Dimensions of the Clouds

Posted on December 2nd, 2009 by


 

Dimensions of the Clouds

 In March 1991, I visited Istanbul for the first time. There were two concerts on the agenda; one a performance of ‘Dimensions’ with the Istanbul State Orhestra, the other a recital with Aaron Shorr, which would include S?d?ka’s new work for piano and violin. It was a very interesting time to be in Turkey. The ‘First’ Gulf war was at its height, it was Ramadan, and there were protests at American bases all over the country. Winter had not left yet, and the city was densely shrouded in choking, smog-laden mist on the first morning. I stepped out on to the balcony of my hotel room, and I could see nothing; I found myself floating in a cloud of asphyxiating grey cotton wool. This did not lift from the city for much of the duration of our visit.

S?d?ka and I met at the Royal Academy of Music in 1985. She was part of an extraordinary flood of composers, attracted by the institution’s visionary approach to new music and the teaching of composition. This was much to do with the inspired leadership of the head of composition, Paul Patterson, and the students studying at the RAM in the late 1980’s, included such luminaries as Augusta Read Thomas, Nigel Clarke,  and Paul Archbold.

S?d?ka is one of those rare composers who are completely at one with their music. She is always willing to push her performers into the expressive or communicative areas which they try to avoid, and which she obviously feels are at the heart to her work. In conversation, she will always ask a question, with the worrying coda, ‘don’t you think?’ She then looks at you with her head cocked to one side, as if to say ‘Dare to challenge me? Can you take me on?’ The voice of her music seems like a reflection of her manner of speech, which is richly coloured and inflected. There is a slightly breathless husk on the voice, as if she is a heavy smoker, which she certainly is not .  This abrasive quality, in both meaning and sound is key to her music, where it is combined with a truly paradisical sense of beauty. This contradiction provides the dynamic to her music. 

More than any other composer that I know, she has a proud grasp and awareness of her country’s history, combined with an astute political awareness of its problems. She is passionat about showing westerners how much of their culture has been gleaned, stolen, from the centuries of contact with the ottoman empire, be it at the level of musical and philiosophical exchange, to lemons, rice, coffee, okra, divans…

S?d?ka does not suffer fools lightly, as realized early in our friendship. The premiere of the violin concerto illustrated this succinctly. It was part of a programme celebrating the music of Luciano Berio, who came to London for a week of concerts and lectures on his music at the Academy. The concert was scheduled to be conducted by a well known and rising conductor. For various reasons, which I do not remember, he was not available for any of the early rehearsals of the piece. Like her sister Inci, S?d?ka is a gifted conductor, so rather than have another conductor learn the complex work just in order to rehearse it, she drilled the Academy students into familiarity with the driving rhythms and intense colours of this innovative concerto.

There are some composers who are lucky enough to be supremely confident about what they are. This is not anything to do with arrogance, and more to do with pragmatism. If, as a musician, you have a very clear idea about what it is that you can do very well, then the problem areas are easier to avoid. In this respect, S?d?ka reminds me a lot of the Ukrainian composer, Julia Gomelskaya. In 2000, Julia wrote me a witty and exhausting work for skat-singing solo violin, named after one of the figures which the player is required to shout whilst playing,’Dabuba-papa’. Julia studied with Robert Saxton at the Guildhall school of Music and Drama. ‘You know,’ he said ‘She’s quite extraordinary. She would come to a lesson with yet another new piece. And we would talk about it. I would ask her-Why did you write it like that?-And she would look at me like I was a complete idiot-and you know, I am not unused to people doing that-and say, ‘What are you talking about-‘Why did you write it like that?-! Of course, because it has to be like that.’ And do you know, I would look at it again, and she was completely right. It did have to be like that. What was truly stupid was talking about it!’

The day before S?d?ka’s premiere at the Academy, the famous conductor arrived. I was excited. Perhaps he would like my studentey playing. Perhaps we would help me with that all important solo career. Perhaps…Perhaps not, as it turned out. To my surprise, after we had made our introductions, the conductor asked to see the score of the piece. Perhaps he had left his copy at home…or not. Still I mused, he was a successful professional. So presumably he would be able to ‘read’ the score so well that it really wouldn’t matter…Perhaps not. After the orchestra had nursed him throught the rhapsodic first tem minutes of the piece, I ‘let rip’ into the blistering high-speed double-stopped cross-rhythms of the first fast section.

