Music and Meaning

BY
MICHAEL McMULLIN

There are two aspects to the question of meaning in music, one of them involving the specifically musical ways of expressing meaning, the technical analysis of the process of musical symbolism; the other involves a discussion of the meanings expressed, of meaning in general and the role of music in this context in Western civilization. I have gone into the first of these aspects in a previous essay, "The Three Dimensions of Music" (unpublished), at least to the extent of defining the nature of symbolism, of a symbolic analysis and, in a general way/the various kinds of interpenetrating meanings and levels of symbolism in music. An introductory essay on this subject was published in The Music Review of February, 1947 under the title "The Symbolic Analysis of Music". My present endeavour is to call attention to the second aspect.

DAS SYMBOL: The concept of symbol is fundamental to any discussion of meaning, and so it must be said here that the sense in which I am using the word "meaning" is that of symbolic significance—that is, in the sense of seeing in the particular manifestation an expression of a greater whole. This inclusive- ness can expand in ever-widening circles, like the ripples from a stone dropped into water, until eventually the whole cosmos is implied. This is the universe in a grain of sand, or: "As above, so below". Each part is a whole in itself and, at the same time, a part and a reflection (a microcosm) of a greater whole. This is the philosophy now called "holism" but it is also symbolism. And, what is more, it accords with the principle of correspondences, which is the basis of astrology and much ancient wisdom. Thus, meaning is not a matter of rationalistic concepts or material values, but of awareness of relationships and correspondences, depending on sensation, feeling and intuition in equal proportions to thinking. Here we are dealing with perceptions and not with opinions.

We are focusing our attention on wholeness and relatedness, as well as on distinctness—first we have to have differentiation and then integration of the separate entities into a greater whole, so that "integration" becomes a keyword. We no longer see the world as a collection of unrelated fragments—that is, as meaningless. There is nevertheless a strong reluctance prevalent today among those conditioned by past prejudices to see connections between things; they prefer to have everything in separate pigeon-holes, filed and indexed and, above all, disposed of and requiring no further thought. This suits what Jung called "the levelling platitudes of the so-called scientific view of the world, and the destruction of the instinctual and emotional forces which results from it". "The whole of reality is replaced by words", which are separative. Therefore there are no standards of value, no means of comparing concepts with nature. Art, on the other hand, deals in whole reality and provides such a contact and a basis of values. It might be argued that the evaluation of perceptions is arbitrary. Some people—most people today, probably—like to see the commonplace in everything. This is the "reductionist" mentality; the ideal is to reduce everything to "nothing but", as Jung pointed out. The highest expressions of the spirit are "nothing but" repressed sexuality, the fear of death or looking forward to the next meal, and the whole universe is "nothing but" a random assemblage, or disassemblage, of atoms, electrons or something else. Others prefer to see the wonderful in everything, or the whole in everything, and a totality of order and meaning. Is there a qualitative difference between these two points of view? What you see depends upon your level of development. The minds of commonplace people are inevitably rooted in the commonplace, and it does not occur to them that Bach, Beethoven and other great artists move on another mental and spiritual level. One can deal only with what is within one's own experience, and the lesser cannot comprehend the greater. "One cannot talk of the ocean to a frog in a well." Art, on this higher level, is an esoteric language, addressed only to initiates or, at most, to seekers on the path. Particularly is this so in music, where special powers of insight and receptivity have to be consciously developed and matured.

