The Noise of Time is a tragic historical fiction novel about the peculiar genius Shostakovich, who was undoubtedly talented, though not enough to pass unscathed through Russia’s tumultuous early 20th century. It captures his incessant, yet justified, fear in the face of Power – tyrants like Stalin, and arguably Khrushchev – who never saw the value of music beyond its use in controlling people.
Shostakovich himself, or at least the novel’s portrayal of him, reminds me in some ways of Dostoevsky’s Raskolnikov, minus the homicidal tendencies; constantly questioning his own courage and ultimately disappointing himself. He is quite a charming character (irrespective of his musical genius), and one can only imagine the artistic heights he might have reached had he been free to compose as he pleased. All he wanted to do was make music, but this was never enough. He had to endure public humiliation and censorship, and maybe worse, he was forced to become something he wasn’t. The thematic culmination of the novel is the following observation:
Art is the whisper of history, heard above the noise of time.
At times, the novel is slightly self-conscious – Julian Barnes gets a bit too carried away with trying to philosophise on art and music, with the Shostakovich of the novel sometimes acting as a mouthpiece for Barnes. However, given the eloquence of his arguments and the stunning clarity of his conclusions, this is forgivable. The Noise of Time touches on politics, history, and philosophy – masterfully wrapped in a heartfelt yet melancholic package.
Nothing begins just like that, on a certain date at a certain place. It all began in many places, and at many times, some even before you were born, in foreign countries, and in the minds of others.
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He was an introverted man who was attracted to extroverted women. Was that part of the trouble?
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He had ended the symphony fortissimo and in the major. What if he has ended it pianissimo and in the minor? On such things might a life - might several lives - turn.
I am fascinated by the idea of Khrushchev and other Soviet administrators listening to classic music to judge whether it is sufficiently Soviet.
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When truth-speaking became impossible - because it led to immediate death - it had to be disguised. In Jewish folk music, despair is disguised as dance. And so, truth’s disguise was irony. Because the tyrants ear is rarely tuned to hear it.
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The natural progression of human life is from optimism to pessimism; and a sense of irony helps temper pessimism, helps produce balance, harmony.
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Art is the whisper of history, heard above the noise of time
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Music is immortal, music will always last and always be needed, music can say anything, music ... and so on. he stopped his ears while they explained to him the nature of his own art. He applauded their idealism. And yes, music might be immortal, but composers alas are not. They are easily silenced, and even more easily killed.
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If you turned your back on irony, it curdled into sarcasm. And what good was it then? Sarcasm was irony which had lost its soul.
There is a difference between wit and sarcasm!