The Memoirs of Hector Berlioz
has long been considered to be among the best of musical autobiographies.
Like his massive compositions, Berlioz (1803-69) was colorful, eloquent, larger than life. His book is both an account of his important place in the rise of the Romantic movement and a personal testament. He tells the story of his liaison with Harriet Smithson, and his ev
The Memoirs of Hector Berlioz
has long been considered to be among the best of musical autobiographies.
Like his massive compositions, Berlioz (1803-69) was colorful, eloquent, larger than life. His book is both an account of his important place in the rise of the Romantic movement and a personal testament. He tells the story of his liaison with Harriet Smithson, and his even more passionate affairs of the mind with Shakespeare, Scott, and Byron. Familiar with all the great figures of the age, Berlioz paints brilliant portraits of Liszt, Wagner, Balzac, Weber, and Rossini, among others. And through Berlioz's intimate and detailed self-revelation, there emerges a profoundly sympathetic and attractive man, driven, finally, by his overwhelming creative urges to a position of lonely eminence.
For this new Everyman's edition of
The Memoirs
, the translator--the composer's most admired biographer--has completely revised the text and the extensive notes to take into account the latest research.
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Paperback
,
780 pages
Published
May 5th 2011
by Cambridge University Press
(first published 1870)
I had a roommate in college who insisted, to the annoyance of his theory professor, the “three B’s” were Bach, Beethoven and Berlioz. Okay boys and girls . . . we all know that third one should be Brahms. But David ate drank and (I think) made love to Berlioz. He was constantly humming themes and snippets of melodies—his favorites: the Symphony Fantastic and Harold in Italy. I, of course, was into the sturm und drang German school of Wagner, Bruckner and Mahler and therefore had no time for the
I had a roommate in college who insisted, to the annoyance of his theory professor, the “three B’s” were Bach, Beethoven and Berlioz. Okay boys and girls . . . we all know that third one should be Brahms. But David ate drank and (I think) made love to Berlioz. He was constantly humming themes and snippets of melodies—his favorites: the Symphony Fantastic and Harold in Italy. I, of course, was into the sturm und drang German school of Wagner, Bruckner and Mahler and therefore had no time for the frivolous French.
Fast forward to a couple months ago. The Saturday Met broadcast was ‘The Damnation of Faust.’ (I think I had a recording in college I never broke the seal.) I thought about twisting the dial. I wasn’t interested. But I had a thirty minute drive so, what the hell (literally), I will give it that. By the time I got home I ran inside to get it on the Bose towers. There went the afternoon. I didn’t think anyone staged this. Ever. It’s not really an opera—more like a Medieval tableaux. But there it was, in all its quirky glory and I was hooked.
My er-roommate would be proud. At 4:30 on Saturday afternoon, I downloaded ‘Damnation’ to the iPod. Then ‘Les Troyans.’ I cleared almost everything else off the iPod, went on a downloading frenzy and over the past few months celebrated my own personal Berlioz Festival.
There is a reason why Berlioz’ autobiography has been in print for 150 years. Not only did he come in contact with every famous 18th century artist (and there were a slew of them), he brilliantly wrote (not composed) about literally everything. I knew when the memoirs began with one of my favorite quotes from “Macbeth” I was going to be in for a glorious ride:
“Life’s but a walking shadow; a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more; it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing.”
Berlioz wastes no time with his early years and gets right into the good stuff starting with his winning the Prix de Rome (after applying five years in a row). As an eighteen year old, just take a look at his companions: Ingres, Cherubini, Liszt, Hugo, Goethe, Balzac! Hunting trips with Mendelssohn, oh my!
“In an artists life one thunderclap sometimes follows swiftly on another, as in those outsized storms in which the clouds, charged to bursting with electric energy seem to hurl the lightning back and forth and blow the whirlwind. I had just had the successive revelations of Shakespeare and Weber. Now at another point on the horizon I saw the giant form of Beethoven rear up.”