I am concerned only with music in Western culture, where it occupies a unique place and is of a different order from that of any other. It is, as Spengler pointed out, the dominant and most characteristic art of our culture, that which, more than'" any other, embodies its essential Weltanschauung. Further, music has reached with us a far higher level of development than it has done in any other culture—and of music alone of the arts can this be said. There is absolutely no comparison between the complexity and sophistication, the immense and varied resources and the technical mastery over them, of Western music and those of any other culture. It is true that this development is overwhelmingly intellectual, and in the order of the "aesthetical" as opposed to the "magical" (Rudhyar), or "telluric" (Keyserling) element of Oriental music. Different dimensions are emphasized. But our music is also a vehicle for the expression of a correspondingly vaster, more grandiose and higher order of mental and spiritual concepts. The development of polyphony gives the potentiality for an entirely new level of expression and of a more powerful expression than that of any other an. This has been fully realized, and music has been the source of the highest spiritual expression throughout our culture. One can say that the voice of God has come to the West not through organized religion but through music, and that music's great "bodhisattvas", or avatars have been the messengers of a higher reality. This can be directly experienced in their music, but one never hears of music in this context, or not of Western music. Present Westerners in general are unaware of and indifferent to their priceless musical heritage, or those seeking a "spiritual" music go in search of any kind of exotic music but never their own, while those who concern themselves with music insist for the most part in regarding it as having no relation to anything in life—unless merely to the composer's personal mundane or physiological concerns or perhaps to his personal intellectual problem of how to modulate from C to F minor in three moves.

Awareness of music on a spiritual plane, however, has to be cultivated, like any other kind of spiritual awareness. But for us Westerners, at this stage of evolution, music is an obvious and eminently available gateway to a higher level of experience, and a means of meditation. An insight into this experience can be had through psychedelics; Aldous Huxley has given one description. But it can also be had sometimes as an unexpected and spontaneous revelation, provided one is open to significance in music. Part of this awareness is a new and intense responsiveness—resonance--to the actual sound-vibrations, the "tone" itself as a physical and qualitative sensation. This is the "magical" element that Rudhyar points out as the main dimension in Oriental music; but it is present in our music too, though unrecognized by theorists. Composers, however, are very much aware of it, and it is one of the three indispensable dimensions in all and any music and also the basis of symbolic effect. This intense consciousness of the tone is also a very important factor for the performer if he is to make the music come alive. This factor is of course developed in combinations of tones, as tone-colour in instrumentation, and was even a very important and conscious element in early vocal polyphony.

Meaning, in this higher sense, is something directly perceived and selfevident once one is open to this dimension and is not "translatable" into words—or there is no need to translate it. For example, in listening to the great choruses in Bach's B minor Mass one is obviously in the Himalayas of music and of the spirit. Perhaps this is what is meant by the champions of "pure" music. But there are innumerable layers of meaning, and at less rarefied altitudes it helps to analyse them and to be able to point to them. Such an analysis, it must be remembered, is not a "translation" but "a finger pointing at the moon". It may help in understanding the music; but perhaps it helps more in understanding everything else, by comparing concepts with music. By doing this systematically we arrive at a new and non-rationalist method of thinking.

There is a type of meaning that resides purely in what one might call quality of feeling. A good example is the "second subject"—actually the main subject—of the first movement of Schubert's string Quintet in C. The movement is focused on this theme, which is the only real melodic subject in it, and on the peculiar quality of feeling it contains. It seems a very simple melody, and one might say it is very appealing, a lovely tune, sad or happy according to taste, and leave it at that, as usually one must. But to understand its essential quality, and therefore its message, is not at all easy. Of course it is contrasted with the introductory and almost despairing passages that precede it ("first subject" etc.), and this puts it in context. Then one has to put oneself in a state of complete openness and, at the same time, of concentration, and it may take many hearings and much contemplation to capture its essence, which is very elusive. It is an intimate message of one soul to another—or of collective humanity. Of course here again its quality cannot be rendered in words, but if we can point to some of the impressions we get it might help others to appreciate it—or it might not. At any rate, we can deny that it is merely "aesthetical", or no more than a vaguely pleasurable experience, or a mere foil to the "first subject", and we can say that it has spiritual significance, with some intensity. There is no need to say anything of the extraordinary beauty of the second movement, which may be self-evident enough to allow the use of this very unspecific word.

