Of the republic of uzbekistan andijan state university named after z. M

III. THE MAIN IDEA OF THE ‘’NAPOLEON SYMHONY’’ BY ANTHONY BURGESS AND ANALYSIS OF DISPLAYING FACT AND FICTION.
Napoleon Symphony is Burgess's fictional recreation of the life and world of Napoleon Bonaparte, first published in 1974. The novel is dedicated to Stanley Kubrick, who had directed the film adaption of Burgess's earlier novel, A Clockwork Orange. Kubrick had intended to make a biographical film about Napoleon starring Jack Nicholson, but was dissatisfied with his own screenplay. He corresponded with Burgess about the project, and the two met in December 1971. Burgess suggested to Kubrick that the structure of the film could be based on the Beethoven's Third Symphony (known as the Eroica), which had originally been dedicated to Napoleon. Kubrick asked Burgess to write a novel based on this concept to serve as the basis for a screenplay. Using his own knowledge of symphonic structure, Burgess based his writing closely on the sequence of Beethoven's work. In June 1972 he sent parts one and two to Kubrick, who responded with regret that the treatment was unsuitable for a film. Undeterred, Burgess continued to develop his idea, eventually producing an experimental novel consisting of four "movements" which follow, as he intended, the structure of Beethoven's Symphony. Burgess includes an analysis of the novel in his book This Man and Music, published in 1982. [8,24]
2015 is the two hundredth anniversary of the Battle of Waterloo, and to mark the occasion we present a new exhibition looking at some of the material relating to Napoleon Bonaparte held in the Burgess Archive. The exhibition contains prints from Burgess’s art collection, rare books from the library, manuscripts of Burgess’s Napoleon projects and more.
Burgess was fascinated with Napoleon from a very early age. According to his autobiography, at his birth it was clear that Burgess ‘had to be a great artist of some kind or another … My father breathed beer on me and said ‘He may be a new Napoleon’.’ Burgess did not become a great military leader and had an undistinguished army career, and did not become a writer until much later in life. However, Napoleon emerged as an inspiration in 1971 when Burgess wrote the beginnings of a novel based on Napoleon’s life that Stanley Kubrick hoped to use as the basis for a film. The novel took the formal structure of Beethoven’s Third Symphony (the Eroica, originally dedicated to Napoleon before his invasion of Switzerland with each section of the narrative corresponding to a passage in the score.
In the event Burgess’s text was not used, as Kubrick felt Burgess’s freedom with the chronology of events confused the drama of the story, and that Burgess’s comic vision of Napoleon fell short of his heroic stature. But Burgess went on to develop his text into one of his most important and experimental works, Napoleon Symphony. Napoleon Symphony appeared in five languages on publication and was warmly received by critics. It closes with ‘An Epistle To The Reader’, poem in rhyming couplets articulating the way in which musical forms are used in the text and explaining its modernist ambitions – a virtuoso conclusion that demanded a virtuoso response from Burgess’s translators, who also had to contend with the significant challenges of many changes of register from high politics to low slang, a great deal of idiomatic dialogue, and army and drinking songs peppering the text.
Here is a sample review: ‘In an age of dull prose, jargon of sociology and psychology, incessant buzz of gossip, the endless dribble of weepy-eyed ghetto hysterics, tin clatter of avant-garde mobiles, hollow academic puling: a reader who delights in succulent phrase, the zest of word play and a saucy paragraph must fall on each new work of Anthony Burgess with ravenous appetite … Burgess at his most characteristic, craziest, surpasses the high fun of the invented language in A Clockwork Orange The exhibition is free and is open weekdays 10am-2pm, and during the evenings when events are taking place in the Engine House building. Napoleon Symphony is published by Serpent’s Tail in the UK and Norton in the USA, and is available from all good bookshops.