Berlioz was ‘the’ most outspoken critic of his day. It is hard to believe art and music caused riots of passion—unlike our pristine concert and gallery experiences today (not the people who talk during a play). Audiences responded vociferously (I have always wished I’d been in the audience for the premiere of ‘Le Sacre du Printemps.’) Here he describes what happened when a simple violin solo was deleted from a
Gluck opera:
“The scene [in the opera:] was nearly over when: “Wait a minute, what about the violin solo?” I said, in a voice loud enough to be heard. ‘He’s right’ someone said, ‘it looks as if they’re leaving it out. Baillot! Baillot! [the first violinist:] The violin solo!’ At that the whole pit fired up. And then—something unheard of at the Opera—the entire house rose and noisily demanded that the program be carried out according to the bill. While this uproar was proceeding, the curtain came down, At that, the clamor redoubled. The players alarmed by the fury of the pit, hastily abandoned the field; whereupon the enraged public invaded the orchestra, hurling chairs in all directions, overturning stands, bursting the drums. In vain I shouted ‘Gentleman, gentleman, what are you doing? This is madness!’ No one listened to me now. The rioters did not stop until they had laid waste the whole orchestra and left numerous instruments and chairs in ruins.”
And now Berlioz’ denouement:
“That was the bad side of the Draconian criticism-in-action that we exercised at the Opera. The good side was our enthusiasm when everything was going right.”
His humor is as cutting as his criticism. It was a time before music was copyrighted and scores considered sacrosanct. It is hard for us to imagine today that movements of Beethoven symphonies were interchanged and hacks added and deleted at will. Another great moment comes when Berlioz goes to the opening night of the Paris premier of The Magic Flute [Mozart:]. The conductor assumed the audience would hate it and rewrote more than half with his own music. Berlioz, of course, went into a fit of frenzy. Pages and pages of frenzy—that are a hoot to read.
In the days when all psychosis, or genius, were attributed to that curious human organ called the ‘spleen’ artistic temperament was considered eccentric if not mysterious. Today Berlioz would be over medicated with a cocktail of valium, Prozac and Xanax. He passionately writes of his attempt to justify a lovers betrayal. Engaged to a duchess who secretly married into a higher rank (and obviously more money) Berlioz plots to kill the couple by outfitting himself in women’s clothing, appearing at their palace, shooting them, and then putting a bullet to his head. His costume is lost in transit, another is made quickly, he wanders the woods in despair, eating raw birds, and eventually changes his mind. This seemed quite logical in the 1800’s.
Today he would be locked away.
Berlioz had an amazing memory. The detail he garners, years after the fact, is astounding. After finishing his memoirs, he didn’t die. To his own chagrin, he admits the next ten years after finishing the book were more interesting than his entire previous life. So he tacks on another couple dozen chapters. And that last decade was a whopper. Tell, us Hector, how do you ‘really’ feel about Richard Wagner?
My iPod now contains about two days worth of 19th century French romantic bombast. And I am really happy about this.
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Esta edición contiene 25 capítulos (X,XI, XIV, XVIII, XIX, XX, XXI, XXII, XXV, XXVI, XXVII, XXVIII, XXiX, XXX, XXXIII, XXVI, XLIV, XLV, XLVI, XLIX, LI, LII, LVI, LVII, LIX y el post-scriptum), lo que representa aproximadamente un tercio del total de las memorias del gran compositor orquestal francés.
Este extracto contiene, entre otros. la historia de su enamoramiento y posterior matrimonio con la actriz británica Harriet Smithson y un vívido retrato de la escena musical francesa de su época, con
Esta edición contiene 25 capítulos (X,XI, XIV, XVIII, XIX, XX, XXI, XXII, XXV, XXVI, XXVII, XXVIII, XXiX, XXX, XXXIII, XXVI, XLIV, XLV, XLVI, XLIX, LI, LII, LVI, LVII, LIX y el post-scriptum), lo que representa aproximadamente un tercio del total de las memorias del gran compositor orquestal francés.
