheparents.)Shewasnowhere
tobefoundontheirfour-foot-tallwood-veneerhi-�.Giventhevarietyofvoicesyougottohearonthatcontraption,herabsencewasalittlestrange.BurningSpearandtheBeatles;Marley,naturally,andChakaKhan;BixBeiderbecke,LouisArmstrong,DukeEllington,andJamesTaylor;LutherVandross,AnitaBaker,AlexanderO’Neal.AndDylan,alwaysDylan.YetnothingoftheCanadianwiththeopen-tunedguitar.Idon’tseehowshecouldhavebeenunknowntothem—itwasherpeculiarcursetoneverreallybeunknown.Thoughmaybetheyhadheardherandsimplymisunderstood.
Myparentslovedmusic,asIlovemusic,butyoucouldn’tcallanyofuswhateverthepluralof“muso”is.TheSmithsownednoraretracks,nofascinatingB-sides(andnorecordsbytheSmiths).Wewantedsongsthatmadeusdance,laugh,orcry.Theonlythingthatwasinanywayunusualaboutthecollectionwasthemannerinwhichitcombined,inonecrate,thetasteofayoungblackwomanandanoldwhiteman.Ithadatleastthatmucheclecticismtoit.However,wedidnottendtolistentowhitewomensingingveryoften.Thoseparticularvoicesweresurplustorequirements,somehow,havingnonaturaldemographicwithinthehousehold.AsingerlikeElkieBrooks(reallyElaineBookbinder—aJewishgirl,fromSalford)wastheclosestwegot,thoughElkiehadthattelltaleraspinherthroat,linkingher,intheSmithmind,toTinaTurnerorDellaReese.WehadnoKateBushrecords,oreventheslightesthintofStevieNicks,raspythoughshemaybe.The�rsttimeIwasawareofDebbieHarry’sexistence,Iwasincollege.WehadJoanArmatradingandArethaandBillieandElla.Whatdidweneedwithwhitewomen?
twasthekindofcollegegatheringwhereIkeptsneakingBlackstreetandAaliyahalbumsintotheCDdrawer,andfriendskeptreplacingthemwithotherthings.And
Reflections December17,2012Issue
SomeNotesonAttunementAvoyagearoundJoniMitchell.
ByZadieSmith December9,2012
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thenthereshewas,suddenly:apiercingsound,asortofwailing—awhitewoman,wailing,pickingoutnotesinanon-sequence.Outoftune—oroutofanythingIunderstoodatthetimeas“tune.”IpickeduptheCDcoverandfrownedatit:askinnyblondewithheavybangs,coveredinblue.MygoodfriendTamara—arealsinger,seriousaboutmusic—lookedoveratme,confused.Youdon’tlikeJoni?IturnedtheCDoverdisdainfully,squintedatthetracklist.Oh,wasthatJoni?Andverylikelywentontosaysomethingfacetiousaboutwhite-girlmusic,thekindofcommentIhadheard,inverted,whenIfoundmyselfcalledupontodefendblackmenswearingintoamicrophone.Anotherfriend,Jessica,pressedmeagain:Youdon’tlikeJoni?SheclosedhereyesandsangafewlinesofwhatInowknowtobe“California.”Thatis,shesangpleasing,notuninterestingwords,butinastrange,strangulatedfalsetto—akindofKafkaesque“piping”—whichIconsideredodd,comingoutofJess,whomIknewtohave,ordinarily,abeautiful,blackvoice.Asoulvoice.Youdon’tlikeJoni?Idonotlikegreeneggsandham.Idonotlikethem,Sam-I-am.
Perhapsthisisonlyastoryaboutphilistinism.Aqualityalwayseasiertonoteinotherpeoplethantodetectinyourself.Agedtwenty,IlistenedtoJoniMitchell—asingerwhommillionsenjoy,whodoesnot,afterall,makeanespeciallyunusualoresotericsound—andfoundherincomprehensible.Couldnotevenreallyrecognizeherpipingas“singing.”Itwasjustnoise.And,withouttroublingoveritmuch,Iplacedherpipingalongsidealltheinterestingnoiseswehearintheworldbutchoose,throughhabitorpolicy,toseparatefrommusic.Whatcanyoucallthatbutphilistinism?Youdon’tlikeJoni?Myfriendshadpityintheireyes.Thesamelookthefaithfultendtogiveyouasyouhandthembacktheir“literature”andclosethedoorintheirfaces.