Beethoven had originally dedicated his Third Symphony to Bonaparte. But when he learned that Napoleon had crowned himself Emperor, he tore the dedication from the manuscript. The novel is dedicated to Stanley Kubrick, who had directed the film adaptation of Burgess's earlier novel, A Clockwork Orange. Kubrick had intended to make a biographical film about Bonaparte, but was dissatisfied with his own screenplay. They corresponded, then met in December 1971. Burgess suggested to Kubrick that the structure of the film could be based on the Eroica symphony, and was asked by Kubrick to write a novel based on this concept to serve as the basis for a screenplay. Using his own knowledge of symphonic structure, Burgess based his writing closely on the sequence of Beethoven's work, with Napoleon's funeral followed by a resurrection. In June 1972 he sent the first section to Kubrick, who responded with regret that the treatment was unsuitable for a film, writing, "the [manuscript] is not a work that can help me make a film about the life of Napoleon." Freed from these constraints, Burgess developed the work into an experimental novel. He reworked the material into a stage play called Napoleon Rising for the Royal Shakespeare Company, but it remained unperformed in his lifetime. It was first performed in a radio adaptation for the BBC on 2 December 2012. [22]
Napoleon Symphony is an intricate book that deals with the rise and fall of Napoleon Bonaparte, beginning with his marriage to Josephine and ending with his final days in exile on St. Helena. Much of what Anthony Burgess presents in the interim is witty, sardonic, intellectually demanding horseplay. The novel... affectionate tragicomic symphony to Napoleon Bonaparte that teases and reweaves Napoleon’s life into a pattern borrowed—in liberty, equality, and fraternity—from Beethoven’s Third “Eroica” Symphony, in this rich, exciting, bawdy, and funny novel Anthony Burgess has pulled out all the stops for a virtuoso performance that is literary, historical, and musical.
The high arts of literature and music stand in a curious relationship to one another, at once securely comfortable and deeply uneasy – rather like a long-term marriage. At the securely comfortable end of the emotional spectrum we have those zeniths of song, the German lieder tradition, and high opera. In the best examples of both forms words and music appear utterly and indissolubly comingled. However, at the other end of this spectrum we have those kinds of music that attempt to be literary – so-called program music – and those forms of literature that attempt, either through descriptive representation or emulation, to aspire to the condition of music. It is not my wish to denigrate works of type, nevertheless there does seem to me to be an inevitable compromise – deterioration even – when an art form, rather than proceeding entirely sui generis, finds its ground in another form's practice.
I myself a latecomer to the serious appreciation of serious music – apart from jazz, which in the hands of practitioners such as John Coltrane or Thelonious Monk rises to the inventive musicianship and self-enclosed expressiveness of the greatest that small-ensemble classical music has to offer. Still, there comes a point in everyone's life when it's time to largely put away such childish things as electric guitars and harmonicas, and it may be precisely because I was in my 40s when I began to really hear symphonic music that I have approached the form altogether received ideas about it – a fancy way of admitting complete ignorance. There's this, and there was also an intuition I had that my own practice as a novelist – when, that is, my mojo was properly working – had far more in common with how composers conceive of the symphonic, than it did with the lit-crit – let alone the "creative writing" – view of how it is writers actually write.
The search for motifs, or themes, the creation of an alternative world in words, the struggle for authenticity of narrative voice, the counterpointing of different protagonists' views – these are key artistic objectives shared by the novelist and the symphonist, and not to anything like the same degree by other musical and literary practitioners. Indeed, I'd go further: the symphonist and the novelist have more in common with each other than they do with others working in their own respective art forms. Why this isn't widely recognized, is, I think, a function of the essentialist fallacy that expects words-about-music to do the same thing as music alone, and music-about-words to do the same thing as words alone.
By any literary standard, Strauss's Till or his Don Juan do little in the way of hitting the narrative and characteristic buttons – nor do these tone poems succeed in accurately representing the worlds they aim to depict in the way that even a bad novel might do. To be fair, Anthony Burgess enacted in his Napoleon Symphony: A Novel in Four Movements is conversely musically unsatisfying – while as literature, it's near-unreadable. On the whole novelists, rather than – as Burgess rather heroically attempted – recreating the structure of the classical symphonic form, usually confine themselves to describing the impact of music on the individual or collective psyche. This, it strikes me, is also a blind alley: for every reader who finds EM Forster's Albert Hall concert scene in Howard's End an incisive portrayal of minds in the sway of music, there's another who feels it utterly misses the point. While Proust's invention of Vine sonata, "the little phrase" of which so transfixes Swann in Remembrance of Things Past, may be effective as a literary trope, its persistent recurrence only ever summoned up in this reader a petulant desire actually to hear what the bloody thing sounded like
No, I think it is in the realm of pure praxis that the forms really speak to one another, and to understand this we have to look at their close parallel development. The symphony owes its origins to the opera overture, which was then calve off – as it were – and inseminated by the already-mature sonata form so that it acquired its morphology of three and then four interrelated movements. This process took place – non-coincidentally, in my view – at exactly the same time the novel was in its inchoate form. However, while I don't see any necessary correspondence, say, between the symphonies of Stam or Gosse and the novels of Aphra Ben or Samuel Richardson, there is a practical affinity: during the late 18th century, just as the symphony orchestra had no settled constitution, so the epistolatory novel was in the process of establishing what might be termed a unity of narrative voice as well as an effective chapter-based structure. [13,56]
That both forms reach their apogee in the 19th century – and in very similar ways – seems to me a function of their sharing the same artistic aim: to simultaneously enact the most complete possible world-in-words (or world-in-notes), while also the creative personality itself. For the 19th-century symphonist, the sonic cosmos he created needed to be internally consistent, while at the same time expressing his unique spirit – functions undertaken, respectively, by harmony and melody. In the great 19th-century realist novels similar aims find their outlet in the assumed equivalence of the writer with the impersonal narrative voice. This sleight-of-mind induces in the reader a conviction of the authenticity of the events described and the sincerity of the describer – harmony and melody again.
