Its defects as a work of art are considerable; but in order to correct them I should have to rewrite the book - and in process of rewriting, as an older, other person, I should probably get rid of not only some of the faults of the story, but also of such merits as it originally possessed.
- Aldous Huxley on "Brave New World" -
Once there was a brilliant composer. His place in the history books was secure. For centuries his greatest symphony was destined to play in orchestral halls and be analyzed in universities. Unfortunately, as is often the case in these tales, he had one enemy, one person standing between him and passably-eternal glory (some portion of whatever time humans have left): this Mozart’s Salieri was none other than his elder self.
The composer’s name was Benjamin Henry, and his reputation was made at thirty years of age with an unfinished symphony. He entitled it, “The Unfinished Symphony,” because the means whereby to finish it were not yet in existence. This was back before the dawn of the digital era and the very idea of a synthesized instrument was in its infancy. In place of the instruments of his imagination, Mr. Henry was constrained to have his symphony performed upon ordinary violins and trumpets, tympani and oboes.
Mr. Henry never disclosed the origin of the title, so it became an object of widespread popular speculation; like the Mona Lisa’s smile. In that instance, Mrs. Gioconda may have been lost in a bittersweet recollection of the rogering recently conferred upon her by Signor da Vinci. In this case, none were certain, but one widely held view was that the musicians and listeners finished the symphony themselves, by performing and perceiving it: a symphony on the page, like a synthesizer with no amplifier and a tree falling in the forest, makes no sound without the means to project it, in this instance an orchestra, and the human faculties brought to bear on its perception and interpretation; sound and meaning are in the mind of the beholder. Perhaps that was the deeper, instinctual reason the composer gave it the name. If so, then it was unbeknownst to Mr. Henry, who simply considered it a work in progress to be someday finished and chose the most expedient title.
Over the next twenty years Mr. Henry had modest successes and modest disappointments. It seemed that nothing he ever did would approach the success of his unfinished symphony or its scope; a colossal failure would at least reflect the potential to be colossal. Greatness eluded him like ships deserting a sinking rat. Meanwhile, each work changed this Benjamin Henry. As he still considered the unfinished symphony would, upon its completion, be his masterwork, he considered these years to be growing pains: necessary to acquire the necessary tools and wisdom. Despite his apparent mediocrity he was, on the strength of “The Unfinished Symphony,” its popularity and its ability to draw paying crowds, internationally recognized; given full control over the production and performance of his works; often feted; in short, a far cry from a hungry young artist embarking upon a profession that neither guaranteed nor rendered likely recognition or even basic solvency. Perhaps he grew sleek and fat in this unchallenged life of ease. Perhaps his talent had diminished or been consumed, burnt out in his one brilliant exposition of light and heat. Perhaps, though this is unlikely, he had indeed perfected his craft and finally attained, as he believed or claimed to believe he had, the means whereby to complete his great work. I hope that was not the case, given what followed.
One day Benjamin Henry discovered his muse. His muse, the instrument not known at the time of the composition of the “Unfinished Symphony,” was a simple crude synthesizer. None truly believe this I’m afraid, rather they believe that he grew tired of waiting for fickle inspiration, so long absent, and faked it, perhaps believing the lie himself. They prefer to think he believed the lie himself and did not act out of malice. It is just as likely, however, that he had already grown to despise and wished to crush this youthful magician whose name he bore, whose accomplishment he could not escape. This is a pleasingly dramatic scenario, and less depressing than to think that he actually tried, he actually gave it everything he had.
After this revelation the general response to the idea of finishing the “Unfinished Symphony” was pure anxiety. Those particularly underwhelmed with Mr. Henry’s output in the intervening years predicted that he would only succeed in consigning the symphony to the dustbin of general mediocrity already playing host to many of his efforts. Even the hopeful were timorous, noting that this synthesizer was already nearly antiquated, and that the piece would be forever dated; besides, it was no replacement for good old woodwind, string and brass.
To the composer, the impending completion of the symphony rendered the unfinished draft superfluous, and his solicitors gave an order it was never to be performed again. The public outcry was intense, and, orchestral music rarely generating so much controversy, gave birth to the idea of having every major orchestra around the globe add a synthesizer and give a simultaneous premiere of “Symphony No. 1” by Benjamin Henry.
The crowds turned out. Such a crowd there was as might be expected at a combination sports event, rock concert, religious revival, museum opening, book signing, premiere of a Godard film and marathon reading of “Ulysses,” followed by a lecture by an obscure but respected authority on autoerotic synaesthesia.
In short: everybody came.
Everybody listened as the crude electronic tones echoed above the accompaniment.
Then it ended.
And it ended.
And the spell was broken.
This “Symphony No. 1” would never be taught to children. It would never change the course of a young life and draw it towards possible ecstasy and probable malnourishment. This symphony was mortal. Its days were numbered before it would some day disappear from all recollection, and Mr. Henry with it.
Mr. Henry, perhaps despairing, perhaps darkly nihilistic, unleashed what bile he could upon his late masterpiece, feeling the malice of winded mediocrity trumped by effortless genius. He ordered his solicitors to collect and burn all extant copies of the “Unfinished Symphony.” He needn’t have bothered: even the underground performance of the original could not undo the effects of its subsequent adulteration.
“Symphony No. 1” was still extremely lucrative and popular despite all, so it was a fixture in the season of any orchestra; mainly to finance the remainder of their season. He composed new variants on the themes found in the original work, perhaps feebly searching for the lost spark, perhaps to befoul it and grind the remembrance of it to dust. These were all heavily attended and broadcast, and his wealth and fame grew further and further. He was inescapable, and no serf on the street, desperate to escape the protracted public rape and dismemberment of the great work, would have believed that with each successive lashing the chariot was being brought ever closer to oblivion. No trenchcoated, moustache-twirling villain has ever so thoroughly expunged his rival as Benjamin Henry crushed and annihilated the future of the man he once was.
Still he was fruitlessly petitioned by those that championed his younger, other self so long ago to allow performances of the “Unfinished Symphony,” or to at least modify “Symphony No. 1” using a less archaic and ridiculous instrument.
When met by these or other admirers of his youthful rival he would moodily dismiss them.
“The symphony is finished,” he would say.
And it was.