nthepassengerseatofacar,onthewaytoawedding.Inolongerhadtheexcuseofyouth:IwasnowthesameageasChristwhenhedied.Iwasbeingdrivenwest,
towardWales.Passingthroughwoodsandcopses,awildgreenlandscape,headingforthesteepandloftycliffs...ItisaverylongdrivetoWales.Thedriver,beingapoet,plannedapitstopatTinternAbbey.Hispassenger,moreinterestedin�ndingamotorwayservicestation,spokefrequentlyofherdesireforasausageroll.Themoodinthecarwasnotthebrightest.Andsomethingelsehadbeenbotheringmeforseveralmileswithoutmybeingquiteconsciousofitssource,somepersistentnoise....ButnowIfocussedinonitandrealizeditwasthatbloodypipingagain,rangingoveroctaves,ignoringthenaturaldivisionsbetweenmusicalbars,andgenerallyannoyingthehell
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outofme,likeabeecaughtinawingmirror.Imadeapleaforchangetothedriver,whogavemealookrelatedtotheonemyfriendshadgivenmeallthoseyearsearlier,thoughthiswasastrongervarietal,thedriverandIbeingbondedtoeachotherforlifebylegalcontract.
“It’sJoniMitchell.Whatiswrongwithyou?Listentoit—it’sbeautiful!Can’tyouhearthat?”
Istartedstabbingatthedashboard,tryingto�ndthebuttonthatmakesthingsstop.
“No,Ican’thearit.It’shorrible.Andthatbit’sjust‘JingleBells.’ ”
Ihadn’texpectedtogetanywherewiththisline,andwassurprisedtoseemyhusbandsmile,andpauseforamomenttolistenintently:“Actually,thatbitis‘JingleBells’—Inevernoticedthatbefore.It’sasongaboutwinter...makessense.”
“Switchitoff—I’mbeggingyou.”
“TinternAbbey,nextexit,”hesaid,closedhisjawtightly,andveeredtotheleft.
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Weparked;Iopenedacardoorontothevastsilenceofavalley.Imaynothavehadears,butIhadeyes.Iwanderedinside,whichisoutside,whichisinside.Istoodattheeastwindow,feetonthegreengrass,eyestothegreenhills,notcontainedbyanon-buildingthathaslostallitscarveddefenses.ReducedtoaGothicskeleton,theabbeyispenetratedbybeautyfromaboveandbelow,opentopreciselythoseelementsithadoncehopedtoframeforpiousyoungmen,asanobjectfortheirpatientcontemplation.Butthatformofholyconcentrationhasnowbeengonelongerthanitwaseverhere.Itwasalreadyanancientmemorytwohundredyearsago,whenWordsworthcameby.Thistlessproutbetweenthestones.Theraincomesin.Roo�ess,�oorless,glassless,“greentotheverydoor”—nowTinternisforcedtoaccepttheholinessthatiseverywhereineverything.
Andthenwhat?AsIrememberit,sun�oodedthearea;myhusbandquotedalinefromoneoftheLucypoems;Ibeganhummingastrangepieceofmusic.Somethinghadhappenedtome.Inallthemessofmemorieswemakeeachdayandlose,Iknewthatthisonewouldnotbelost.IhadWordsworth’ssensationexactly:“Thatinthismomentthereislifeandfood/Forfutureyears.”OrthoughtIhadit.Diggingupthepoemnow,IseethatIam,insomeways,tellingtheoppositestory.Whatstrucktheauthorof“LinesWrittenaFewMilesAboveTinternAbbey”(1798)wasamemoryofecstasy:“Thattimeispast,/Andallitsachingjoysarenownomore,/Andallitsdizzyraptures.”TheWyehadmadeadeepimpressiononhimwhenhe’dvisited�veyearsearlier.Returning,he�ndsthathestilllovesthearea,butthepoematteststohisdevelopment,fornowhelovesitwithamellowedmaturity.Goneisthewildadoration:“Fornaturethen/(Thecoarserpleasuresofmyboyishdays,/Andtheirgladanimalmovementsallgoneby,)/Tomewasallinall.—Icannotpaint/WhatthenIwas.”TobebackinWaleswastomeetanearlierversionofhimself;hewenttheretolistento“thelanguageofmyformerheart.”Andthoughit’struethattheyoungmanherecallsisinsomesensesastranger,theclaimthathe“cannotpaint”himisreallyahumblebrag,because,ofcourse,thepoemdoesexactlythat.It’sstrikingtomethatthispastselfshouldatalltimesbelovedandappreciatedbyWordsworth.Heunderstandsthatthecallowyouthwasthebasisofthegreatermanhewouldbecome.Anaturalprogression:betweentheboyWordsworthandtheman,betweenthenandnow.Hismindisnotsomuchchangedasdeepened.
