Hating Arnold Schoenberg, part 3

Every composer has his aura; the aura of Arnold Schoenberg is, for me, the aura of subtle ugliness, of hatred and contempt, of cruelty, and of the mystic grandiose. He is never petty. He sins in the grand manner of Nietzsche’s Superman, and he has the courage of his chromatics. If such music-making is ever to become accepted, then I long for Death the Releaser. More shocking still would be the suspicion that in time I might be persuaded to like this music, to embrace, after abhorring it.


From Ivory, Apes, and Peacocks, by James Gibbons Huneker, 1915

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by | October 11, 2014 · 2:56 pm

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