This is what it is all about, the kind of modern fiddle writing that I love, the place where the Eastern European folk tradition and the modern instrument meet, the violin that Stravinsky evoked in ‘Histoire du Soldat’ which scratches along in countless Transylvanian folk bands, whose primal power is unleashed in the cadenza of Bartok’s last work for Josef Szigeti, ‘Contrasts‘, the piece that he wrote so that the two of them could play with Benny Goodman.

The orchestra did not enter where I had expected; I looked up, to find that the erstwhile conductor was standing frozen, baton held aloft, looking at the score with an expression of undisguised fear. He didn’t know it, as he had never looked at is, and he certainly could not sight-read it; an embarrassing moment for everyone. Somehow we limped to the end of the piece. Fortuitously, it was time for the break. S?d?ka grabbed my arm. “Put down your violin. Let’s go and sort this out.” She frogmarched me into the office of Peter James, our Warden. The situation, as we explained it, was simple. Either we had to sack the conductor or cancel the piece. And so it worked out. S?d?ka conducted the premiere, the first of many performances, and our relieved conductor slunk off for a nervous cigarette. Funnily enough, he never asked me to work with him again.

On the day of the first Istanbul performace, the fog lifted a little. We spent the morning exploring the complex of Hagai Sofia and the Blue Mosque. It was not, on reflection, the wisest place to visit. There we were; at least, I am fairly invisible in any Mediterranean or Arabic environment, especially when (Habitually) unshaven, but I was with a Jewish New Yorker and a beautiful Turkish woman in trousers and long hair, who had no intention whatsoever of wearing a headscarf. There was audible hissing as we entered the mosque courtyard. Inside, I was rendered speechless by the beauty and luxury around me; the symphony of hundreds of thousands of slightly varied blue and white Iznik tiles, each perfectly imperfect, depicting formalized lilies, carnations, roses, a veritable aboretum of different trees, in addition to, of course, the miraculous tulip. The walls of the mausoleum of Eyüp Ensari, which dates from the 1560’s, are absolutely covered in a riot of Iznik tiles of red and blue tulips.[i] Eyüp Ensari led the first Arab siege of Constantinople in 674. In 1453, during the siege of Mehmet II, his tomb was miraculously discovered and the mausoleum built for him.[ii] In the ensuing century after the building of the Blue Mosque, the humble tulip would conquer the occident in a manner of which the early Sultans could not have dreamed possible. The wondrous geometry of the carved window frames and shutters, and, most of all, hundreds of square meters of fabulous carpets left me slack jawed in awe as we tiptoed around. An Iman was ranting from the mimbar in the center of the mosque. “You really don’t want to hear what he has to say,” whispered S?d?ka. “But it seems that he thinks that George Bush devours children. I am hoping that it is a metaphor.”

Years later, Aaron and I found ourselves peering into the dark of the principal mosque of Travnik. This had been the major fortified border town for the Ottoman Empire, and along with Banja Luka and Livno, the seat of a Sandžak-Beg, or regional governor. It was also the first foothold of the Jewish community in Bosnia outside Sarajevo. It is dominated by the rocky redoubt of its garrison castle, now ruined. This fort had been one of two main German strongholds, after the fall of Split in 1942.[iii]  Crossing the terrifying, crumbling bridge into the fortress, we were surprised to find the rusty door creaking open. An old man in a leather jacket and a black beret appeared, wreathed in smiles and let us in through the curtain wall. The highest point of the castle is its minaret, which lurches frighteningly from the outer walls, soaring high over the deep gorge that provided the castle’s main defensive security. I stood at the foot of the tower and gazed upwards to the terrifyingly narrow ledge, the ?erefe, where the Muezzin would have had to stand to sing out the five daily calls to prayer over the valley and the town. I shivered in horror; I am terrified of heights, and this was nightmarish. Like the minaret over Skanderberg square in Tirana, there seemed to be no restraining wall to prevent the Muezzin from falling into the ravine, a fall like James cast down from the temple walls in Jerusalem, or Winona Ryder, Dracula’s queen, flying to a distant doom below. The worst thing about suffering from vertigo is the sure knowledge that I will find myself falling, flying from such a place. From the garrison walls, the Janissaries would have been able to see for miles, but I pitied them, far from their orange groves and sherbet. Even now, in early spring, it was bitterly cold, and they must have bewailed their lot like the Spanish legionaries that found themselves marooned on top of Hardnott Pass, in Cumbria, with nothing to do but watch the weather change from extremes of cold and wet, from minute to minute, day in, day out.