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ButwhenIthinkofthatJoniMitchell-hatingpilgrim,standingattheeastwindow,idlywonderingwhethershecouldpersuadeherbelovedtostopforsomekindofmicrowavedservice-stationsnacksomewherebetweenhereandthechurch(Britishweddingsbeingnotoriousintheirlatedeliveryoflunch),Itrulycannotunderstandthelanguageofmyformerheart.Whowasthatperson?Petulant,hardlyawarethatshewashummingJoni,notyetconsciousofthetransformationshehadalreadyundergone.Howisitpossibletohatesomethingsocompletelyandthensuddenlyloveitsounreasonably?Howdoessuchachangeoccur?
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December 17, 2012
Sidebar:In1967,anotherpoet,AllenGinsberg,stoppedatTinternAbbey.HehadgonetoWaleswithhisBritishpublisher,TomMaschler,tostayinMaschler’scottageandtakeacidintheBlackMountains.ThoseweretheglorydaysofBritishpublishing.Ginsbergwroteapoemaboutthetrip,“WalesVisitation.”Thegroundhestoodonwas“brownvagina-moist,”andthethistleshesawhada“satanic...hornedsymmetry.”Inotherwords,hehadatypicalGinsbergepiphany.Ilikethepoembest,though,notwhenhe’sdescribingthethingsheseesbutwhenhe’sexaminingthemanneroftheseeing;thatis,thestructuraldifferencebetweenhowhenormallyseesandhowhesawthatday,attuned,onacid—WhatdidInotice?Particulars!
hisistheeffectthatlisteningtoJoniMitchellhasonmethesedays:uncontrollabletears.Anemotionalovercoming,disconcertinglydistantfrom
happiness,morelikejoy—ifjoyistherecognitionofanalmostintolerablebeauty.It’snotaverycivilizedemotion.Ican’tlistentoJoniMitchellinaroomwithotherpeople,oronaniPod,walkingthestreets.Toorisky.IcanneverguaranteethatI’mgoingtobe
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abletogetthroughthesongwithoutbeingmadetransparent—toanybodyandeverything,tothewholeworld.Amortifyingsenseofporousness.Althoughit’scomfortingtolearnthatthefeelingIhavelisteningtothesesongsisthesamefeelingtheartisthadwhilecreatingthem:“Atthatperiodofmylife,Ihadnopersonaldefenses.Ifeltlikeacellophanewrapperonapackofcigarettes.”That’sMitchell,speakingofthefruitfulyearsbetweenGinsbergattheabbeyand1971,whenherclassicalbum“Blue”wasreleased.
shouldconfessatthispointthatwhenI’mthinkingofJoniMitchellit’s“Blue”I’mthinkingof,really.Ican’tevenclaimtobewritingaboutthatsuperiortypeofmuso
epiphanywhichwouldatleasthavethegoodtastetosettleupononeofthe“minor”albumsthatJoniherselfseemstoprefer:“Hejira”or“TheHissingofSummerLawns.”No,I’mthinkingofthealbumprettymucheveryfoolowns,nomatterhowfarfrommusichislifehastakenhim.Andit’snotevenreallythecontentofthemusicthatinterestsmehere.It’sthetransformationofthelistening.Idon’twanttoconfusethisphenomenonwithaprogressivechangeintaste.Thesensationofprogressivechangeisdifferentinkind:itusuallyfollowsaconsciousactofwill.Likemostpeople,Iexperiencetheseprogressivechangesfairlyregularly.Byforcingmyselftoreread“CrimeandPunishment,”forexample,InowadmireandappreciateDostoyevsky,awriterwhom,wellintomylatetwenties,IwascertainIdisliked.Duringanexploratoryseasonofscience�ction,IcheckedAldousHuxleyoutofthelibrary,despitehishideousracialtheories.AndevenawriterasalientomynaturalsensibilityasAnaïsNinwormedherwayintomysympathieslastsummer,duringaconcertedefforttoreadwriterswho’vemadesextheirprimaryconcern.
