exposure, worldliness.”
“Do you think that in his way Goddard is up to their standards?”
“Definitely not. They were both talented and accomplished musicians. Despite what Nash and the other critics say, our Goddard has no real understanding of the piano; his music is elemental, flat, without depth; his treatment of rhythm, harmony and melody is a synthesized mishmash. In my opinion, he has also failed to develop as a singer: his voice remains as ordinary as his repertoire. He can’t darken his vowels, and for volume he depends entirely on electronic amplification.”
“At least he doesn’t merely try to entertain,” said Andrea. “Goddard writes to broaden his audience’s musical experience. That’s why they love him. That’s why he’s not just another rock star. He’s an innovator, like Gershwin.”
“The mass public is by nature indiscriminate and gullible,” said Domostroy. “Easily influenced by mass media,it cannot distinguish between what’s authentic and what’s merely believable, between originality and sham novelty. At best, Goddard is a mildly gifted singer and a clever electronic-music improviser, that’s all. Chopin once said that nothing is more odious than music without hidden meaning. But Goddard has no meaning to hide. Instead, he has cleverly hidden himself in his music! His invisibility is still his greatest asset.” He looked at Andrea and saw that his words had annoyed her. “Innovator or not,” he continued in a gentler voice, “his music alone will not tell us how he linked himself to both Lieberson and Pregel. But perhaps the files of Columbia Records—or the New York Academy of Sciences—will.”
Andrea read the letter. “It’s wonderful,” she sighed, “and so moving. If I were Goddard, I would certainly want to know the woman who had written it.” She read it again, slowly, her lips moving as she lingered over each word. Then she looked up. “Do my sexual feelings have to be spelled out in such detail?”
“What you say about sex in this letter has to work like the sustaining pedal on the piano. It has to keep you resonating in his fantasy.”
“I wish I had written it,” she murmured sweetly. “It’s beautiful.”
“It will come from you,” said Domostroy.
“Yes, but the signature will be my only contribution.”
“It won’t be signed,” said Domostroy. “And there won’t be any return address on it.”
“Why? If the letter is telling the truth—”
“Truth needs no signature,” said Domostroy, taking the letter from her. “If he’s convinced by what you say, not knowing who you are will intrigue him all the more. He’ll count the days until you write again—and hope that the next time you write, you’ll sign your name so that one day he’ll be able to meet you.”
“Can one letter do all that?” she wondered aloud.
“I doubt it. But several—let’s say five—might,” hesaid. “Long ago, during my
Sturm und Drang
period,” he continued, “when I had received enough fan letters to know how similar they all were, I received one unusual one. The writer, a woman, said she knew me only from my work and a few concert and television appearances, but her analysis of my music was so acute, as were her perceptions of my needs and longings—the undercurrents of my life, which I’d never talked about with anyone—that I was flat-out enthralled.
“If, without meeting me, she had detected so much of my innermost being, you can imagine how tempted I was to let her study me face to face, with no emotional or professional niceties to mask the encounter. But when I reached the end of the letter, I realized with dismay that she had not signed it, or rather, that she had signed it only with a musical phrase from Chopin. I assumed that she had simply forgotten to add her name, and I earnestly hoped that, in spite of not hearing from me, she would write again.
“A few weeks later a second letter arrived, and this time, with uncanny
“Do you think that in his way Goddard is up to their standards?”
“Definitely not. They were both talented and accomplished musicians. Despite what Nash and the other critics say, our Goddard has no real understanding of the piano; his music is elemental, flat, without depth; his treatment of rhythm, harmony and melody is a synthesized mishmash. In my opinion, he has also failed to develop as a singer: his voice remains as ordinary as his repertoire. He can’t darken his vowels, and for volume he depends entirely on electronic amplification.”
“At least he doesn’t merely try to entertain,” said Andrea. “Goddard writes to broaden his audience’s musical experience. That’s why they love him. That’s why he’s not just another rock star. He’s an innovator, like Gershwin.”
“The mass public is by nature indiscriminate and gullible,” said Domostroy. “Easily influenced by mass media,it cannot distinguish between what’s authentic and what’s merely believable, between originality and sham novelty. At best, Goddard is a mildly gifted singer and a clever electronic-music improviser, that’s all. Chopin once said that nothing is more odious than music without hidden meaning. But Goddard has no meaning to hide. Instead, he has cleverly hidden himself in his music! His invisibility is still his greatest asset.” He looked at Andrea and saw that his words had annoyed her. “Innovator or not,” he continued in a gentler voice, “his music alone will not tell us how he linked himself to both Lieberson and Pregel. But perhaps the files of Columbia Records—or the New York Academy of Sciences—will.”
Andrea read the letter. “It’s wonderful,” she sighed, “and so moving. If I were Goddard, I would certainly want to know the woman who had written it.” She read it again, slowly, her lips moving as she lingered over each word. Then she looked up. “Do my sexual feelings have to be spelled out in such detail?”
“What you say about sex in this letter has to work like the sustaining pedal on the piano. It has to keep you resonating in his fantasy.”
“I wish I had written it,” she murmured sweetly. “It’s beautiful.”
“It will come from you,” said Domostroy.
“Yes, but the signature will be my only contribution.”
“It won’t be signed,” said Domostroy. “And there won’t be any return address on it.”
“Why? If the letter is telling the truth—”
“Truth needs no signature,” said Domostroy, taking the letter from her. “If he’s convinced by what you say, not knowing who you are will intrigue him all the more. He’ll count the days until you write again—and hope that the next time you write, you’ll sign your name so that one day he’ll be able to meet you.”
“Can one letter do all that?” she wondered aloud.
“I doubt it. But several—let’s say five—might,” hesaid. “Long ago, during my
Sturm und Drang
period,” he continued, “when I had received enough fan letters to know how similar they all were, I received one unusual one. The writer, a woman, said she knew me only from my work and a few concert and television appearances, but her analysis of my music was so acute, as were her perceptions of my needs and longings—the undercurrents of my life, which I’d never talked about with anyone—that I was flat-out enthralled.
“If, without meeting me, she had detected so much of my innermost being, you can imagine how tempted I was to let her study me face to face, with no emotional or professional niceties to mask the encounter. But when I reached the end of the letter, I realized with dismay that she had not signed it, or rather, that she had signed it only with a musical phrase from Chopin. I assumed that she had simply forgotten to add her name, and I earnestly hoped that, in spite of not hearing from me, she would write again.
“A few weeks later a second letter arrived, and this time, with uncanny
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