Este extracto contiene, entre otros. la historia de su enamoramiento y posterior matrimonio con la actriz británica Harriet Smithson y un vívido retrato de la escena musical francesa de su época, con sus celos, trastadas y mezquindades (la lengua ácida de Berlioz, y su impaciencia lo ayudaban muy poco en tales terrenos movedizos), así como las dificultades que tuvo para montar y dirigir sus obras (algunas requerían más de quinientos músicos) y sobre todo, que le pagaran por ellas. En estas páginas recuenta la génesis y los primeros pasos de obras como la
Sinfonía Fantástica, Harold en Italia, Romeo y Julieta
, la
Gran Sinfonía Fúnebre y Triunfal
, la obertura
Carnaval Romano
, sus óperas
Benvenuto Cellini
y
Los Troyanos
, sus obras dramáticas
La Maldición de Fausto
y
La Infancia de Cristo
y su obra sacra la
Gran Misa de Difuntos (Requiem)
.
Esta traducción me dejó la curiosidad por leer una versión más completa de las memorias, pues los múltiples saltos por encima de diez o más capítulos resultan demasiado abruptos. Por lo que he podido leer de otras reseñas, al parecer en esta edición se eliminan pasajes claves sobre su relación con otros compositores de su época como Liszt (apenas mencionado) y Mendelssohn (en la versión recortada apenas menciona que lo conoció en Roma...) entre otros :-(
Berlioz compiled and wrote this book in the 1850s and 1860s before his final decline and death. Some of it he wrote fresh, but the bulk of it is assembled from memoirs and letters he wrote earlier in his life.
Berlioz is not a composer I am overly familiar with, but I got this book for 50 cents at a tag sale, which I figured was a good deal. Berlioz was thoroughly a product of nineteenth century romanticism, at least as far as his personality goes. He was prone to excessive emotion and sentimenta
Berlioz compiled and wrote this book in the 1850s and 1860s before his final decline and death. Some of it he wrote fresh, but the bulk of it is assembled from memoirs and letters he wrote earlier in his life.
Berlioz is not a composer I am overly familiar with, but I got this book for 50 cents at a tag sale, which I figured was a good deal. Berlioz was thoroughly a product of nineteenth century romanticism, at least as far as his personality goes. He was prone to excessive emotion and sentimentality and fully subscribed to the idea of art as a quasi-religion and the worship of the beautiful. Berlioz also subscribes to the romantic notions of the artist as a uniquely favored great individual, sometimes to the point of incredible conceit when applying it to himself. For example, in the first section of the book, he marvels that his birth was not heralded by wondrous omens such a comets or two-headed calfs. I actually found that very funny. At other displays of similar egotism, I just wanted to tell hector to get over himself.
However, I can forgive Berlioz his occasional egotism because he did, in fact, have a rather difficult life. He was incredibly under-appreciated in his native France - his music was not understood and several influential people took a severe and mostly unfounded dislike to him. He had to surmount enormous obstacles in order to get his music heard and often took on large personal debts in doing so. His personal life also provided him with few emotional or domestic rewards. And despite all of this, he kept on pursuing music and never abandoned his high standards for both compostion and performance.
Berlioz is never boring, either. His memoirs provide a rich and vibrant picture of nineteenth century musical life, both the good and the bad. His writing is full of life, and leaves you feeling as if you really know him not just as a musician but also as a person.
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Not many composers were also great writers. Berlioz was. In fact, when he was appointed to a judging panel in a composition prize in the 1860s, some complained that he was a critic, and knew nothing about composition, such was his reputation.
There are no great technicalities that non-musicians will struggle with. It's all good, plain prose of the most personal kind, at times heart-wrenching, at times hilarious. If you know any of his music, you will delight in the deeply engrained romanticism of
Not many composers were also great writers. Berlioz was. In fact, when he was appointed to a judging panel in a composition prize in the 1860s, some complained that he was a critic, and knew nothing about composition, such was his reputation.