Idon’tthinkit’sacoincidencethatmostofmyprogressivechangesintastetendtohaveoccurredinmysoleareaofexpertise:readingnovels.Inthisone,extremelynarrowarenaIcancallmyselfmoreorlessa“connoisseur.”MeaningthatIcanstooptoconsidereventhesupposedlowliestexamplesoftheformwhilesimultaneouslyrisingtoadmiretheobscureandtheesoteric—andallwithoutfeelinganygreatchangeinmyself.NovelsarewhatIknow,andthenoveldoorinmypersonalityisalwayswideopen.ButIdidn’tcometoloveJoniMitchellbyknowinganythingmoreabouther,orunderstandingwhatanopen-tunedguitaris,orevenbysittingdownandforcingmyselftolistenandre-listentohersongs.IhatedJoniMitchell—andthenIlovedher.Hervoicedidnothingforme—untilthedayitundidmecompletely.AndIwonder
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I
“O
whetheritisbecauseIamsuchaperfectfoolaboutmusicthattheparadigmshiftinmyabilitytolistentoJoniMitchellbecamepossible.Maybeacertainkindofignorancewasthecondition.Intothepurenothingnessofmynon-knowledgesomethingsublime(anevent?)beyond(beneath?)consciousnesswasabletooccur.
justcalledmyselfaconnoisseurofnovels,whichstretchesthede�nitionalittle:“Anexpertjudgeinmattersoftaste.”Ihaveadeepinterestinmytwoinchesofivory,but
it’sarareconnoisseurwhodoesnotseektobeanexpertjudgeofmorethanoneform.Bytheirgoodtastearetheyknown,andconnoisseurstendtolikeawideareainwhichtoexerciseit.Ihaveknownmanytrueconnoisseurs,withexcellenttastesthatrangeacrossthehumanitiesandtheculinaryarts—andtheyneverfailtohaveafataleffectonmyself-esteem.WhenI�ndmyselfsittingatdinnernexttosomeonewhoknowsjustasmuchaboutnovelsasIdobuthassomehowalsofoundthementalspacetoadoreandbeknowledgeableabouttheopera,havestrongopinionsabouttherelativerankingsofRenaissancepainters,anencyclopedicknowledgeoftheEnglishcivilwar,ofFrenchwines—Ifeelananxietythatnudgesbeyondtheenviousintotheexistential.Howdidshe�ndthetime?
ntheShortnessofLife,”ascreedbySeneca,issmartaboutthistensionbetweentasteandtime(althoughSenecasympathizeswithmydinner
companion,notwithme).TheessaytakestheformofaletterofadvicetohisfriendPaulinus,whomusthavemadethemistakeofcomplaining,withinearshotofSeneca,aboutthebriefnessofhisdays.Inthislengthyriposte,thephilosopherinformsPaulinusthat“learninghowtolivetakesawholelife,”andthesensemostofushavethatourlivesarecruellybriefisaspeciousone:“Itisnotthatwehaveashorttimetolive,butthatwewastealotofit.”Heedlessluxury,socializing,worldlyadvancement,�ghting,whoring,drinking,andsoon.Ifyouwantalifethatfeelslong,headvises,�llitwithphilosophy.Thatway,notonlydoyou“keepagoodwatch”overyourownlifetimebutyou“annexeveryage”toyourown:“Bythetoilofothersweareletintothepresenceofthingswhichhavebeenbroughtfromdarknessintolight.”Somakefriendswiththe“highpriestsofliberalstudies,”nomatterhowdistanttheyarefromyou.Zeno,Pythagoras,Democritus,Aristotle,Theophrastus:“Noneofthesewillbetoobusytoseeyou,noneofthesewillnotsendhisvisitorawayhappierandmoredevotedtohimself,noneofthesewillallowanyonetodepartempty-handed.Theyareathometoallmortalsbynightandbyday.”
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Well,sure—butyouhavealsotobeopentothem.Becauseyouneedn’thavehadevenawhiffofwhoringinyourlifetolegitimately�ndyourselftoobusytovisitAristotle.Busychangingdiapers.Busycleaningthesinkorgoingtowork.Andsince,inthecontemporaryworld,wehavetoplacein“liberalstudies”notonlyahandfulofcanonicalphilosophersbutalsotwothousandyearsofculture—plusabunchofnewformsnotdreamedofinSeneca’sphilosophy(Polishcinema,hip-hop,conceptualart)—youcanunderstandwhymanypeoplefeelratherpushedfortime.It’stemptingtogiveuponourliberalstudiesbeforeevenmakingtheattempt,thebettertocontinueonourmerryway,�ghting,drinking,andalltherest.Atleast,thenwehavethesatisfactionofalittleshort-termpleasureinsteadofalifetimeoffeelinginadequate.