On the way out, we thanked the old man and gave him some money. We had been very lucky. On a normal day, the fort would have been closed, but he was expecting a party from the National Museum, and had presumed that we were they. He seemed genuinely amused at his mistake as he smilingly waved us out over the bridge.

The next time that I played ‘Dimensions of the Clouds’ was in Antalya. In the middle of the rehearsals, S?d?ka and Inci took me for a simple, but enormous lunch of fish down by the water. Afterwards, we walked through the Hadrian Gate, a fantastically ornamental Roman barbican that most likely led into the ‘customs secure’ area of the ancient port. On either side of the narrow roadway, ranks of Corinthian columns supported ornamental cornices covered in friezes and Acanthus leaves.

In the solid stone roadway were gouged deep narrow ruts, marking the tightly regulated gauge of cart and chariot wheels.  I lay down on the warm stone and measured the distance as best as I could, but already knowing full well what the distance would be. Every little boy of my generation loved trains, and we could all chant this magical   distance-‘Four Feet, Eight-and-a-half inches’, the combined width of two Roman horses’ bottoms. This was the distance, the gauge, which, in a fit of completely insane romantic bravado, an unhappy marriage opf neoclaccism and the Industrial revoluation, most of the early railway builders in the UK chose as their ‘standard gauge’. Engineers have been bewailing this choice ever since. Isambard Kingdom Brunel had the good sense to realize that this would cause enormous problems in the future, as trains got faster and needed to carry more and more passengers. He rejected the ‘Roman Gauge’ in favour of the infinitely more sensible distance of seven feet. In his evidence to the Gauge Commissioners in 1845, he argued that because of the high speeds that he contemplated on the railway, ‘the whole machine was too small for the work to be done, and that it required that the parts should be on a scale more commensurate with the mass and velocity attained.’ However, by the turn of the century, after decades of chaos where Brunel’s Great Western met what he referred to as the ‘Narrow Gauge’ companies,  countless caricatures in Punch and ‘Fun’ magazine illustrating the breakages and confusion when passengers and goods had to change between trains at Gloucester for instance, even ‘God’s Wonderful Railway’ was forced to capitulate. Brunel died in 1852, luckily spared the sight of the decline of the broad gauge which he had fought for from 1838 to 1846. 33 years after his death, on the weekend of 20-21st May 1892, the whole process was completed, and the main line from Paddington to Penzance was converted to the Roman Gauge; maybe this decision certainly resulted in more lives lost, more crowded trains, and in the long run, the general nastiness of railways in Britain, further constricted by absurdly low height and platform clearances. Perhaps the rational of the founder of the ‘Iron Road’, Robert Stephenson was the pipe dream that the adherence to some classical mean would in some way ennoble the Railway’s machines and passengers, and the same way that they would hopefully be uplifted by the magnificent classical orders of the iron and brick stations and bridges, but I somehow doubt that this comforts the commuter standing day after day waiting for the delayed 7am from Southend to Fenchurch Street.

Looking at Hadrian’s arch in Antalya, his poetry sprang to mind-

“ANIMULA VAGULA, BLANDULA

HOSPES COMESQUE COPORIS,

QUAE NUNC ABIBIS IN LOCA

PALLIDULA, RIGIDA, NUDULA…”

“Little soul, gentle and wandering,

The guest and comrade of the body,

Who now will live below in the pallid,

Forbidding and empty places?”

I was humbled at this challenge to our modern notion of a ‘small world’ is somehow new.  Hadrian built such walls, gates, fortifications at all the extremes of his empire, from Northumberland to the middle east, refusing to spare himself or his staff,  whirling from bourn to bourn of his enormous fiefdom, enforcing security, pax romana, peace and conformity of architecture, jurisprudence and chariot wheels, as Norman Douglas noted, ” Never since the word began has there been a traveler in this grandiose style of Hadrian; he perambulated his world like a god, crowned with a halo of benevolence and omnipotence.”[iv]  As I write this, I remember and blush at Margaret Yourcenar’s warning to jounal-keepers, in the appendix of her Memoirs of Hadrian.

