El ruido del tiempo

Por Julian Barnes

El 26 de enero de 1936 el todopoderoso Iósif Stalin asiste a una representación de Lady Macbeth de Mtsensk de Dmitri Shostakóvich en el Bolshoi de Moscú. Lo hace desde el palco reservado al gobierno y oculto tras una cortinilla. El compositor sabe que está allí y se muestra intranquilo. Dos días después aparece en Pravda un demoledor editorial que lo acusa de desviacionista y decadente. Un editorial aprobado o acaso escrito de su puño y letra por el propio Stalin. Son los años del Gran Terror, y el músico sabe que una acusación como ésa puede significar la deportación a Siberia o directamente la muerte. Pero Shostakóvich sobrevive, compondrá música heroica y patriótica durante la Segunda Guerra Mundial y el régimen comunista lo enviará como uno de sus representantes al Congreso Cultural y Científico por la Paz Mundial en Nueva York, donde repetirá, sin salirse jamás del guión, aquello que le dictan los comisarios políticos. La historia de Shostakóvich y Stalin es un ejemplo particularmente desolador de las relaciones entre el arte y el poder. Uno de los más grandes compositores del siglo XX adaptó su arte a la estética oficial, abjuró de amigos y maestros, se postró ante el dictador para sobrevivir en un periodo en el que sus conocidos caían como moscas. Él salvó el pellejo y, ya muerto Stalin, acabó consagrado como uno de los grandes creadores soviéticos, pero por el camino dejó una parte de su alma, de su dignidad y de su ambición artística. En esta breve novela, tan hermosa como terrible, Julian Barnes reconstruye la vida del músico –los recuerdos de su infancia y su convulsa vida íntima, las relaciones con sus esposas, sus amantes y su hija–, pero sobre todo aborda las dolorosas decisiones que tuvo que tomar en unos momentos históricos sombríos, e indaga en el miedo y la culpa, en la dificultad de comportarse con honestidad en tiempos de barbarie, y en la difícil supervivencia del arte en esos años aciagos.

• Idioma: Español
• Editorial: Editorial Anagrama
• Fecha de lanzamiento: 4 may 2016
• ISBN: 9788433937124

Julian Barnes

Julian Barnes (Leicester, 1946) se educó en Londres y Oxford. Está considerado como una de las mayores revelaciones de la narrativa inglesa de las últimas décadas. Entre muchos otros galardones, ha recibio el premio E.M. Forster de la American Academy of Arts and Letters, el William Shakespeare de la Fundación FvS de Hamburgo y es Chevalier de l'Ordre des Arts et des Lettres.

Vista previa del libro

Índice

Portada

1. En el rellano

2. En el avión

3. En el coche

Nota del autor

Créditos

A Pat

Uno para oír,

uno para recordar

y uno para beber.

Proverbio tradicional

Sucedió en medio de la guerra, en un andén tan plano y polvoriento como la interminable llanura que lo circundaba. El tren parado había salido dos días antes de Moscú, rumbo al este; le quedaban dos o tres más de trayecto, dependiendo del carbón y de los movimientos de tropas. Era poco después del amanecer, pero el hombre –en realidad, sólo un semihombre– ya se estaba impulsando hacia los vagones de asientos más cómodos en un carrito bajo con ruedas de madera. La única manera de dirigirlo era tirar del borde frontal del artilugio, y para impedir que volcara, el hombre llevaba, atada con un lazo a la pretina de sus pantalones, una cuerda que pasaba por debajo del carrito. Tiras de tela ennegrecidas le envolvían las manos y tenía la piel curtida de mendigar por las calles y las estaciones.