There are no great technicalities that non-musicians will struggle with. It's all good, plain prose of the most personal kind, at times heart-wrenching, at times hilarious. If you know any of his music, you will delight in the deeply engrained romanticism of the personality behind the notes. If you don't know this music, you can still wallow in the searingly direct confessional writing of this most personal of memoirs.
It's a true favourite and never fails to move me.
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Hector Berlioz (1803-69) describes how he rescued a performance of his “Requiem” when at a crucial moment between “Dies Irae” and “Tuba Mirum” the conductor—perhaps purposely to sabotage—laid down his baton and took out his snuff box whereupon Berlioz—who was next to him—sprung up and conducted the work to the end.
To describe him or his music in any way short of direct quotation is inevitably misrepresentation. But, in homage to his own tendencies, I will now write lengthily upon that I have just declared I cannot write upon. Though he complains incessantly about writing (especially at the end of his life vis à vis the feuilletons he was obligated to crank out), his prose is, like his music, the most colorful, phantasmagorical, and peculiar you’ll ever read. Perhaps it is easily
Berlioz, Berlioz, Berlioz!
To describe him or his music in any way short of direct quotation is inevitably misrepresentation. But, in homage to his own tendencies, I will now write lengthily upon that I have just declared I cannot write upon. Though he complains incessantly about writing (especially at the end of his life vis à vis the feuilletons he was obligated to crank out), his prose is, like his music, the most colorful, phantasmagorical, and peculiar you’ll ever read. Perhaps it is easily perceived as overwrought, but isn’t that why we love him? For his
spleen
, his histrionic raging for the love of art, his subtly hilarious way of characterizing both himself and his colleagues that fills every sentence.
From his literary obsessions that took hold early in life with Virgil and Estelle onward, Berlioz truly fashions himself into a Romantic hero. While entertaining, this also had its ill effects on the people around him, as there’s no way he didn’t
seriously freak out
every woman he ever loved. Even worse is his disastrous marriage to the actress Harriet Smithson, whom he persistently calls Henrietta, which is very funny in a very bitter way, and whom he regularly conflates with the Shakespearean ladies she portrays, only to lose interest in her as her Parisian fame really wanes. While consumed with his inner and musical life, it seems that Harriet and his son are pushed off to the background. He only begins to mention his son again when he is thirteen years old, and then it seems like they become very good friends before their deaths. Still the main theme of his life remains “fatal imagination,” the “accursed gift, which turns life into a series of miracles,” and the relation of his life is always more dramatic than strictly accurate.
Anyway. Anyway, Berlioz’s most distinguishing quality is his violent passion for music. And there is nobody he reserves quite so much venom for as pedantic and unimaginative artists, or those who think they can “correct” the works of other composers. Evidently it was his habit to leap up in public concerts, insensible to all standards of etiquette, to correct the sins of musical misinterpretation: “After listening for a few painful moments, I cried out like Hamlet, ‘Wormwood! wormwood!’ and, unable to endure any more, I rushed out in the middle of the second act with a fierce parting kick to the floor, from which my big toe suffered for three days. Poor Italy!” Another early instance that I love for its vividness comes in a footnote, related by a colleague rather than Berlioz himself. When the man tells Berlioz of his admiration for Gluck (one of Berlioz’s gods, as you will easily find), Berlioz flat out drops the casserole he has been preparing in order to embrace him.
It did drag some in the middle, in his dismal and seemingly interminable time in Paris after returning from Italy, but picked up again with his voyages to Germany and Austria, largely narrated quite charmingly through his letters to acquaintances. And for Mendelssohn fans - there is a good portion devoted to him. On a side note, for all his hatred directed at the Paris Conservatoire’s practice of transcribing competition pieces for piano and his emphasis on the importance of orchestration, I find his reverence for Liszt quite ironic, as the man is responsible for some of the most heinous piano revisions in my book at least. But what do I know?