‘…a man of action rarely keeps a journal; it is almost later on, and in a periods of prolonged inactivity, that he does all his recollecting, makes his notations, and, very often, has cause for wonder at the course his life has taken.’[v]

Driving through Anatolia, on the Via Romanis, from Ankara to Eske?ehir, the ghosts of the conquerors and tradesmen who crossed this plain before me travel with me. We pass a few kilometers from Gordion, and at the crossroads, an enormous display of watermelons and grapefruit, apparently deserted under a parasol, tempt me. The mountains and bluffs that overhang the road put the heroic rhapsodizing of Rochberg’s concerto into my mind. We are driving in the direction that Mehmet II rode to the Sea of Marmara, in the opposite directon to Julian, Alexander, Tamurlaine, and Hadrian, and I wandered what this road would be like to travel on a horse, the road unmetalled, the food running out, harassed by bandits in the hills, the wells poisoned, the the dull ache of months of homesickness in the stomach.

It is astonishing to think of Hadrian, the man of steel, the poet, in constant exile from his native Spain, on this road, sending garrisons of alienated soldiers from one extreme of his empire to another, from Illyria to Tunisia, from Gaul to the Euphrates, from the Baltic to the Black Sea, from the pillars of Hercules to shiver on a rampart in Cumbria, like the homesick Ottoman Guards in the Sandžak’s fort, Travnik.

The mosque on Travnik’s main square dates from the early 1700’s, the last great flowering of the Sublime Porte in Southern Europe. Of course,  built to withstand heavy snowfall, it has a chalet-style roof; indeed, until I get up close, the wall paintings on the outside resemble nothing so much as the religious paintings, regional colours and heraldry on the characteristic  older houses around the Starnberg-See in Bavaria. Close up, the permitted designs of fruit and flowers, geometrically stylized on the white plasterwork, become spectacularly clear. As we approach the mosque door, we pass through a cordon of water that surrounds the mosque. It is hemmed in by fountains. But rather than being sourced by the springs of Sarajevo, or the giant marble urns in the Hagai Sofia, the water comes coursing into the mosque complex in bursting, ice-cold mountain streams, which run on either side of the main building. At this time of year, full of snowmelt, these are in full spate; the mosque feels like a ship in full sail. Omar, our driver, speaks to the caretaker, and we are invited in. Inside, everything is painted wood, the smell of wax polish, and light gently filtering in through the windows at the mihrab end of the building. Apart from stunning richesse of colours, all green, gold and red, very far from the white and blue of Istanbul, this place seems like a testament to a simple faith, not so far in spirit from the ‘low church of my childhood. A few well-thumbed volumes, presumably the Q?ran and commentaries, line the windowsills.

Omar’s cell phone rings. He whispers into it, and turns to me, laughing. ‘It was my wife. She asked when I was getting home. I told her that I was at the mosque, and she got very suspicious. She certainly doesn’t believe me!’

As we turn to leave, feet sinking into the wonderful carpets and rugs, I notice the prayer beads lined up along the floor. It would be soon be time for prayer; the building would revert once more.to its function, free from snooping visitors. 

Playing ‘Dimensions of the Clouds’ in Turkey is always an alarmingly different experience from Western European performances. Inci, S?d?ka’s sister, conducted the concerts in Istanbul, during my first visit in 1991. Inci had also been a student with us at the RAM and I had played Bartok’s 2nd Concerto under her baton. To be honest I had not realized quite what sort of musician she was becoming. By the time that we met to collaborate in Istanbul, she had transformed into the one of the fieriest conductors on the podium that I have ever seen, with a raw power of gesture and communication, which reminded me immediately of the films of the young Sergiu Celibadache. The day of our first rehearsal, I wondered early into the concert hall, where she was taking the orchestra through the original version of Modest Mussorsky’s ‘Night on a Bare Mountain’. I was astounded by the demonic charge that she was able to transmit through her baton, and the brilliant range of tone colours that she could draw from the orchestra. It was suddenly obvious to me that the two sisters shared a very similar aural imagination, just that one had poured this very particular musical power into composing, the other into interpreting. Performing the concerto with Inci is extraordinary. She identified totally with the piece. The rhythmic patterns that had defeated our unfortunate first conductor a few years ago are second nature to her. As a soloist, there’s nothing better than being driven by the ideas of the conductor, rather than being ‘sensitively’ accompanied by one. Inci awoke the message of the piece. ‘Dimensions’ was written in memory of-, a friend and inspiration to S?d?ka. She had been a poetically active choreographer, often odds with the authorities, suffering censure for her art and her politics. The final movement of the concerto, which had caused Henze such consternation, was based on a ballet of hers that ended with a dramatic and provocative statement. The silhouette of a gun gradually rose at behind the dancers, and slowly turned until the mouth of the gun barrel was aiming at the audience. This image had inspired the ‘oppression’ of the violinist at the end of the concerto. Of course, it is not necessary that every listener knows this, but when a great composer chooses to smother their soloist, reducing their function to nothing but a visual cipher, then it is usually very deliberate. This is a trick which both Shostakovich and Schnittke played, and is not so distant from the activities of ‘Rollo’, Charles Ives’ favourite un-musical character, as he repeatedly appears in Ives orchestral and chamber music.

