Romanticism
was introduced to my desperate mind at the worst possible time of
life: adolescence. It came partly in the form of film, that visual
medium that traces and captures vivid and unforgettable images as
moving tableaus, but cinema was not quite as outrageous and
ubiquitous compared to classical music. In fact, some of the first
composers I stumbled upon: Johannes Brahms, and then Franz Schubert.
The
music of Brahms is so drenched in melancholy and pain associated with
unrequited love that even his Hungarian dances will make you weep.
Most of it I believe came from his own impossible love for Clara
Schumann, the wife of his fellow composer and friend Robert Schumann.
For most of the time, Clara was “taken”; even after Schumann's
madness and death when she was technically “available,” Brahms
did not “take” this widow and make her his. Instead he remained a
bachelor for life, lamented his own love and yearning in
compositional form and twisted and confused the hearts of sensitive
adolescents like me.
My
own habit or tendency of idealizing the female species by elevating
them so high up on the pedestal that they disappear beyond the clouds and achieve goddess-hood I blame not so much on poetry
(though it did have a definite hand in it) but more on music. In
fact, never before was music so romantically meshed and integrated
with poetic words than in the case of Franz Schubert and his
wonderful collection of Lieder (songs). Although there are a few
quite “happy” songs, most of them make one want to jump off high
buildings or bridges or both.
Such
dramatic obsession, the quest for impossible romance, fueled most of
my adolescence right into young adulthood. It blurred my vision to
such a degree that I saw gold where there was not even an inkling of
glitter. Idealism is always dangerous, but when it comes to love it
reaches its utmost distorting and damaging effects, just ask poor
Madame Bovary.
Sure,
we can claim that Brahms and Schubert were the main inspiration for
my turning to writing since all this nascent and unrealistic love
could not possibly find release and expression except in and through
poems and stories, and we can also say that my graduate thesis (on
the aforementioned Madame) was inspired by their palpable influence.
However, the psychological and emotional damage has been beyond
repair, and as a result, I am asking for a class action suit against
these two composers in particular (the full list would be in fact
much more extensive).
I
am suing them for ruining human relationships for me, especially in
my younger years. Instead of “banging chicks,” which would have
been the normal staple of teenagers, I was musing about the gaze
of the mistress or of finding ways to get her beloved attention. A
simple touch of the hand or a pat on my back felt like heaven to me
while I always ended up not getting the girl due to my shyness or the
sense of paralyzing fear.
Love
is (and perhaps must be) out of reach. Once it is attained, it feels
suffocated and imprisoned and slowly wrinkles and dies in its cage,
metaphorically speaking. This might have been a subconscious impulse
of mine to make sure that I never reached my goal. It may sound
negative, but it seems that romantic and passionate love are fueled by
the quest; once the target of one's affections is captured in the spotlight, it freezes and
becomes immobile. Romeo never attained love; nor did Johannes Brahms
or, to put it in more popular blockbuster terms, neither did Jack and
Rose from Titanic.
In
a way, I can say my youth had been wasted on those romantic notions.
No worries, I am fine now, happily married with the blessing of a
child. So this is all speculative and idle musings of a man who is
about to enter his first series of serious midlife crises. It seems
that in one's hair-thinning days one recalls most vividly the past
where hair was not an issue. As Bob Dylan (a post-adolescence
influence on me albeit also not too wholesome either regarding
romantic notions) puts it, I was older then, but I am much younger
now, that is in spirit, of course.
If
I had a magic wand and could go back in time and erase Brahms and
Schubert from my past and relive my adolescence again, would I do it?
That is a difficult question to answer. Part of me definitely feels
cheated. It is like living day by day under the spell of a romantic
lie. It can be interpreted as both religious and mystical where
Woman, the right and chosen one would come as a Savior and release
me from a dull existence and turn it into never-ending bliss. But that
person never comes year after year.
I
used to watch the Wonder
Years,
and felt that part of my own maturing process was captured there.
Kevin was in love with Winnie and throughout the years searched for
her like one would for the Holy Grail. Except that in his later years
(and I believe final season) he realized that it was all futile.
Winnie was just another woman, a human being with flaws like all the
rest of us since even females were not exempt from it.
Yet
part of me still cherishes those romantic notions. There are moments
when I watch movies or read books where I fully identify with someone
I used to be in the past. Deep inside I yelp out yes to the suffering
and heartsick character on the screen or the page. I can understand
and pity them, the same way I pity the old version of myself. Or
perhaps I feel envy.
Perhaps
it is not happiness that we seek, but something else. After all, it
is suffering that gives shape to lasting art, and Brahms and Schubert
have suffered the pangs of love for us, for you and me. And their
works will always stand the test of time, and I will drop my lawsuit
and go back to listen to their heartfelt music after this post.