Still,IadmireSeneca’sidealism,andbelieveinhiscentralargument,evenifIhaveappliedithaphazardlyinmyownlife:“Weareinthehabitofsayingthatitwasnotinourpowertochoosetheparentswhowereallottedtous,thattheyweregiventousbychance.Butwecanchoosewhosechildrenwewouldliketobe.”Earlyon,forbetterorworse,IchosewhosechildIwantedtobe:thechildofthenovel.Almosteverythingelsewassubjugatedtothisrulingpassion,readingstories.Asaconsequence,Icanbarelyaddacolumnofdoubledigits,Ihavenottheslightestideaofhowaplane�ies,Ican’tdrawanybetterthana�ve-year-old.Oneofthemotivationsforwritingnovelsmyselfisthesmallwindowofopportunityitaffordsforabitofextracurricularstudy.Ilearnedalittleaboutgeneticswritingmy�rstnovel,andwentquitefarwithRembrandtduringmythird.Buttheseareonlylittlepocketsofknowledge,hereandthere.IthinkSenecaisright:lifefeelslongerthemoreyouengagewithit.(LookhowshortlifefelttothepoetLarkin.Lookhowlittlehedidwithit.)Ishouldbelovingsculpture!ButIhavenotgonedeeplyintosculpture.Instead,havingbeenutterlyinsensitivetosculpture,I�llthetimethatmighthavebeenusefullydevotedtosculpturewiththingslikedrinkingandstaringintospace.
NowheredoIhavethissensationoflossasacutelyaswithmusic.Ihaditrecentlywhilebeingguidedroundanundergroundrecordshop,inVancouver,byayoungmanfrommyCanadianpublisherswhowantedtoshowmethis�neexampleofthelocalculturalscene(andalsotobuyticketsforaheavy-metalconcertheplannedtoattendwithhiswife).Iwanderedthroughthatshop,asIalwaysdoinrecordshops,depressedbymyignoranceanddrawntowardthefamiliar.After�fteenshiftlessminutes,Ipickedupahip-hopmagazineandconsideredaBillieHolidayalbumthatcouldnotpossibly
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containanytrackIdidnotalreadyown.IwaspreparingtoleavewhenIspottedanalbumwithawonderfultitle:“MoreSongsAboutBuildingsandFood.”Youwillprobablyalreadyknowwhoitwasby—Ididn’t.TalkingHeads.AsIstoppedtoadmireit,Iwasgrippedbymelancholy,similarperhapstothefeelingacertainkindofmangetswhilesittingwithhiswifeonatrainplatformasabeautifulgirl—differentinallaspectsfromhiswife—walksby.Theregoesmyotherlife.IsittoolatetogetintoTalkingHeads?DoIhavethetime?WhatkindofpersonwouldIbeifIknewthisalbumatall,orwell?IfI’dbeenshapednotbyAlGreenandStevieWonderbutbyDavidByrneandKraftwerk?WhatifI’dbeenthetypeofpersonwhohadsomehowfoundthetimetoloveandknoweverythingaboutAlGreen,StevieWonder,DavidByrne,andKraftwerk?Whatadelightitwouldbetohavesomany“parents”!Howlongandfruitfullifewouldseem!
willadmitthatinthepast,whenIhavemetconnoisseurs,I’vefounditabithardtoentirelybelieveinthem.Philistinismoftencomeswithasideorderofdistrust.How
canthispersonpossiblyloveasmanythingsassheappearstolove?Sometimes,inasourspirit,Iamtemptedtofeelthatmyconnoisseurfriendshavethetimeforallthisliberalstudybecausetheyhavenochildren.Butthatistheeasywayout.Trueconnoisseurswerelikethatbackwhenwewerealltwentyyearsold;Iwasalwaysnarrowerandmoreresistant.Forsomepeople,thedooriswideopen,andprettymucheverything—ontheconditionthatit’sgood—getsahearing.AndIamindebtedtomyfriendsofthiskindwhohave,afterall,managedtoeffectsomedifficultandarduouschangesinmytaste.I’mgratefulforthereëducation,whilestillfearingthatmylifewillneverbelongenoughtogiveseriousconsiderationtoallthedifferentkindsofwinethatcanbesqueezedoutofdifferentkindsofgrapes.