Su padre había sido un superviviente de la guerra anterior. Bendecido por el cura del pueblo, se había ido a luchar por la patria y el zar. Para cuando volvió, el cura y el zar ya no estaban, y la patria ya no era la misma. Su mujer había gritado al ver lo que la guerra había hecho con su marido. Ahora había otra guerra y había vuelto el mismo invasor que antes, con la salvedad de que los nombres habían cambiado: los nombres en los dos bandos. Pero no había cambiado nada más: los cañones seguían despedazando a jóvenes, a trozos a los que luego unos cirujanos cortaban toscamente. A él mismo le habían amputado las piernas en un hospital de campaña instalado entre árboles partidos. Todo era por una gran causa, como la vez anterior. A él le importaba una mierda. Que los demás discutieran al respecto; su única preocupación era llegar al final de cada día. Se había convertido en un técnico de la supervivencia. Por debajo de cierto punto, era lo que todos los hombres llegaban a ser: técnicos de la supervivencia.

Unos pocos pasajeros se habían apeado para respirar el aire polvoriento; otros se asomaban a las ventanillas de los vagones. Cuando el mendigo se acercaba, empezaba a cantar a grito pelado una canción indecente típica de los barracones. Algunos pasajeros le tiraban uno o dos kopeks por entretenerles; otros le pagaban para que se fuera. Algunos le lanzaban adrede unas monedas que aterrizaban de canto y se alejaban rodando, y se reían cuando él las perseguía, luchando con los puños contra el andén de cemento. Esto instaba a otros, por piedad o por vergüenza, a darle dinero directamente en la mano. Él sólo veía dedos, monedas y mangas de abrigos, y era impermeable al insulto. Éste era el que bebía.

Los dos hombres que viajaban en los compartimentos más confortables miraban por la ventanilla, tratando de averiguar dónde estaban y cuánto tiempo seguirían parados: minutos, horas, quizá todo el día. Nadie les informaba, y ellos sabían que era mejor no preguntar. Si indagabas sobre el movimiento de los trenes –aunque viajaras en uno de ellos– podían tomarte por un saboteador. Los hombres eran treintañeros, lo bastante mayores para haber aprendido esta lección. El que escuchaba era un individuo delgado y nervioso, con gafas; alrededor del cuello y las muñecas llevaba amuletos de ajo. La historia ha olvidado el nombre de su compañero de viaje, aunque era el que recordaba.

El carrito que transportaba al semihombre traqueteaba ahora hacia ellos. Éste vociferó versos alegres sobre una violación en el campo. El cantante hizo una pausa y mimó el gesto de comer. En respuesta, el viajero de gafas levantó una botella de vodka. Era un ademán de cortesía innecesario. ¿Cuándo había rechazado un vodka un mendigo? Un minuto después, los dos pasajeros se le unieron en el andén.

Y de este modo eran tres, el número tradicional de bebedores de vodka. El de gafas aún sostenía la botella, su compañero tres vasos. Los llenaron más o menos, y los dos viajeros se inclinaron y pronunciaron el brindis por la salud de rigor. Cuando entrechocaron los vasos, el nervioso ladeó la cabeza –el temprano sol de la mañana destelló brevemente en sus lentes– y murmuró un comentario; su amigo se rió. Después apuraron el vodka de un trago. El mendigo pidió más, con el vaso en alto. Se lo llenaron, luego le quitaron el vaso y se subieron al tren. Agradecido por el pelotazo que circulaba por su cuerpo mutilado, el mendigo avanzó con su carrito hacia el siguiente grupo de viajeros. Cuando los dos viajeros ya habían vuelto a ocupar sus asientos, el que escuchaba casi había olvidado lo que había dicho. Pero el que recordaba sólo acababa de empezar a recordar.

1. En el rellano

Lo único que sabía era que aquél era el peor momento.

Llevaba tres horas de pie junto al ascensor. Iba por el quinto cigarrillo y le patinaba la mente.

Caras, nombres, recuerdos. Turba cortada pesándole en la mano. Aves acuáticas suecas titilando por encima de su cabeza. Campos de girasoles. El olor del aceite de clavel. El olor cálido, dulzón de Nita al abandonar la pista de tenis. Sudor rezumando de un pico de viuda en el nacimiento del pelo. Caras, nombres.

También las caras y los nombres de los muertos.

Podría haberse llevado una silla del apartamento. Pero sus nervios, de todos modos, le habrían mantenido erguido. Y si se sentaba a esperar el ascensor tendría un aire decididamente excéntrico.