At times, he comes off as self-confident to the point of arrogance. For example, one of my favorite passages, where he examines his musical talents. Unlike most of his colleagues, Berlioz could not play the piano, however he treats this fact as if it could only possibly be to his advantage, freeing him from the mundane confines of the keyboard and allowing him his ingenious orchestration. And instead, he waxes poetic on his (dubiously) prodigious talent on the guitar, flute, flageolet . . . and the drum. However, for all these times that he strives to show his superiority to Paris’ preferred composers, in the end, he is a bit of a tragic figure. One must remember that without any steady patronage, and furthermore with not a few enemies, this brilliant composer was forced to make a living from organizing concerts dependent upon people who resented him, with musicians who did not have the time to learn to properly represent his complicated music; or, to (recourse) to journalism, being continually obligated to write about music that both he and the time and audiences today find trivial in comparison to his own. At least he’s had his justice now that the
Symphonie Fantastique
is remembered and celebrated as the key Romantic work!
Whether you ultimately adore or despise him, I believe that everyone should try Berlioz’s music and writing - you can’t get this stuff anywhere else!
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OK, it happens. I reluctantly had to abandon this for retry some other day. I got tired of constantly renewing it at the library. I started on this thickish memoir of the great French composer like gangbusters in spring before personal distractions and swifter-to-read books took precedence. Berlioz tells his story with great wit and flavor, but the book is very long -- many words crammed onto the pages -- and the amount of detail is a bit daunting. Some of the more dramatic incidents of his life
OK, it happens. I reluctantly had to abandon this for retry some other day. I got tired of constantly renewing it at the library. I started on this thickish memoir of the great French composer like gangbusters in spring before personal distractions and swifter-to-read books took precedence. Berlioz tells his story with great wit and flavor, but the book is very long -- many words crammed onto the pages -- and the amount of detail is a bit daunting. Some of the more dramatic incidents of his life he downplays, and the composition of some of his greatest works seems often skated over. He admits to downplaying opportunities to kiss and tell, which is disappointing from the standpoint of both history and of scintillating and titillating reading. Nonetheless I liked the book, what I did manage of it. His stories of rebellion at the academy are quite funny, and his criticisms of other composers biting. His reminiscences of unrequited loves are touching. I'm giving this a provisional four-star rating, though it probably deserves five. At its best I thought this was one of the best autobiographies I've read. I'm not counting this as an official "2010 read" due to the failure to complete.
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Berlioz' mémoires zijn een verzameling (jeugd)herinneringen en brieven die bijna zijn gehele leven beschrijven. Berlioz schrijft vol verrukking, dan vol verveling en ergernis, soms met jolige humor, dan weer met bijtend sarcasme, maar altijd meeslepend en met een door-en-door romantische ziel.
Zo zijn zijn mémoires niet alleen een inkijkje in de muzikale wereld van de eerste helft van de 19e eeuw, maar ook een literair product ervan. De romantiek druipt net zozeer van zijn proza af als bijv. van
Berlioz' mémoires zijn een verzameling (jeugd)herinneringen en brieven die bijna zijn gehele leven beschrijven. Berlioz schrijft vol verrukking, dan vol verveling en ergernis, soms met jolige humor, dan weer met bijtend sarcasme, maar altijd meeslepend en met een door-en-door romantische ziel.
Zo zijn zijn mémoires niet alleen een inkijkje in de muzikale wereld van de eerste helft van de 19e eeuw, maar ook een literair product ervan. De romantiek druipt net zozeer van zijn proza af als bijv. van Conscience's 'De Leeuw van Vlaanderen' (
The Lion of Flanders
) of 'De dame met de camelia's' (
La Dame aux Camélias
). Net als in zijn 'Avonden met het orkest' (
Evenings With the Orchestra
) komen we veel te weten over het 19e eeuwse muziekleven, vooral dat van Parijs en Duitsland, en krijgen we een inkijk in Berlioz' voorliefdes: Gluck, Beethoven en Weber.
Boeiend tot aan het eind behoren Berlioz' memoires niet alleen tot de beste van een componist, maar van welke schrijver dan ook.