ithJoni,itwasallsoeasy.Inasense,ittooknotime.Instantaneous.Involvingnoprogressivechangebut,instead,aleapoffaith.Asudden,unexpected
attunement.Oraretuningfromnothing,orfromanegative,intosomethingsoaringandpositiveandsublime.ItwillperhapsinsultsincerelyreligiouspeoplethatIshouldcomparesomethingrareandprecious,the“leapoffaith,”tosomethingasbanalasrealizingthat“Blue,”byJoniMitchell,isagreatalbum,buttoapersonlikeme,whohasneverknownGod(whohasonlyreadandwrittenalotofwordsaboutotherpeoplewhohaveknownGod),thestructureofthesensation,ifnotthecontent,seemstobeunavoidablyrelated.IamthinkingparticularlyofKierkegaard’s“FearandTrembling,”
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and,evenmoreparticularly,ofthe“Exordium”(“Attunement”)thatopensthatstrangebook,andwhichmanypeople(includingme)usuallyskip,inconfusion,togettothemeatofthe“Problemata.”The“Exordium”islikeaweirdlittlenovel.Init,Kierkegaardsummonsupacharacter:asimple,faithfulman,“notathinker...notanexegeticalscholar,”whoisobsessedwiththeBiblicaltaleofAbrahamandIsaacbut�ndsthathecannotunderstandit.Sohetellsittohimselffourtimes,indifferentversions,asifitwereanoralfairytalethatmutatesslightlywitheachretelling.
Thebasicdetailsstaythesame.(Inallversions,theram,andnotIsaac,getskilled.)ThevariationexistsinthereactionsofAbrahamandIsaac.Inthe�rstiteration,Abraham,inordertopreservehisson’sfaithinGod,pretendsthathe,Abraham,hatesIsaacandwantshimkilled.Inthesecond,everythinggoesaccordingtoplanexceptthatAbrahamcan’tforgiveorforgetwhatGodjustaskedhimtodo,andsoalljoyleaksfromhislife.Inthethird,Abrahamcan’tbelievehowhecanpossiblybeforgivenforsomethingthatwassoclearlyasin.Inthe�nalversion,it’sIsaacwholoseshisfaith:howcouldhisfatherhaveconsideredtheterriblecrime,evenforamoment?Followingeachoftheseretellings,thereisasmallparagraphofanalogytoaquitedifferentsituation,thatofamotherweaningherchild:
Whenthechildistobeweaned,
themotherblackensherbreast.It
wouldbehardtohavethebreast
lookinvitingwhenthechildmust
nothaveit.Sothechildbelieves
thatthebreasthaschanged,but
themother—sheisstillthesame,
hergazeistenderandlovingas
ever.Howfortunatetheonewho
didnotneedmoreterriblemeans
toweanthechild!
That’stheversionfollowingthe�rststory,theoneinwhichAbrahamtriestotaketherapfortheLord.Inthesepeculiarbreast-feedinganecdotesitisnotalwaysobviouswheretheanalogylies.Professionalphilosophersspendmuchtimearguingovertheprecisesymboliclinks.IsGodthemother?IsIsaacthebaby?OrisAbrahamthemother,Isaacthebaby,andGodthebreast?Ireallyhaven’ttheslightestidea.Butin
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eachversionaformofdefenseissurelyoffered,somekindofexplanation,ameansofcomprehending.It’snotthatmymotherisrefusingmemilk;it’sthatIdon’twantitanymore,becauseherbreastisblack.It’snotthatGodisaskingsomethinginexplicable;it’sthatmyfatherwantsmedead.Alltheversionsthesimplemantellshimselfarehorribleinsomeway,buttheyareatleastcomprehensible,whichismorethanyoucansayfortheparadoxicaltruth:GodtoldmeIwouldbefruitfulthroughmyson,andyetGodistellingmetokillmyson.(Or:mymotherlovesmeandwantstogivememilk,yetmymotherisrefusingtogivememilk.)Andafterrehearsingthesevariousrationalizationsthesimplemanstill�ndshimselfconfoundedbytheoriginalBiblicalstory:“Hesankdownwearily,foldedhishands,andsaid,‘NoonewasasgreatasAbraham.Whoisabletounderstandhim?’ ”
WhenIreadthe“Exordium,”IfeelthatKierkegaardistryingtogetmeintoastateofreadinessforaconsiderationoftheactualBiblicalstoryofAbrahamandIsaac,whichisessentiallyinexplicable.The“Exordium”isarehearsal:itlaysoutaseriesofrationalexplanationsthebettertodemonstratetheirpovertyasexplanations.FornothingcanprepareusforAbrahamandnoonecanunderstandhim—atleast,notrationally.Faithinvolvesanacceptanceofabsurdity.Togetustothatpoint,Kierkegaardhopesto“attune”us,systematicallydiscardingalltheusualdefensesweputupinthefaceoftheabsurd.