In this example we are almost exclusively concerned with the dimension of feeling, which is the least analysable in words. Much more can be said in the context of the other two dimensions, those of sense-perception and thinking. These three correspond to Jung's three basic psychological functions, and in "The Three Dimensions of Music" I have denned them as "Lyrical", "Dramatic" and "Symphonic" (or "Epic"), on the most general level. In the process of symbolism they correspond to the Individual, the particular object (sensation), and the world in general or the cosmos. The central phase of the process—the particular perception or sensation—could be called the "symbol" and sets up the relationship: subject object cosmos. But "symbol" is more the entire process. In music, the corresponding dimensions are melodic (pitch rhythm), tonal (instrumental) and form. All are rhythmic, and "harmony" is either an extension or counterpoint of pitch rhythm or of tonal rhythm (harmonics). In the dimension of feeling (the individual's response) we are concerned with evaluation. In that of sensation we are concerned with the objective or concrete experience, but on successive levels, from that of the sound, via all kinds of correspondences involving the other senses, to that of any part of the perceived environment (nature), while in thinking we relate ourselves to the universe, in our philosophical or religious function or Weltanschauung, and express our evolutionary status and our historical environment, in the most general sense embodied in musical forms. All the dimensions interpenetrate and exist, in greater or lesser degree, in any artistic expression. In "classical" art the proportion is balanced. The three dimensions or functions correspond to the elements Water (feeling), Earth (sensation) and Air (thinking). Intuition, Jung's fourth function (Fire), applies in the apprehension of the set of relationships—the symbolic field—and its significance ("inspiration"). This requires a supra-ordinary state of awareness or consciousness a focus and concentration on the part of the composer and a mental capacity on the part of the listener to resonate in a commensurable manner. This is usually limited in the case of non-artists.

In the concrete dimension it is a matter of apprehending the elements of environment that correspond to and are the starting-point of the musical expression and that themselves are symbolic. The meaning then is the individual's (feeling) perception of these and their further significance. Where words are associated with music such correspondences are usually obvious, and both Albert Schweitzer and Arnold Sobering have gone into this question in much detail with reference to melodic figures in the cantatas of Bach. Here analysis can help a great deal. No music exists in a vacuum, and the very word "meaning" refers to its relevance to the world we live in. Certain kinds of music emphasize, in one way or another, this concrete or dramatic dimension more than others, and, just as in Oriental music this is so on the level of actual sound-sensation, in our music it can be so on more complex levels of association of an indirect kind, especially in conjunction with the use of orchestral colouring or instrumental colouring, often involving harmonic colouring (chords here have not primarily a pitch function but that of blending the tonal qualities of instruments). One has only to think of Debussy. Here the term "symbolist" art is very relevant and refers to the emphasis of this dimension; it applies pre-eminently to French music of that period, as well as to poetry, and is much more suitable than "impressionist" for the painting as well. In other cases, or other periods, it is not so obvious and often needs pointing out, if we are to appreciate the context and to understand the meaning; the allusions of the music, and their significance, must otherwise be at least partly lost. For instance, the avenues of cypresses of the Villa d'Este are used as symbols by Liszt, as rows of dark standing sentinels, representing the past, threatening in a way, everything Saturnine. One could use astrological symbols in such a context, because these are archetypal and apply on an infinite number of levels. The cypresses are obviously referred to in the music, where they are given a feeling significance, and not merely in the title. In symphonic poems the same dimension is often emphasized to an even greater extent, and besides Debussy we can look at a work like Tapiola of Sibelius, capturing the brooding atmosphere and antiquity of the Finnish forests. The forest god, Tapio, is again closely related to the archetype Saturn, in its aspect of time and antiquity, especially, and its very strong "telluric" quality.

Exactly the same principles often apply in other kinds of composition where it is not generally, if at all, recognized, or stated by the composer, by way of title or otherwise. This is particularly so in the music of Sibelius, especially in his later symphonies, where the formal element is at the same time very highly developed—and developed in a very interesting way. The seventh Symphony, for example, is unquestionably oceanic in context, as is the third, while the fifth has very strong affinities with Tapiola and forests. The only time I have seen this recognized is in a reminiscence by Compton Mackenzie of crossing the sea to the Hebrides, when he felt a close association between the seventh Symphony and this oceanic environment. Without a recognition of this, however, a good part of the meaning must be lost, because a whole world of associations is missing, though the work can, of course, still be appreciated on other levels. The tenth Symphony of Shostakovich is another case in point, and to me it is a tone poem of the Russian steppes and forests—actually having many affinities with Tapiola; take away these associations, and the colour is gone: one merely has a reproduction in black and white.

