Franz Schubert, That “Fascist”

Ingmar Bergman, Larmar och gör sig till [1]

 

We are living through as best as we can through the evil in our occidental universe, which takes the shape of ugliness, stupidity, illiteracy, collective hysteria, perversity, and intellectual prostitution, which have all become tyrannically required norms. For this reason, whenever we today randomly bump into the opposite of this chaos (i.e. order, measure, and beauty) we believe that we are in a circle of dissidents and, frightened, we look over our shoulder and ask when the thought policy will come to cart off everyone. This was my impression during the first performance of the Schubertiade that was organized at the temple of Riehen, that outgrowth of the demi-canton Bâle-Ville at the German-Helvetian border. 

 

Honestly, I think that those responsible for this event did not understand what heresy they have conceived by allowing Trockene Blumen and Wanderer Fantasie to be played an old master who loathes the microphone and trusts only the acoustics of the house of a Germanic God that, luckily, escaped the ‘liberators’’ bombs against the nations of the West. The architectural surroundings decorated the music, which by itself generated a second frontier behind which one could shelter oneself from the savagery that is devouring Europe from all sides. 

 

To sum it all up, Schubert was played in the old style, that composer who, in contrast with Mozart, had refused to serve a gaggle of masters: he chose this isolation that is indispensable to creation, the condition sine qua non of personal achievement, while a spotlight would inevitably have imposed an insupportable limes [2] on the entire artist. artiste. Thanks to this independence, Schubert is vastly superior to Mozart. His music is carnally related to the spirit of this Europe of ours by virtue of it not needing to be mathematically arranged in order to be soft, in contrast to the numerically obsessed Mozart. 

 

Schubert’s music comes naturally, as if it were streaming down from the mountaintops of Upper Austria, inspired by the depths of our continent. Strangely, in this town of Riehen that is located in Switzerland between Germany and France, all three forcibly being miscegenated ad nauseam, Schubert did not attract any listener of “diversity”. Even better: I was incontestably the only Jew, surrounded by a good fifty or so Aryans. 

 

In conclusion: I think, that if Schubert had seen the light of day in our times, he would not just die in a kind of quasi-anonymity, but he would be excessively pilloried by our academics and journalists (which is actually the same thing), and his music would not be played after his death. The authentic Schubert has, in actual fact, something unbearable to our crass intelligentsia: it is an organic genius that does not exist by virtue of a furious schooling, but because it is an heir to a long line rooted in a traditional monoethnic environment, drawing on the exalted Germanic culture of its predecessors. 

 

 

[1]: “No, no, no, I’m not interesting, Schubert is interesting!” 

- Ingmar Bergman, In the Presence of a Clown 

[2]: Latin for border, limit. – Transl.