Ofcourse,lovingJoniMitchelldoesnotrequireanacceptanceofabsurdity.I’mspeakingoftheminorcategoryoftheaesthetic,notthemonumentofthereligious.Butifyouwanttoeffectabreachinthatstolidedi�cethehumanpersonalityIthinkithelpstocultivatethisKierkegaardiansenseofdefenselessness.Kierkegaard’ssimplemanmakesasimplemistake:hewantstotranslatethemysteryoftheBiblicalstoryintotermsthathecancomprehend.Hisfailurehassomethingtoteachus.Sometimesitiswhenwestoptryingtounderstandorinterrogateapparently“absurd”phenomena—likethecategoryofthe“new”inart—thatwebecomemoreopentothem.
Putsimply:youneedtoloweryourdefenses.(Idon’tthinkitisacoincidencethatmyJoniepiphanycamethroughthebackdoor,whilemycriticalmindlayundefended,focussedonaquiteotherformofbeauty.)Shapedbythesongsofmychildhood,I�ndithardtoacceptthemusical“new,”oreventhe“new-to-me.”Ifthesameproblemdoesnotarisewithliterature,that’sbecauseIdonottrytodefendmyselfagainstnovels.
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W
Theycanbewrittenbackwardorwithoutany“e”orinonelongcolumnoftext—novelsarealwayswelcome.Whatcreatedthiseasytransitinthe�rstplaceisamystery;IfeelIlistenedtoasmanysongsinchildhoodasIreadstories,butinmusicIseemtohaveformedrigidideasandcreateddefensesaroundthem,whereaswhenitcametowordsIneverdid.Thisisprobablywhatismeantbythatmysteriousword“sensibility,”theexistenceofwhichsooftenfeelsinnate.IfeelsurethathadI,in1907,poppedinonJoyceinhisgarretIwouldhavepickeduphisnotesfor“Ulysses”andbeenexcitedbywhathewascookingup.Yetif,inthesameyear,IhadpaidacallonPicassoinhisstudioIwouldhavelookedatthecanvasof“LesDemoisellesd’Avignon”andbeennonplussed,maybeevenalittlescandalized.If,inmyreallifeof2012,IstandbeforethispaintingintheMuseumofModernArt,inNewYork,itseemsobviouslybeautifultome.Allthedifficultworkofattunementandacceptancehasalreadybeendonebyothers.Smartcritics,otherpainters,appreciativeamateurs.Theykickedthedooropenalmostacenturyago—allIneeddoiswalkthroughit.
hocouldhaveunderstoodAbraham?Heisdiscontinuouswithhimself.ThegirlwhohatedJoniandthewomanwholovesherseemtomesimilarly
divorcedfromeachother,twopeoplewhohappentohavesharedthesamebody.It’sthefeelingwegetsometimeswhenwe�ndadiarywewrote,asteen-agers,orsitatdinnerlisteningtoanoldfriendtellsomestoryaboutusofwhichwehavenomemory.It’saneverydaysensationformostofus,yetitprovesatrickysortofproblemforthosepeoplewhohopetomakeart.Forthoughweknowandrecognizediscontinuityinourownlives,whenitcomestoartwearedeeplycommittedtotheideaofcontinuity.I�ndmyselftoberadicallydiscontinuouswithmyself—buthowdoesonere-createthisprinciplein�ction?Whatisacharacterifnotacontinuous,consistentpersonality?IfyouputAbrahaminanovel,alotofpeoplewouldthrowthatnovelacrosstheroom.What’shismotivation?Howcanhelovehissonandyetbepreparedtokillhim?Abrahamisoffensivetous.Itisbyreadingandwatchingconsistentpeopleonthepage,stage,andscreenthatwearereassuredofourownconsistency.