Often the associations are not at all obvious, as in the foregoing examples, and the meaning, the context, is as difficult to come at as the exact spiritual quality of a melody. Sometimes one comes upon it accidentally, it seems. This happened to me once when I happened to be reading the Chinese poet Wang Wei and at the same time listening to the French Suites of Bach, when I understood that each was talking about exactly the same things. I reflected that each belonged to the classical period of his culture and that they had an almost identical outlook and relation to the world. A similar coincidence was that of Bartók's Sonata for two pianos and percussion with Baudelaire. The Bartók took me a long time to understand, until I heard them as nocturnes looking out over an industrial city and saw them as a reaction to negative environment, much as the poetry of Baudelaire, even though they do not coincide exactly in time. A very good case of pointing musical significance on this principle is the description of the great organ fugues of Bach by Sacheverell Sitwell in his book Splendours and Miseries, in a chapter entitled "Fugue". Here he uses an intuitive imagination to shed a great deal of light on the music and enhance one's appreciation in a way that no pedantic (and frequently erroneous) formal analysis could do.

A further level of environment is that of the state of civilization as a whole and the over-all human predicament. This merges into the philosophical dimension but often involves at the same time, very markedly, the dramatic one. We have seen it in the case of Bartók, and it is even more conspicuous in much of Shostakovich, as in his eighth and fifteenth Symphonies. It is foreshadowed in Mahler, with his monumental Farewells to European culture; Shostakovich gives us a preview of death and annihilation, ending with an invocation of the Valkyries and a dance of skeletons. In this way he is much more contemporary than those who think he should have been writing electronic "music". In the fifteenth Symphony in particular he is seen as a master of the grotesque and the macabre, which alternate in the movements, and exactly reflect the contemporary scene. In other places—the finale of the sixth Symphony—we have a Lumpenmarsch which, far from being a jolly piece of fun, "trivial but enjoyable", reminds us of Bruegel's peasants, belonging to some nightmare, or of a typical modem parade of the insane. Since the Politburo, too, see no meaning in music, such things could be openly stated and pass for a description of "a toy shop" and, inevitably, "the triumphant spirit of man". If one takes meaning into account one has the only final yardstick with which to evaluate modem art: what is it saying, and what is its relevance? Or is it merely itself a psychological symptom of the prevailing state of chaos and neurosis? Scarcely anyone understands any form of art, and most follow along with the lastest fashion or whatever is the going "opinion". What is acclaimed in its time is frequently worthless, and what is accepted from the past is as frequently congealed into some formula of permanent misconception, as in the case of Hamlet.

* * *
In the third dimension, that of form, we have to consider meaning on a higher level, transcending both the individual and the present (the concrete)— the level of the higher mind, the philosophical dimension. This is the dimension that has been so overwhelmingly developed in Western music, both horizontal and vertically (polyphony), so that it has been accused of "formalism" and abstraction. Rudhyar, contrasting form with substance (the tonal dimension), points out that Western music tends to consist of arrangements of "notes", on paper, rather than "tones", or living sounds. This is certainly true in the minds of theorists, and no doubt of many musicians who look on, say, playing the piano in much the same way as acquiring dexterity on a typewriter, combined with the panache of a juggling act. It is absolutely true of the course taken by the European mind generally in the development of an abstract rationalism and technology, divorced from life and real values. But art, though often reflecting the resultant situation, is not part of this regress but is a channel for the expression of higher values. The great composers have certainly not been the exponents of formalism but positive guides for human development, teachers and pioneers, among the avant-garde of collective humanity. Their message, though embodied in the cultural forms of their times, is concerned with universal values and is timeless.