Su situación había surgido cuando menos lo esperaba, y sin embargo era perfectamente lógica. Como el resto de su vida. Como el deseo sexual, por ejemplo. Apareció como por arte de magia y sin embargo era perfectamente lógico.

Intentó seguir pensando en Nita, pero el pensamiento no le obedecía. Era como un moscardón, ruidoso y promiscuo. Aterrizaba en Tania, por supuesto. Pero luego volaba hacia aquella chica, Rozaliya. ¿Se sonrojaba al recordarla o estaba secretamente orgulloso de aquel incidente perverso?

El patronazgo del mariscal: eso también había surgido cuando menos se lo esperaba, y sin embargo era perfectamente lógico. ¿Se podía decir lo mismo del destino del mariscal?

La cara amable, barbuda de Jurgensen; y con ella, el recuerdo de los dedos violentos y furiosos de su madre alrededor de la muñeca. Y su padre, el padre adorable, bonachón y poco práctico, cantando al lado del piano «Los crisantemos del jardín se marchitaron hace mucho tiempo».

La confusión de sonidos en su cabeza. La voz de su padre, los valses y polcas que había tocado mientras cortejaba a Nita, el fa agudo de los cuatro pitidos de la sirena de una fábrica, perros ladrando a un fagotista inseguro, un alboroto de percusión y metales debajo de un palco del gobierno revestido de acero.

Interrumpió estos ruidos uno del mundo real: el repentino zumbido y rugido de la maquinaria del ascensor. Ahora fue su pie el que patinó, derribando la maletita que descansaba contra su pantorrilla. Aguardó, con la memoria repentinamente vacía de recuerdos, llena sólo de miedo. El ascensor se detuvo en un piso que estaba más abajo y sus facultades se activaron de nuevo. Recogió la maleta y notó que su contenido se desplazaba con suavidad. Lo cual hizo que su pensamiento saltara a la historia del pijama de Prokófiev.

No, no como un moscardón. Era más como uno de aquellos mosquitos de Anapa. Posándose en todas partes y succionando sangre.

Plantado aquí había pensado que gobernaría su pensamiento, pero por la noche, solo, le parecía que era el pensamiento el que lo gobernaba a él. Bueno, nadie escapa a su destino, como nos aseguró el poeta. Y nadie escapa a su mente.

Recordó el dolor de la noche antes de que le extirparan el apéndice. Vomitó veintidós veces, le soltó a una enfermera todos los juramentos que sabía y después suplicó a un amigo que fuera a buscar al miliciano para que le pegara un tiro y pusiera fin al dolor. Dile que venga y que me pegue un tiro para acabar con el dolor, le había suplicado. Pero el amigo se negó a ayudarle.

Ahora no necesitaba un amigo y un miliciano. Ya había voluntarios suficientes.

Todo había empezado, muy concretamente, le dijo a su mente, la mañana del 28 de enero de 1936, en la estación ferroviaria de Arcángel. No, respondió su mente, nada empieza exactamente así, en una fecha concreta y en un lugar concreto. Todo empezó en muchos sitios y en muchos momentos, algunas incluso antes de que nacieras, en países extranjeros y en las mentes ajenas.

Y después, sucediera lo que sucediese a continuación, todo seguiría igual, en otros lugares y en las mentes ajenas.

Pensaba en cigarrillos: paquetes de Kazbek, Belomor, Herzegovina Flor. En un hombre desmenuzando el tabaco de media docena de papirosi dentro de su pipa, dejando en el escritorio los restos de papel y cilindros de cartón.

Incluso a esas alturas, ¿eso se podría reparar, volver atrás, revocar? Conocía la respuesta: lo que el médico dijo sobre la reconstrucción de la nariz. «Por supuesto que se puede restaurar, pero le aseguro que será peor.»

