My Mozart
April--again! There is something special in the air at the end of this month, and it isn't just pollen. I've always felt a kind of "thinning of the veil" between the worlds as we approach May Day. The sun is higher in the sky now and this year we've had a lot of rain too, so there are flowers galore. We have never been big on lawn cultivation, so the bright green of the new grass is dotted with golden Dandelions, wild violets, white-blooming wild mustard and the purple flowers of Creeping Charlie and other "weeds."
My proper gardens are full of bulbs--Tulips, Daffodils, and Trout Lilies--most of which are done now, but the Bleeding Hearts, Spanish Bells, Sweet Woodruff, Wild Anemones and a riot of Columbines in different shades are just beginning. It's like Carmina Burana--"Floret, floret, silva nobilis..." as the trees leaf out in the brightest, tenderest green of the year.
This is also the time of the year, when, forty plus years ago, Mozart took over my life, initially through becoming reacquainted with his music through the film of Amadeus. Listening to music has always occupied a good part of my leisure time, but, over the years, I've found most pop music looses its punch quickly. On the other hand, great classical music (and some divine Jazz) can stand millions of iterations, at least inside my particular head. That spring, David Bowie, one of my teenagers' favorites at the time, sang Blue Jean, which had a chorus of: "Somebody Send Me..."
Mozart, as it turned out, was that "somebody" and he set me off on years of research, library-and-used-bookshop haunting, and obsessive day dreaming, which culminated in my very first novel, My Mozart. This was, fittingly, the story of a impressionable teen female musician, The Magic Flute's first Pamina. Her name was Nanina Gottlieb, and in this story, she completely loses her mind over the genius who is her adored Maestro.
For me, this overwhelming urge to write was both a blessing and a curse. A curse because years of gainful employment passed me by, while I studied, listened to Mozart's music, dreamed and wrote and re-wrote that book. The blessing part was more than a little surreal, because my heroine spoke to me, a thing which has never happened so dynamically either before or since. Even before I sat down to write, there was Nanina, chattering away, making my fingers itch to grab a pen or hit those keys.
She kept me awake night after night, sharing her story. She demanded I get up and take, what was, literally, dictation. I began to believe she was real, a ghostly visitor with a long pent-up truth to tell. Naturally, confirmation of this suspicion began to appear everywhere, even within the opera, where Nanina's character sings passionately that she must always speak the truth: "The truth, the truth, even if it be a crime..."
Mozart's statue in Vienna
Perhaps, I sometimes think, I was kidding myself. As I look back now, I sometimes wonder about my own sanity during that time, however, another discovery I made late during my researches had the final say.
"Most painfully affected of all by Mozart's fatal illness was Fraulein Nanina Gottlieb..."
From Joseph Deiner's Memoirs, related at Vienna, 1856
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Following our passion is the greatest reward, despite the sacrifices. Thank you for sharing yours.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Vijaya--! :)
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