Polyphonic music is above all a development in the formal dimension. In a single melodic line there is of course form too, in so far as it has meaning, just as there is tone-colour once it is sung or played and not on paper; but the expression is preponderantly lyrical/emotional and/or "magical" (tonal). But once it is combined with another melody the balance is shifted towards the formal/intellectual. There is an extra sphere or level of meaning in the interrelationship between the voices, or melodies, and this increases, potentially at any rate, in geometric proportion with the number of parts. One could say the expression is three-dimensional instead of two, because the third dimension is now so much more conspicuous or extended. Naturally the form extends horizontally as well as vertically, and the horizontal aspect is vastly elaborated in the developed polyphonic forms. In the simple forms, such as canon, one is at once presented with something very much more intellectually stimulating than a single melodic line. Why this is so is not so easy to explain; but, on the other hand, it is not much in need of explanation; the symbolism is basic and largely unconscious. One could say, on the whole, that one is confronted with an integration of independent voices, or with unity in diversity; and of course many other levels of symbolism could be discovered by a detailed analysis. Such become correspondingly complex in a developed form like fugue. Spengler has pointed out the correspondence of polyphonic music generally with the "soul" of the Faustian culture, with the feeling for infinite space and with the intersecting vaults of the Gothic cathedral in the spatial heights of the dimly lit interior.

The high point of the polyphonic period was the high point of European culture, its "high summer" and classical period, in the proper sense of the words. This could be taken to cover, broadly, both the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries and so to include the baroque, where the keyboard has become the dominant medium and influences style, even in vocal and choral music. Fugue is the most powerful and integrated form yet developed, and the great organ fugues of Bach are probably on the largest scale of any single integrated “movements” in music. The complete integration is the most outstanding characteristic, being a union of distinct individualities. Marked by the rhythmic recurrence of the fugue subject, the form exhibits the endless metamorphosis, transformation and combinations of this subject and comes nearer than any other form to correspond with life itself. The various fugal techniques, such as inversion, diminution and augmentation, and "tonal" answer, are very fundamental to musical expression and are the basis of thematic transformation, which is to reappear as a vital principle of musical form and development. The nature of a fugue subject, characteristically a short, very strongly marked motif, of a pregnant, symbolic kind, is also basic to the most highly developed musical forms, and this kind of motif or theme is to recur constantly, especially in the works of maturity of the great composers. It is always associated with increasingly integrated forms and with an increasing development of polyphony, and the reappearance of these factors in such works speaks for itself. They are features of maturity, both of the culture and of individuals.

Sonata form, on the other hand, parallels the increasing development of rationalism, separate individualism (with an emphasis on the separate) and Aristotelian logic, and its main characteristic is obviously to focus on duality, or dualism. It is a movement influenced by the "Renaissance"—that is, the adoption of Greco-Roman thought-forms, and away from the Gothic, or the innermost self of Western culture. Based on the contrast of two opposing themes, which are never reconciled, it does away with integration on principle, so that it becomes a heresy to suggest that a movement is monothematic or to infer, or deliberately to insert, any connection between the different movements of a work. Theorists of today cling to sonata form like an immutable dogma, even for modern works, as though music could not exist without it—as though musical form has for some reason to remain, finally and for good, stuck in the eighteenth century.

In the Romantic period the tendency towards separation goes much further, and the emphasis on a drawn-out melodic line supported by a harmonic background of chords corresponds to the emphasis on the individual and to the "feeling" dimension again. In the succeeding era this individual becomes progressively more alienated, and the music shows increasing dissociation, coming to look like the representation of a psycho-analyst's case-book. There are, however, other currents with a different emphasis, notably that of Liszt, succeeded by the symbolists, reaffirming in different terms the "tonal" or objective dimension of music, and this becomes combined with a reaffirmation of the formal dimension and thematic integration in Sibelius.
The most characteristic medium of the sonata period was the string quartet, which in itself is a rather integrated medium and still carries with it polyphonic implications, though there is a strong tendency for dominance by the first violin and a mainly supportive role for the three other instruments. The other very prominent medium of the period is the concerto for solo instrument against the orchestra, and the romantic and individualistic implications of this are plain enough. We find the dominant style, even in writing for the piano, to be that of bowed stringed instruments, with such features as rapidly repeated chords, unsuited to keyboard instruments. Haydn, more than anyone, is intimately associated with the string quartet, as is Mozart, in his profoundest works—which include the string quintets. It is perfectly in keeping with the period that the most profound and far-reaching works of Beethoven, which are also the most highly developed formally, are the string quartets. The last quartets of Beethoven are particularly interesting with regard to every aspect of the formal dimension, and they are indeed one of the focal points of the whole of Western music. Coming at the end of the sonata period proper, which preceded the Romantic era, they transcend it altogether and constitute a phenomenon that does not belong in that context—or in any particular context unless that of a future we have not yet reached. Or their context is universal and epochal—that of a message to humanity at large at the end of the Piscean Age.