Pensó en Zakrevski, y en la Casa Grande, y en quién podría haber sustituido allí a Zakrevski. Alguien lo habría hecho. Nunca escaseaban los Zakrevskis, no en aquel mundo, tal como estaba constituido. Quizá cuando se alcanzase el Paraíso, casi exactamente dentro de doscientos mil millones de años, la existencia de los Zakrevskis ya no sería necesaria.

Por momentos su mente se negaba a creer lo que estaba ocurriendo. No puede ser, porque nunca pudo ser, como dijo el comandante cuando vio a la jirafa. Pero podía ser, y era.

Destino. Era sólo una palabra grandiosa para algo contra lo que no podías hacer nada. Cuando la vida te decía, «Pues sí», tú asentías y lo llamabas destino. Y así había sido su destino llamarse Dmitri Dmítrievich. No había nada que hacer al respecto. Naturalmente, no se acordaba de su propio bautismo, pero no tenía motivos para dudar de la verdad de la historia. Toda la familia se había congregado en el estudio de su padre, alrededor de una pila bautismal portátil. El cura llegó y preguntó a los padres qué nombre querían ponerle al recién nacido. Yaroslav, respondieron. ¿Yaroslav? Al cura no le complació este nombre. Dijo que era de lo más inusual. Dijo que en la escuela se burlaban y reían de los niños con nombres inusuales; no, no podían llamar Yaroslav al niño. Su madre y su padre se quedaron perplejos ante una oposición tan franca, pero no deseaban ofender al cura. ¿Qué nombre propone, entonces?, le preguntaron. Pónganle algo normal, dijo el cura: Dmitri, por ejemplo. Su padre alegó que él mismo se llamaba así, y que Yaroslav Dmítrievich sonaba mucho mejor que Dmitri Dmítrievich. Pero el cura no estaba de acuerdo. Así que le llamaron Dmitri Dmítrievich.

¿Qué importaba un nombre? Había nacido en San Petersburgo, empezó a crecer en Petrogrado y terminó de crecer en Leningrado. O San Leninsburgo, como a veces le gustaba llamarlo. ¿Qué importaba un nombre?

Tenía treinta y un años. Su mujer Nita estaba tendida a unos metros de distancia con la hija de ambos, Galina, a su lado. Galia tenía un año. Últimamente parecía que su vida había adquirido estabilidad. A él nunca le había parecido sencillo aquel lado de las cosas. Experimentaba emociones intensas, pero nunca había sido capaz de expresarlas. Ni siquiera en un partido de fútbol gritaba y perdía los estribos como todos los demás; se limitaba a tomar nota en silencio de la habilidad de un jugador, o de su torpeza. Algunos lo consideraban la típica formalidad retraída de un residente en Leningrado. Pero por encima de esto –o por debajo– sabía que era una persona tímida e inquieta. Y, con las mujeres, cuando perdía la timidez, oscilaba entre un entusiasmo absurdo y un desesperante desamparo. Era como si siempre estuviese en la posición errónea del metrónomo.

Aun así, al final su vida había adquirido cierta regularidad, y con ella, el ritmo correcto. Salvo que ahora todo volvía a ser inestable. Inestable: era algo más que un eufemismo.

El maletín de fin de semana que descansaba contra su pantorrilla le recordó la vez en que había intentado escaparse de casa. ¿Qué edad tenía? Siete u ocho años, quizá. ¿Y llevaba consigo una maletita? Seguramente no; la exasperación de su madre habría sido inmediata. Fue un verano en Irinovka, donde su padre trabajaba de director general. Jurgensen era el factótum de la finca. El que hacía las cosas y las reparaba, el que resolvía los problemas de una manera que un niño podía entender. El que nunca le ordenaba que hiciera algo, sino que le dejaba observar cómo un pedazo de madera se transformaba en una daga o un silbato. El que le daba un trozo de turba recién cortada y le permitía que lo oliera.