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I loved this, besides being a tad too long in bits, was actually quite entertaining. And this a-hole was always setting his compositions and written works on fire, so it's astonishing that he managed to have this. It's a must read for anyone who likes classical music, as he was writing during the time as so many famous classical musicians. He even stopped Liszt from getting in a duel from a 2 yard range after Liszt drank too much champagne. Berlioz was such a character! Oh, Berlioz!
"There is something fascinating about people in the grip of a passion: their unquestioning belief that the whole world is engrossed in it too, and the touching faith with which they act on that intention."
"Then I wrapped up the score of the symphony, addressed it to Habeneck, and threw it into a valise with a few clothes; ceremoniously loaded a pair of double-barreled pistols which I had with me; examined and replaced in my pocket two small bottles of those invaluable cordials, laudanum and stry
"There is something fascinating about people in the grip of a passion: their unquestioning belief that the whole world is engrossed in it too, and the touching faith with which they act on that intention."
"Then I wrapped up the score of the symphony, addressed it to Habeneck, and threw it into a valise with a few clothes; ceremoniously loaded a pair of double-barreled pistols which I had with me; examined and replaced in my pocket two small bottles of those invaluable cordials, laudanum and strychnine; and, reassured as to my arsenal, went out again and spent the remainder of the time aimlessly wandering the streets of Florence with the sickly, restless air of a mad dog."
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Ok, so I was reading this to impress a friend who is absolutely gaga over the music and life of M. Berlioz. The humor, bitterness, and raw passion with which Berlioz writes makes the book an exciting read--though it can also get to be too much. This is a man who takes drama to a whole new level. I don't know why, now, I stopped reading the book. I guess my motive for reading wasn't enough to sustain me; and other, more tempting, books came along.
Wonder if with that hair he was aware of this sort of mad lover air he has? Someone had to have been like "Berlioz, it's time for a haircut" at some point. He comes off as having almost no self-awareness and I can't figure out if it's a cultivated revolt against styling and if he loves these women, his adoration has the air of someone who breathes with an extremely fine sense of irony...
Mostly disappointing. Little about his creative process.
Alot about his personal life and way to melodramatic!!
Got about half way though and gave it up.
Hector Berlioz (December 11, 1803 – March 8, 1869) was a French Romantic composer, conductor, music critic and author, best known for his compositions
Symphonie fantastique
and
Grande messe des morts
(Requiem). Berlioz made significant contributions to the modern orchestra with his
Treatise on Instrumentation
(1844). He specified huge orchestral forces for some of his works; as a conductor, he per
Hector Berlioz (December 11, 1803 – March 8, 1869) was a French Romantic composer, conductor, music critic and author, best known for his compositions
Symphonie fantastique
and
Grande messe des morts
(Requiem). Berlioz made significant contributions to the modern orchestra with his
Treatise on Instrumentation
(1844). He specified huge orchestral forces for some of his works; as a conductor, he performed several concerts with more than 1,000 musicians. He also composed around 50 songs.
Between 1830 and 1840, Berlioz wrote many of his most popular and enduring works. The foremost of these are the
Symphonie fantastique
(1830),
Harold en Italie
(1834), the
Grande messe des morts
(Requiem) (1837) and
Roméo et Juliette
(1839). Later operatic works include
Benvenuto Cellini
and
Les Troyens
(The Trojans). His autobiography,
Memoirs
, was completed in 1865.
“Life when one first arrives is a continual mortification as one's romantic illusions are successively shattered and the musical treasure-house of one's imagination crumbles before the hopelessness of the reality. Every day fresh experiences bring fresh disappointments.”
—
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“The Prince stood beside the timpanist to count his rests for him and see that he came in in the right place. I suppressed all the trumpet passages which were clearly beyond the players' grasp. The solitary trombone was left to his own devices; but as he wisely confined himself to the notes with which he was thoroughly familiar, such as A flat, D and F, and was careful to avoid all others, his success in the role was almost entirely a silent one.”
—
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