In an article in The Music Review (February, 1963) Deryck Cooke demonstrated very clearly the thematic unity of the last quartets and their basis on one or two key motifs. This fact is of profound significance, as is the nature of the motifs. It is interesting that, as he points out, one of the motifs, opening the Quartet, op. 127, is the subject of the extraordinary fugue of the finale of the piano Sonata, op. no. 110. Cooke has given us an excellent thematic analysis of op. 127, showing that it is monothemalic and that the whole Quartet is derived from this motif, that is, from the opening introductory chords. Otherwise, at first sight, or even at many other sights, it is hard to understand the relation of this chordal introduction to what follows. Here I am concerned particularly with the three following quartets, which form a triune, a unity in themselves, based on, or deriving from, what Cooke calls the dark minor motif, G#-A-F-E. He finds a hint of this motif also in op. 127. All these quartets are enigmatical; they are quite opaque to the ordinary standards of evaluation. Where the formal implications are resisted or taken as something eccentric, no start can be made to understanding them, since these are inherent in the music itself, part of the expression, and not merely a question of theories of analysis. Beethoven was not a professor of music, idly experimenting with "scholastic formalism" or struggling with "the problem of the finale" and throwing in this or that movement as a joke. One would sometimes suppose that he was a rather wayward student causing raised eyebrows in some of our pedagogues and never quite succeeding in sorting himself out. Joseph Kerman, for example, has given us a valuable and very detailed analysis of the quartets and, in many places, throws a great deal of light upon them. We can be grateful for it; but he continues to resist the idea of thematic unity, in spite of Deryck Cooke, to whom he refers, and only grudgingly admits that the "dark minor motive" does occur here and there in the group of three. He insists on seeing sonata form even in the fugue of op. 131, as though it were impossible to relinquish this last lifeline to the known and accepted. One could see "sonata form" in anything by dividing the notes into "first groups" and "second groups", conceding that the development is missing, or rudimentary, and so on. Here it is contrary to everything about the works; but it is consistent with a resistance to any suggestion that there might be some meaning in them. The movements are analysed as though they were haphazard or randomly thrown together with no particular meaning or relevance to the rest of the Quartet— let alone quartets.

The formal principle underlying these quartets is thematic transformation, and this carries many implications that give it much more in common with fugue than with the sonata. Kerman admits this principle in some of the movements; but it applies to all of them. The quartets are monothematic; this is apparent from listening to the C# minor and, with careful attention, to the A minor. By carefully analysing the notes, as Deryck Cooke has done, it is clear with all of them. Beyond this, all three are essentially monothematic as a whole, giving a development of this idea on a scale comparable only with Bach's Art of Fugue.