Había llegado a tenerle mucho aprecio a Jurgensen. Así que cuando las cosas le desagradaban, como sucedía con frecuencia, decía: «Pues muy bien, me iré a vivir con Jurgensen.» Una mañana, todavía en la cama, había formulado esta amenaza o promesa por primera vez aquel día. Pero una vez ya era suficiente para su madre. Vístete y te llevo allí, le había contestado ella. Él aceptó el desafío –no, no había habido tiempo de preparar el equipaje–, Sofia Vasilievna le había agarrado firmemente de la muñeca y ambos habían empezado a atravesar el campo hacia donde vivía Jurgensen. Al principio él había mantenido su insolente amenaza y caminaba arrogante al lado de su madre. Pero poco a poco sus talones empezaron a arrastrarse, y la muñeca, y después la mano, a desasirse de su madre. En aquel momento pensó que era él quien se soltaba, pero ahora reconocía que la madre lo había ido soltando, dedo a dedo, hasta dejarlo libre. No libre para vivir con Jurgensen, sino libre para dar media vuelta, romper a llorar y correr a casa.

Manos, manos que se soltaban, manos que aferraban. De niño tenía miedo de los muertos; temía que se levantaran de sus tumbas y lo atraparan y lo arrastraran hacia la fría y negra tierra que le llenaba la boca y los ojos. Este miedo había desaparecido lentamente, porque las manos de los vivos resultaron ser más aterradoras. Las prostitutas de Petrogrado no habían respetado su juventud e inocencia. Cuanto más duros eran los tiempos, más agarraban las manos. Se estiraban hasta apoderarse de tu polla, tu pan, tus amigos, tu familia, tu sustento, tu existencia. Además de a las prostitutas, tenía miedo a los porteros. También a los policías, fuera cual fuese el nombre que hubieran elegido para denominarse a sí mismos.

Pero luego surgió el miedo contrario: el de soltarse de las manos que te mantenían a salvo.

El mariscal Tujachevski le había mantenido a salvo. Durante muchos años. Hasta el día en que vio el sudor que caía del nacimiento del

Comentarios para El ruido del tiempo

[m.belljackson · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

The Noise of Time delivers a gradually unfolding tale of the life of Shostakovich beneath the pervasive and seemingly inevitable threat and fears of violence, torture, arrest, death, and harm to his family and friends. How he responds to denunciation, false acceptance, and collusion while continuing to write great music is a testimonial to the pure power of creativity.The writing remains sparse, clear, and moving. (Less of "the Corncob" would be welcome.)What was the threat that finally made him join The Party?

[bodachliath · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

A magnificent reimagining of three pivotal moments in the life of Dmitri Shostakovich, focusing on three occasions when the direction of his life was determined by conversations with the Soviet authorities, or as Barnes describes it, Power.The first part covers the events of 1936, when the opera Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk was condemned after Stalin saw it and disapproved, resulting in the famous Pravda editorial "Muddle instead of Music". In this case the conversation is a first interview with the local secret police chief in the Leningrad Big House, after which he is reprieved because his accuser has himself been purged.The second part moves on to 1948 and a trip to America as part of a Soviet delegation purporting to be peace envoys - this time the conversation is with Stalin himself.The final part covers his declining years, and the conversation is the 1960 one which led to him joining the party and becoming head of the Composers' Union.Barnes has obviously been influenced by Solomon Volkov's book Testimony, which claimed to be Shostakovich's own memoirs; while acknowledging in the postscript that its veracity has been questioned and explaining that the truth of anything that happened in Soviet Russia is rather slippery: "All this is frustrating to any biographer, but most welcome to any novelist".Barnes is very sparing in describing the music, possibly wisely focusing more on the compromises required for survival in Stalin's Russia, the very different pressures and compromises in the time of Khrushchev ("Nikita the Corncob") and the nature of bravery and cowardice. The book is very wise on the dubious benefits of age and experience to a creative artist, and this must be at least partly about Barnes himself.Whether or not you are interested in Shostakovich's music (I am very fond of his string quartets) this is a fascinating book and probably the best of Barnes's later novels.I'll finish with a few quotes, as much of this book seems very quotable:"The system of retribution had been greatly improved, and was so much more inclusive than it used to be""Who engineers the engineers?""Art is the whisper of history heard above the noise of time""It is our destiny to become in old age what in youth we would have most despised""Integrity is like virginity: once lost, never recoverable""Sarcasm was irony which had lost its soul""Well, few lives ended fortissimo and in the major"

[philipjhunt · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

Another beautiful contemplation from a writer at the peak of his power.

