Fritz's World: Beautiful music (IV), and reflections

I first discovered Beethoven when I was 16. I watched the Bela Legosi-Boris Karlof movie The Black Cat, which prominently featured the famous "heartbeat" second movement of Beethoven's Symphony No. 7. From there it was all downhill for me, because by the time I was 19, I had become intimately familiar with almost all of Beethoven's musical output.

Out of all of Beethoven's music, though, my very favorite piece isn't a symphony or a concerto or any major composition. Rather, it's a movement from one of his late string quartets: the String Quartet in A minor, Op. 132, third movement.

I really can't describe in words what this piece of music means to me—how deeply personal, deeply cherished, and how deeply connected I feel to its spirit. I think, at its core, this music provides a window into a very unique time in my life, because for me it symbolizes my youthful transition from boyhood into manhood. Why do I say this? Because when I first discovered this piece, I was only a few short months away from graduating high school and immediately moving onto college. And as anyone who's been to high school knows, that's a tough transition to make, because you're simultaneously excited and yearning to shake off the dust of your hometown and venture out on your own, yet scared shitless to leave behind the comfortable, familiar life you've made for yourself at home among friends and family.

At least that's how it was for me.

And when I listen to this piece of music, I can honestly see back in time 12 and a half years, to a much younger and untried version of myself—a time where I'm not 31 years old but 18, where I'm facing a future that's both exciting and uncertain. If I close my eyes and listen to this music, I can see with unbelievable clarity the bulletin board and desk in my first dorm room at McElwain Hall in June of 1996. I can see myself standing in the back yard of my parents' house in E-ville one May afternoon and thinking that I'd soon be leaving this all behind. I can see myself walking along Pollock Road one foggy, solitary summer morning en route to English 015. I can see and smell 271 Willard, the classroom where I had my first college courses that freshman summer. I can see myself driving to Wiconisco late one May afternoon to pick up prom flowers from Red's Greenhouse. I can see myself walking with some summer friends back from Pattee Library one July evening, with my friend Westy trying to coax a squirrel out of the bushes. I can see myself walking through Kern Building with these same summer friends, looking for some squash equipment to rent. And laugh if you will, but I can even remember the youthful heartbreaks I was feeling at the time. :)

When I listen to this music, I honestly feel like I'm being granted a second viewing of a small part of my life. Just a small portion out of a much longer journey, but one that firmly embodies transition for me—transition that I was feeling on so many levels.

From just a musical standpoint, too, I don't think I've ever listened to a piece of music that spoke to me as much as this slow movement does. Not just for the recollections it calls to mind, but for how deeply personal and intimate this music is. It's some of the saddest music I've ever heard, but still some of the most quietly grateful. And in the end, that's the feeling this music leaves me with—gratitude, for not only the ability to remember a unique time in my life, but my gratitude for having lived it once.

And now, without further ado, I invite you to listen along with me . . . and reflect.