There is also an interrelationship between specific movements in different quartets. The third movement of the B Quartet (Andante) was to me in- comprehensible for a long time until I saw it as a different facet—different mood—of the first movement of the A minor (see Ex. i), The second theme of this movement of the A minor Quartet is so obviously identical with fig. (a), except in note-values, that there is no sense in calling it a "second subject": it is just the first theme seen in another light, or from another viewpoint. Or it is an evolution of feeling-values. It is not a different character in a drama, as one understands a sonata second subject to be. It is true that it is in F, instead of A minor, and if one uses key-analysis to point to another level of symbolic relationships it is perfectly valid; here for example, the emphasis of the 6th of the scale has a decided significance in relation to the other quartets. This kind of significance is susceptible to further development of symbolism in ways hitherto undreamt-of. On the other hand, the way in which key- analysis is often used has little meaning except as a lesson to students in text- book modulation. In discerning thematic relationships key does not enter much into it, and a motif is identifiable, in any key, as a fugue subject. An exact notational comparison is also not necessary. Deryck Cooke has pointed out how fugal methods of thematic transformation, such as inversion, augmentation and diminution, apply here, and he has defined another one, which he calls "interversion", meaning "the switching around of notes in a phrase". There is also an intuitive comparison by which a correspondence is felt, independently of note-comparisons on paper. This is sometimes a question of the emphasis of certain notes in a phrase, or of intervals {e.g., a semitone progression at a focal point or points). It can depend on a certain type of leap, or the mere fact of a leap in a certain place, of varying interval, provided it is a leap; or the length of notes in relation to their place in the sequence. For example, the second theme of the C minor finale corresponds with the fugue subject, not only by interversion, but by emphasis on B and the characteristic drop of a minor 3rd (see Ex. 2). In C of Ex. 2 the germinal four-note motif of all three quartets can be compared with A and B. The degree of the scale makes no difference, for purely thematic comparison. C is the germinal motif; it is a kind of seed, which is metamorphosed in all three quartets—a process of organic growth. This motif has to be pregnant with meaning; it must have a hidden meaning, even an occult meaning. D(B-A-C-H) has a certain suggestive relationship to it which may be highly significant.

It is interesting that thematic transformation of this kind is, in exactly the same way, the key to the mature works of Sibelius. This is obvious in a case like Tapiola, but it seems to have been overlooked in the symphonies, which are solemnly analysed as being in "sonata form". Many very interesting aspects of transformation can be seen in the first movement of no. 5, while it has been noted by Cecil Gray that the entire seventh Symphony is evolved from the basic progressions of the modal full close, in the scale of C, embodied in the opening woodwind motif.

The logic of thematic transformation and fugal metamorphosis may perhaps be compared with the intellectual logic of correspondences. In the holistic world-view everything is related to everything else, not causally or rationalistically, but synchronistically, by correspondences and through a hierarchy of levels. Thus a germinal, motivic theme is an archetype that can be interpreted on a multitude of levels. The logic of correspondences is symbolic logic and is non-Aristotelian; aesthetics can be interpreted only in a non-Aristotelian system. This kind of thinking belongs to the future, to a different level of perception, and this has a bearing on the meaning of the quartets we have been considering. Their meaning is also to be interpreted as a psychological and Spiritual signpost to the future. Their message is becoming relevant now much more than was the case in the time they were written, when they could not be appreciated. 1 think that Joseph Kerman has given some very useful pointers, for example, when he associates the idea of "integration" with the C minor Quartet, for the same theme of integration is of vital psychological importance to humanity at present. But to find the Presto "childlike", and to see in it a "rustic dance", is to descend to the belittling and the ridiculous; one cannot imagine a dance less rustic than this. I should say a cosmic dance, or the dance of Shiva, and that Wagner, in the passages he quotes, came much nearer to understanding its context. I believe that the whole Quartet embodies a spiritual message that is scarcely intelligible to us, that it is transpersonal and transcendent and that to appreciate it requires profound contemplation of each phase of the work—that is, a feeling-contemplation and not only an intellectual one. One has to associate it with one's innermost experiences, "mit innigste Empfindung". The Heiliger Dankgesang is an experience from another world, from a higher plane of existence. To say that this is "tragic", or to see "optimism" or "pessimism" as subjects of these works, is surely meaningless—qu'est-ce que cela veut dire?—while to see them as expressing Beethoven's personal anxiety about death is perfectly reductionist and Freudian. One must have a higher conception of art than that. To find the right symbols, or universal archetypes, to express the over-all meaning of these quartets, one would have to resort to astrology, and I believe that, in fact, the three quartets can be related to a configuration in Beethoven's horoscope that is extremely remarkable and the significance of which is transcendence—in the B Quartet, death and regeneration. I have taken up this theme in its astrological context elsewhere in an article published in Astrology.

REFERENCES
1 The great philosopher Dane Rudhyar was originally a composer and became also the principal founder of modern psychological astrology. I refer here to his book Culture, Crisis and Creativity, published by the American Theosophical Publishing House (1977).
2 The Beethoven Quartets by Joseph Kennan (O.L'.P., 1067/78).