[thejohnsmith · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

Nicely written and a pleasure to read this book provides a story of the life of the Russian composer Shostakovich in the Soviet Union. It didn't capture me in the same way that A Sense of Ending did but it was an enjoyable read nonetheless.

[laura400 · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

A short book, with a great beginning, excellent structure and excellent writing, but for some reason it started to drag. It felt repetitive, perhaps: rather than going farther or deeper into the story, it seemed stuck in the same groove. Perhaps because the subject lived so recently, and this is based on actual biography, Barnes felt less free to elaborate and invent, and thus had to live with certain ellipses in Shostakovich's life as it is known to us.Not a bad book by any means, however -- just perhaps not enough meat there to sustain an entire novel. It will still be of particular interest to those who enjoy Russian history. And Barnes is an amazing writer, with a felicitous style that sometimes made me stop reading in pure admiration.

[michaelbartley · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

I am a fan of julian barnes! the story of a artist living in the old soviet union trying to be a artist and staying alive, how fate both good and bad interacts with our life

[wickabod · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

What a delight this elegant little gem from Julian Barnes is.It's not easy to breathe new life into a subject that's been written about so often. But in a compact package, this novel about composer Dmitri Shostakovich provides a fresh glimpse into life in the Soviet Union at the height of Stalin's purges. With wit and humanity, Barnes has captured something essential about the terror, paranoia, and absurdities of that time: "a vast catalogue of little farces adding up to an immense tragedy."It's a story about art and creativity struggling to survive under impossible conditions, but it's also the story of a man literally trying just to survive.What a terrific and lasting central image: Shostakovich dressed and with a suitcase out on the landing of his apartment every night, waiting to get picked up by the secret police, because he hopes that will keep the police from bothering his family inside (and he doesn't want to keep his wife up all night with his own terror-induced insomnia). But night after night, the police don't come. And so he waits, and ponders his fate. "This was one of the questions in his head: was it brave to be standing there waiting for them, or was it cowardly? Or was it neither -- merely sensible? He did not expect to discover the answer." Should he smoke, or save his cigarettes for after his arrest? But what if he saves the cigarettes, and they then get confiscated? Or what if he's quickly executed before he gets a chance to smoke them? And so it goes. . . .Barnes has given us a thoughtful meditation on art and the life of the artist. In the end, are music and its historical context inextricably woven together? Can music ever escape the noise of time?"What he hoped was that death would liberate his music: liberate it from his life. Time would pass, and though musicologists would continue their debates, his work would begin to stand for itself. History, as well as biography, would fade: perhaps one day Fascism and Communism would be merely words in textbooks. And then, if it still had value -- if there were still ears to hear -- his music would be . . . just music."It's a graceful and understated book, full of compassion. But there is also dark humor at every turn:"In the old days, a child might pay for the sins of its father, or indeed mother. Nowadays, in the most advanced society on earth, the parents might pay for the sins of the child, along with uncles, aunts, cousins, in-laws, colleagues, friends, and even the man who unthinkingly smiled at you as he came out of the lift at three in the morning. The system of retribution had been greatly improved, and was so much more inclusive than it used to be."I've read a fair amount of Barnes's fiction over the years, but this is my new favorite among his books. I'm very fond of it.So here I sit, listening to Shostakovich's string quartets as I type this review. It seems only fitting.

[lesleynicol · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

I was disappointed in this little book which was mercifully short. Julian Barnes' beautiful writing is there , but the story of the musician Shostakovich and his life in Stalinist Russia as he struggles to maintain his artistic integrity in the face of edicts from the leaders to compose the sort of music they require as propaganda for their regime. He did not come across as a very interesting character and nothing of his "person" or his relationships was revealed to me.

