This letter was written to the NYRB in response to Michael Hofmann’s recent review of The Kraus Project: Essays by Karl Kraus (translated and annotated by Jonathan Franzen, with assistance and additional notes from Paul Reitter and Daniel Kehlmann):
Early in his review of The Kraus Project, Michael Hofmann observes that “most of Kraus’s writing was ad hominem.” My initial, naive assumption was that Hofmann intended this as a criticism. But it appears instead to be an acknowledgment of common ground, as he goes on to inform us that Kraus was a hypocrite (“Is he the wretched, off-the-peg French-hater in ‘Heine and the Consequences’ or the much-garlanded visitor to Paris fifteen years later, suspicious of Prussia now, and happy to be proposed for the Nobel Prize by nine professors at the Sorbonne?”), a litigious bully, a dictatorial snob (“Kraus is writing to enforce—to inflict, I would almost say—his authority on randomly chosen terrain, along the lines of ‘the very popular is very bad, the popular is very good, only for reasons you need me to understand’”) and most damningly, a self-hating Jew guilty of “dog-whistle anti-semitism of the foulest kind.”
If this has an oddly familiar ring, it may be because it is more or less the same indictment leveled by Walter Kaufmann in a letter to the New York Review of Books in 1973; and even then—as Erich Heller wrote in his lucid response to Kaufmann, still probably the best rebuttal of the charges raised here—it was “not so ‘recent’ that it [did] not tediously repeat arguments that are as old as the shocks of the first readers of Die Fackel.” Read the rest of this entry »
I remember the sense of shock that I felt upon hearing of Milton Babbitt’s death last Saturday. He was a very old man, and had been ill for a long time; so why should I have been shocked? Perhaps it is because of my memory of the last time that I saw him, about two years ago. He was frail and in obvious discomfort, but the astonishing vitality of his wit, imagination and intellect was undiminished. It is strange now to imagine that it is gone.
I studied with Milton for two years, which were also his last as a teacher. Yet at the end of this time, I was the same overawed young man I had been when I first walked into his office. I admired and liked him, and I think he liked me; but rarely did I ever feel that I had reached beneath that formidable layer of brilliance and erudition that he wore about himself. There is a certain kind of awe that precludes real intimacy.
I therefore write this with the acute awareness that there are many who are more qualified than I to commemorate Milton — witness, for example, David Rakowski’s touching appreciation of him here. For the present, I wish simply to offer a few of my recollections from the time that I spent studying with him, and to consider what these reflections might mean for our understanding of him as a composer and public figure. His reputation, after all, has been a contentious one, and I see no way to easily divorce my private memories of the man from a consideration of the complicated role that he has played in our intellectual history. In fact, it is in honoring Milton as an individual that we can best correct the distorted picture that has often been drawn of him.