Animation discovered via Andrew Sullivan’s Daily Dish.

There are a couple things which seem incredible and noteworthy about this representation of the opening movement to Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, quite likely the preeminent piece of music, not just of the Classical or Western canon, but in all of human history.

First, one marvels at the visual complexity required to render that which the ear renders so readily comprehensible.  This representation in particular drives home the message by substituting musical notation for simple graphs more widely understood by the portion of society well-familiar with listening to music, but “musically illiterate” in the sense that they are unable to sightread musical notation.

Second comes the realization that this dauntingly intricate masterpiece was written and revised between 1804 and 1807-08 by a man with rapidly-failing hearing relying on piano reductions of the score, and without access to a full orchestra, recording studio, or modern multi-tracking computer composition software.  This alone would be humbling to such a degree that one might justifiably feel thoroughly benighted before registering the fact that Beethoven was simultaneously occupied with the writing of three string quartets, his Violin Concerto, Fourth Piano Concerto, Piano Sonata No. 23 (Appassionata), Fourth Symphony, Sixth (Pastoral) Symphony, and the opera Fidelio, all of which are prominent and celebrated works by their own right.

With apologies to Montesquieu, Beethoven was great because he was gifted to such a degree that very few souls in the course of all humanity will comprehend things on the same plane, and yet he somehow managed to express himself in a manner which his countless inferiors can dimly understand.

This morning I rode the bus in to the university as usual, arriving on campus at about 9:30.  As I walked up the path from Van Vleck Hall to Bascom Hall, I noticed the flag was flying over the building at full-mast.  Of course, given today is what it is, this was completely inappropriate.

I was on my way to class, but since I make a habit of getting to campus twenty minutes early, I had enough time to pop into an office to alert Maintenance so they could fix the mistake.  Since Bascom Hall is the home of the Chancellor, Provost, Dean of Students, and numerous other officials, it wouldn’t look good to let the error go uncorrected, even if though it wasn’t meant to be purposely disrespectful.  I stopped in to the Undergraduate Dean’s office and asked the student at the reception desk if he could call Maintenance so they could lower the flag to the appropriate height. He fumbled for a few minutes with phone rosters before telling me he couldn’t help me, and then suggested I head upstairs to the Chancellor’s office, where they could help me for sure.

With my cushion time draining away, I went upstairs, rang the doorbell they make you ring to enter the reception room of the Chancellor’s office, and asked the receptionist if she could call Maintenance, giving her the same explanation as I gave the kid downstairs.  She scowled, asked me to repeat myself, and then gave me a look like I was wasting her time. “I can’t help you,” she said. “Go to the Building Manager’s office, they might be able to.”   From the tone of her voice, the second sentence should have been preceded by “If it means that much to you…”  The Chancellor, in her office with her door open, kept reading her email like it was no big deal.

So, I went and found the Building Manager’s office, because, yeah, it really does mean that much to me. I wanted to suggest to the receptionist that it should mean something to her, too, since it was folks like her, and not military personnel, that were murdered eight years ago. But I guess her cushy desk chair and Internet access were of greater importance than showing some fucking respect to those who died while peacefully going about their daily business.

How soon we forget (or cease to care).