[opinionated_1 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

Shostakovich and his struggles to maintain his artistic integrity in the face of the sometimes urgent, sometimes insinuating pressures of "Power" are brought to life beautifully in this short novel. As he gets older, Julian Barnes seems to need fewer and fewer words to get across what he needs to, and this novel is short but intense, and primarily about Fear. In this telling, Shostakovich is primarily driven by fear and the seeming inevitability of being crushed by Stalin's apparatus of repression - always referred to as "Power". The lasting image from the book is of the scared composer, standing every night outside his apartment by lift, with a small suitcase, waiting for the secret police to arrive (so that they don't disturb his wife). And yet, they don't come for him, whereas they do come for many of his peers. The paranoia of being one who remains, seems almost worse than being arrested (but of course, not actually worse). Shostakovich is not portrayed as a hero, not even as a courageous man, although he does his best to stand up to Stalin in a telephone call where the Man himself smoothly persuades (but what choice does he really have?) the composer to join a cultural delegation to London. Its both a brave, pathetic and utterly futile resistance. Is he compromised - undoubtedly yes, both personally and artistically. In my opinion Barnes lets him off a little easily here but his point is to show the gradual assimilation of the composer and is ultimate submission to "Power" Does it help to know something of the composer and his contemporaries to understand the book? Probably yes, but its not mandatory. Its an excellent book

[louis69-1 · Calificación: 2 de 5 estrellas]

I note that there are 33 reviews of this novel - what can I add except my personal reaction.In the Author's Note, Julian Barnes writes: ' Elizabeth Wilson is paramount among those who have helped me with this novel. She supplied me with material I would never have come across, corrected many misapprehensions, and read the typescript. But this is my book, not hers; and if you haven't liked mine read hers." I may in fact do that, as I struggled with this.I wanted to like it but I kept on thinking it wasn't a novel that it was biography. Why didn't he write a biography I kept wondering? Maybe it really is a fictional biography...The main character is Dmitri Shostakovich and it is a novel of his living torture under Stalin and later on Khrushchev. Having been to St Petersburg helped me to fill in parts for myself. However it was a puzzling book.

[rascalstar · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

Brilliantly written by a brilliant author -- but I didn't care for the story. It's about the life of the Russian composer Shostakovich. I know nothing about this composer and maybe that's best. He comes alive on these pages in all his brooding inferiority feelings, despite seeming to be not only good at what he does but ahead of his time. The nuanced revelations of his character and his life and fears are exquisite. And he has reason to fear for his life, living under a brutal regime. I heartily encourage reading this author, as I intend to read more of his books, however I wouldn't begin with this one unless you know quite a bit about music or perhaps about Russia or the history of the country. I suspect people who have lived in Russia might enjoy the book. The writing, as always, is beyond fault.

[jbarringer-2 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

This is an interesting and well-written novel based on the life of Shostakovich, who was a composer living during the USSR years in Russia.

[ldvoorberg · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

A history I knew nothing about, but told in a way that was interesting and provoking. The composer Shostakovich reflects on his life and the ups and downs he had as the political climate of Russia changed with government's whims. Not a long book, not scintillating, but interesting nonetheless.

[joannajuki · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

Has only given me one nightmare so far.

[sigmundfraud · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

The Noise of Time by Julian Barnes is a stunning novel of the life of Shostakovich the composer in the context of Stalinist Russia. Artists including composer were not allowed the freedom to express themselves freely in this Communist society. Barnes shares with the reader the frequent close calls between Shostakovich and the Communist party. The composer refuses for many years to avoid joining the Party until he could no longer escape it. He reluctantly joined. The novel was relevant for me because the censorship in Russia was so reminiscent of the censorship of creeping political correctness in America today. It is frightening.This book like much of Barnes is worth a detour.