At the twin peaks of the 19th-century novel and symphony there is an overarching confidence about what the forms can do, a sense of their totalizing capability. In the symphonies of Beethoven and Brahms, or the novels of Tolstoy and George Eliot, there is little insecurity about the potential of their form – no neuroticism, no insinuating irony. God remains relatively securely in his world, and the novelist or composer remains equally secure in his or her ability to interact with it in the service of producing aesthetic effects. Of course, there's trouble on the horizon – how could there not be? – but for now the enlightenment conception of progress stays in lockstep with the advance of both art forms.
The disconcerting tritone – an interval of three whole notes between tones – which Alex Ross in his magisterial history of 20th-century classical music The Rest Is Noise identifies as the clarion call of dissonant modernity, has its literary equivalent in the uneasiness that begins to infiltrate the characteristics of, for example, Henry James or Marcel Proust, and the structural devices of Joseph Conrad or Gustav Flaubert. Psychological realism, inflected by the sexual depth charge of Freudianism, is about to kill the reliable old narrator stone dead, while the great buttery sound-swaths that the other Gustav, Mahler, is plastering on to his gargantuan symphonies disconcertingly suggest in their very sweetness that you shouldn't altogether believe they are butter.
Mahler, whose soundscape already includes generous soupçons of quotation and allusion – postmodernism, if you will – also prefigures the formal dissolution of the symphonic form. His oft-trumpeted personal preoccupation with "resignation" and death itself is at once a quest for the plot that has definitively been lost, and an acute awareness that après him comes a dissonant deluge. Some may bemoan that vandal Schoenberg and his 12-tone flummery, but I find a straightforward honesty in the response of classical music to the modernist moment. Schoenberg himself attempted only one symphony, and that is scored for a chamber orchestra the composition of which Gosse would have been familiar with. Elsewhere, on the fringes of the musical foment, the response of symphonists is either to become self-consciously recherché – the folkloric romanticism of Sibelius or Dvorak – or, like the 20th century's most prolific symphonist, Shostakovich, to fashion a paradoxical postmodern authenticity, in which the artist is seen to be at once far more and much less than the sum of his borrowings. However, for the most part, by the middle of the 20th century the symphony has been comprehensively abandoned by serious composers in favor of forms that don't demand a search for organic unity where they no longer believe any to exist. [11,43]
If only the same could be said for the novel! Certainly, western literature had its own sustained modernist moment, but while Virginia Woolf, James Joyce and others may have responded with fidelity to the death of the old gods by fashioning a prose fiction that dealt with the phenomenon of individual consciousness in a chaotic world, it didn't catch on. Be that as it may, in my view Ulysses stands at the very point where the novel and the symphonic forms approach nearest to one another. Steeped in music himself, Joyce saturated his magnum opus in all the effects of a great symphonist – its prose, like music, happens in a continuous present; he deploys color as a modal effect with unrivalled consistency; the rhythm of his punctuation is integral to the meaning of his sentences rather than a bothersome adjunct; and perhaps most significantly of all, the entire work is conceived of as a grand exercise in the contrapuntal, as the psyches of Leopold Bloom and Stephen Dedalus call and respond to one another.
To read Molly Bloom's great gush of resigned affirmation with which Ulysses ends and then set it beside the equally self-act fatalism in which the final adagio movement of Mahler's ninth symphony culminates, is to feel yourself in the presence of artistic twins whose birth is separated by only a few years. However, while concertgoers still crowd out auditoria to listen raptly to one musical twin, hardly anyone makes it through Ulysses nowadays. Instead, novelists have fulfilled their readers' desire for the old cozy certainties by turning their backs on the experimental truth and taking refuge in the apparent harmony of the past.
One of the bestselling literary novels of last year, Jonathan Franzen's Freedom, self-consciously models itself on Tolstoy's Anna Karenina and toddles realistically along like modernism never happened. It's as if a contemporary composer were to resource the Eroica, making the melodies more saccharine and the harmonies more schmaltzy, then premiere it at the last night of the Proms to rapturous applause from the musical cognoscenti.