Thisinstinctinaudiencescansometimesextendtowholeartisticcareers.I’dliketobelievethatIwouldn’thavebeenoneofthoseinfamousBritishpeoplewhotriedtobooDylanoffstagewhenhewentelectric,butontheevidenceofpastformIverymuchfearIwouldhave.Wewantourartiststoremainastheywerewhenwe�rstlovedthem.Butourartistswanttomove.Sometimesthebattlebecomessoviolentthata
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perversionintheartistcanoccur:thesedays,JoniMitchellthinksofherselfmoreasapainterthanasinger.Sheissoallergictotheexpectationsofheraudiencethatshewouldratherbeaperfectlynicepainterthanasingertouchedbythesublime.Thatkindofanxietyaboutaudienceisoftenreadascontempt,butMitchell’srestlessnessisonlythenaturalsideeffectofherartmaking,asitiswithDylan,asitwaswithJoyceandPicasso.JoniMitchelldoesn’twanttoliveinmydream,stuckasitisinaneternal1971—herlifehasitsowntime.ThereissimplynotenoughtimeinherlifeforhertobetheJoniofmymemoryforever.Theworstpossiblethingforanartististoexistasafeatureofsomebodyelse’sepiphany.
Finally,thosesongs,thoseexquisitesongs!WhenIlistentothem,IknowIaminthedebtofbeauty,andwhenthathappensIfeelanobligationtorepaythatdebt.WithJoni,anobviousrouterevealsitself.Turnsoutthatwhileshehasbeenleadingmeawayfrommymusicalhomeshehasbeengoingonherownjourney,deepintotheplacewhereI’mfrom:
For25years,thepublicvoice,in
particularthewhitepress,
lamentedthelackoffour-on-the-
�oorandmajor/minorharmonyas
myworkgotmoreprogressiveand
absorbedmoreblackculture,
whichisinevitablebecauseIlove
blackmusic,DukeEllington,
MilesDavis.NotthatIsetoutto
beajazzerorthatIamajazzer.
Mostofmyfriendsareinthejazz
camp.Iknowmorepeopleinthat
community,andIknowthelyrics
toFortiesandFiftiesstandards,
whereasIdon’treallyknowSixties
andSeventiespopmusic.SoI’m
drawingfromaresourceof
Americanmusicthat’sveryblack-
in�uencedwiththislittlepocketof
IrishandEnglishballads,whichI
learnedasIwaslearningtoplay
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theguitar.Basically,itwaslike
trainerwheelsforme,thatmusic.
Butpeoplewanttokeepmeinmy
trainerwheels,whereasmypassion
liesinDukeEllington,moreso
thanGershwin,theoriginators,
CharlieParker.IlikePatsyCline.
Theoriginalsineverycampwere
alwaysgivenahardtime.Iwonder
whatitwillbeliketohearthe
musicofmychildhoodprocessed
throughJoniMitchell’ssensibility?
Ididn’tknowanythingabouther
“blackperiod”untilIstartedto
writethispieceandreadsomeof
herinterviewsonline,amongthem
alongdiscussionshehadwitha
Texasd.j.in1998.NowImeanto
seekoutthislatermusicandspend
sometimewithit.Maketheeffort.
Idon’timagineitwillbesuchan
effortthesedays,notnowthatI
feelthisdeepcurrentrunning
betweenus.Ithinkitmusthave
alwaysbeenthere.AllJoniandI
neededwasalittleattunement.
Thosewanderingnotesandbar
crossings,thekeychangesthatshe
now�ndsdullandIstillhearas
miraculous.Hermusic,herlife,has
alwaysbeenaboutdiscontinuity.
Theinconsistencyofidentity,of
personality.Ishouldhavehad
faith.Wewerealwaysgoingto�nd
eachother:
I’mcontractedforan
autobiography.Butyoucan’tget
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mylifetogointoonebook.SoI
wanttostart,actually,kindofin
themiddle—theDonJuan’s
RecklessDaughterperiod,which
isaverymysticalperiodofmylife
andcolorful.Notmysticalon
bendedknee.IfIwasanovelist,I
wouldlikethattobemy�rst
novel.Anditbeginswiththeline
“Iwastheonlyblackmanatthe
party.”(Laughs)SoI’vegotmy
openingline.♦
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