‘Rollo’ was, on the surface, the epitome of everything that Ives most hated in his musical environment. He represents the voice of reaction, of comfortable, bourgeois values and attitudes. He put his dilemma succinctly:

“A manuscript score is brought to a concertmaster, he is kindly disposed, he looks it over, and casually fastens on to a passage: ‘That’s bad for the fiddles, it doesn’t hand just right, write it like this, they will play it better.’ But that one phrase is the germ of the whole thing. ‘Never mind, it will fit the hand better this way, it will sound better.’ My God! What has sound got to do with music? The waiter brings the only fresh egg he has, but the man at breakfast sends it back because it doesn’t fit his egg cup. Why can’t music go out in the same way it comes into a man, without having to crawl over a fence of sounds, thoraxes, cat-guts, wire wood and brass? Is it a composer’s fault that man has only ten fingers?”[vi]

 The musical milieu world in which Ives found himself trapped relegated him to the perceived status of a musical idiot, until belated recognition came, long after he had stopped composing.

‘Rollo’ first appeared in Ives’ groundbreaking 2nd Quartet. He is embodied, acted even, by the second violinist. ‘Rollo’ finds that he does not like the way that the quartet is proceeding, and in the second movement, he voices his displeasure. The second violin starts to plead for the introduction of sickly sweet, candied melodies, which Ives gives spurious Italian names such as ‘sweetota‘. The three other members of the quartet take extreme measures to put down this sugar-coated revolt, that always reminds me of Monsieur Croche’s (Debussy) put-down of the music of Edvard Grieg-“A sugary sweet stuffed with snow…”[vii] Each time ‘Rollo’ tries to remind them of the values that their modernist ways are betraying, they slap him down in no uncertain terms, with violent musical put-downs, marked in cod-Italian, such as ‘Allegro con fistiswatto’. In his 4th Symphony, Ives greatest work, ‘Rollo’ puts in another appearance. This time, in his symbolic position as ‘2nd Violinist’, his voice of disapproval is played by the ‘inside’ player on the first desk of the orchestra, that is, the player most likely to feel that they should be the leader. At various parts throughout the piece, which involves a huge orchestra and choir, and often has to be directed by two conductors (though Jose Serebrier and Nicholas Slominsky[viii] showed that ‘all’ that the conductor has to do is to conduct two different beats, one with each hand), Rollo starts to musically whinge, carp, and moan. The orchestra drops away, revealing the ‘second violinist’ muttering himself. No one takes any notice of him, and ‘Rollo’ has no palpable impact on the progress of the piece.

Of course, Ives was ‘boxing clever’. Every time that he introduces ‘Rollo’, the voice of the establishment, and of reaction, he presents him as a lone individual, an isolated free-thinker within a crowd of like-minded and herding revolutionaries. Ives invites us to laugh and ridicule this sad bourgeois clown. That leaves me asking, ‘What does this make me?’, as I sit there in the midst of a crowd poking fun en masse, at a marginalized loner. It’s a powerful warning for our times.

I have always harboured a suspicion that Ives might have even been contemning his own brusqueness and insensitivity. A local violinist had heard that Ives was writing some violin sonatas, so he the composer asked whether he could come around and play them through with him.

