The Salad Days

I keep telling myself I should love Bach more, due to his profound
Christian work, and I do love him. I tell myself I should be more taken
with Mozart, due to the stories of genius I hear about him and the
soaring quality of his music. But no one touches me like this eccentric
from Bonn. My daughter has been listening to a CD lately called
"Beethoven Live Upstairs." It is a fictional audio drama about a young
boy whose widow mother rents their upstairs room to Beethoven as he is
finishing his 9th symphony. I have still not had the opportunity to hear all of it, as my daughter's attention doesn't extend that far.

Perhaps it is his stormy life that does it. Whenever I hear the instrumental
strains of the Ode to Joy, I am always comforted. Mainly because such
serenity could come from one who was so unhappy. With all his struggle,
the peace in his music is even more striking when one hears the storms
as well.

I do not pretend to be an expert. I have only heard a small portion of his music. But its power to move me is unparalleled by any other composer. I am touched and delighted to see my daughter already drawn to him.