Ives’ four violin sonatas were written in various pieces, between 1906 and 1913. I myself believe that they are the greatest sonatas that I have yet heard for piano and violin of the early C20th. They are a prolonged assault on the entire C19th sonata style, including passages of violent ‘anti-chamber music’, passages of quite deliberately sustained ugliness for both instruments, extensive referencing of American hymnody and popular music. My Favourite of the cycle, number 3, includes a show-stopping hoe down,’ In the Barn’, which climaxes, or rather collapses, when the page turner loses all patience with the proceedings and tries to drown out the musicians by bashing away at the keys at the bottom of the piano for several minutes, as the duo attempt to coordinate the toughest passage in the movement. Is this ‘Rollo’ again?

The enthusiastic violinist arrived at Ives’ house, and got his violin out. I like to imagine that his violin came in one of the old-fashioned ‘coffin-cases’ with a brass handle on the top. He placed his part on the music stand, and tuned his violin carefully. Ives sat down at the piano, which was a large ‘upright’. It was so large that when he sat down, only the crown of his head could be seen over the top. The two musicians were not able to see each other at all. Not that this seemed to bother the composer. He set to, and the two of them launched into the piece. The Sonata proceeded, and Ives played ever louder and louder. Soon it was impossible for the violinist to hear himself play at all over the din emanating from the piano. In his excitement, Ives was bent down low to hammer the keyboard, so that by now even his balding pate was no longer visible over the top of the instrument. The violinist stopped playing. Ives thundered on; apparently he had noticed. The violinist considered. What to do? It was obvious that his presence in the room was academic. So he packed his violin away carefully, and put on his coat and hat. He looked over to the piano, which was by now shaking under the beating Ives was handing out. The composer was still invisible. The violinist walked to the door, opened it, and turned to say adieu. He thought better of it, and left, quietly closing the door behind him. The piano roared on… This was not atypical. Ives lived next to a church. Once during a violent thunderstorm, he was seized with the need to reproduce the sound of the bell in the rain and the storm, on his piano. He kept running out into the rain, getting wetter and wetter, dripping all over the rugs and furniture, and running to his much abused piano, where he would bang away to try and find the sound of the bell, before running outside to listen to it again, completely oblivious to his clothes being soaked, and dripping all over the house.

I found my self sitting with S?d?ka on top of medieval harbour walls of an ancient fishing village a few miles from Antalya. A tranquil scene, colourful fishing boats bobbing in the crystal water, and a perfect cup of ‘turkish’ coffee, which, of course, is identical to the Srpska Kaffe that I had drunk in Banja Luka a few weeks before. We  were looking out over the sea, which shimmered like a piece delicate pale silk in the gentle morning breeze.

[ix]

“Out at sea, the dawn wind wrinkles and slides.”

S?d?kreminded me that the Turkish word for the Mediterranean was ‘Ak-Deniz’, the ‘White Sea’. I could suddenly see why.


[i] Anna Pavord, “[Part of Book-optional],” The Tulip, [Editor/Tranlator-optional], [Edition] ed., vol. [Volume] ([Original Date]; London: Bloomsbury, 2000) 27-29.

[ii] John Freely, “[Part of Book-optional],” Istanbul-The Imperial City, [Editor/Tranlator-optional], [Edition] ed., vol. [Volume] (1996; London: Penguin, 1998) Ps.186-7.

[iii] Fitzroy Maclean, “[Part of Book-optional],” Eastern Approaches, [Editor/Tranlator-optional], [Edition] ed., vol. [Volume] ([Original Date]; London: Jonathan Cape, 1949) P.255.

[iv] Norman Douglas, in Fountains int he Sand (1912; reprint, London: Secker and Warburg, 1957), 219.

[v] rMargaret Yourcenar, “[Part of Book-optional],” Memoirs of Hadrian, Translator-Grace Frick, Farrar, Straus & Giroux  ed. (1951; London: Penguin Group, 1986) 282.

[vi] Michael Oliver, in Charles Ives (1920), quoted in Settling the Score (reprint, London: Faber and Faber, 1999), P.227.

[vii] Claude Debussy,  Charles Ives, Feruccio Busoni, in Monsieur Croche the Diletttante Hater-in Three Classics in the Aesthetic of Music (reprint, New York: Dover Publications, 1962), P.52.

[viii] Nicholas Slominsky, “[Part of Book-optional],” Perfect Pitch, [Editor/Tranlator-optional], [Edition] ed., vol. [Volume] ([Original Date]; New York: OUP, 1988) Plate 28.

[ix] T S Eliot, in Four Quartets CHECK (reprint, London: Faber and Faber, ?), ?.

[audio][/audio]