[crazymamie · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

"Turgenev was not to his literary taste: too civilised, not fantastical enough. He preferred Pushkin and Chekhov, and Gogol best of all. But even Turgenev, for all his faults, had a true Russian pessimism. Indeed, he understood that to be Russian was to be pessimistic. He had also written that, however much you scrubbed a Russian, he would always remain a Russian. That was what Karlo-Marlo and their descendants had never understood. They wanted to be engineers of human souls; but Russians, for all their faults, were not machines. So it was not really engineering they were up to, but scrubbing. Scrub, scrub, scrub, let's wash away all this old Russianess and paint a shiny new Sovietness on top. But it never worked - the paint began to flake off almost as soon as it was applied."It's truly amazing what Julian Barnes was able to say with so few words. This fictional biography is stunning. It's polished very near to perfection, and in less than 200 pages, the complicated life and sophisticated music of a composer is laid bare before us. And yet it doesn't feel short. Or succinct. It feels agonizingly long - I cannot imagine being in Dmitri Shostakovich's place; it must have been unbearable, and yet he did bear it."Yes, he loved Shakespeare; before the war, he had written the music for a stage production of Hamlet. Who could doubt that Shakespeare had a profound understanding of the human soul and the human condition? Was there a greater portrayal of the shattering of human illusions than King Lear? No, that was not quite right: not shattering, because that implied a single great crisis. Rather, what happened to human illusions was that they crumbled, they withered away. It was a long and wearisome process, like a toothache reaching far into the soul. But you can pull out a tooth and it will be gone. Illusions, however, even when dead, continue to rot and stink within us. We cannot escape their taste and smell. We carry them around with us all the time. He did. " What happens when you live your life the best that you can and it still is not good enough? Shostakovich knew this feeling well. He was eventually forced to join the Party, sign articles that he did not write, make speeches that he did not agree with and prostitute his music. He wanted to be stronger, but he was afraid. The writing here is so palpable that you feel that fear and that disgust and that disappointment in every page. He only wanted to be a composer; he could be a brilliant composer but he did not know how to fight a political system that was so corrupt that you never knew from day to day who would still be standing. "Perhaps this was one of the tragedies life plots for us: it is our destiny to become in old age what in youth we would have most despised."If you have not read anything about Shostakovich, I would not recommend starting here. Start with a biography or with Symphony for the City of the Dead, in fact, I highly recommend starting with the second one. It tells his story in a simple and straightforward manner with lots of background information on all the major players and lots of photographs. And it tells the story of just how amazing the writing and performing of his seventh symphony, the one written for Leningrad while it was under siege during WWII really was. It's not that you can't appreciate The Noise of Time without any prior knowledge of Shostakovich, it's just that you will get so much more from Barnes' writing if you do your homework first.

[snash_44 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

The book is historical fiction about the Shostakovich, the Russian composer and deals with the compromises of art in Soviet Russia. More particularly it deals with courage and cowardliness, ideals and compromise all against the process of aging. Contains some great quotes.

[lunarreader · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

This one is strange. I enjoyed Barnes' latest novels [Alsof het voorbij is] and [Hoogteverschillen] a lot, they are true jewels, but this one is ... well, just strange. It is a biography of the adult life of the composer Sjostakovitsj, or is it not? Is it rather a description of dictatorship, more precisely communist dictatorship, with Sjostakovitsj just being the "random" protagonist? The reader learns a lot about the composer, learns a lot more about the intrigues, the manipulation, the "new" truth under each new Sovjet leader, and so on. But is it a novel? It looks like a series of thoughts, questions, doubts. Not all of them are worked out, some return, some not, .... it is strange. One thing is for sure, it is a totally different book then the latest novels. You sense Barnes' talent, the going along with the irony, the circular self-reflections of the composer (or are they from the author?), the returning items and the reappearing title phrase. Barnes is top for me in his novels, i did not realise a true connection and i felt no emotion at all. So, 3 stars, for the beautiful writing, only 3 stars because of the non realisation of my involvement.

[clara53_1 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

Brilliant. Brilliant, bold and insightful. I started marking quotes while reading this novel and very soon realized that I wanted to quote from every page!!! The author so vividly describes the life of Shostakovich under "Power" (Stalin at first, then Khrushchev), the torment of being in conflict with his own conscience as a composer, while trying to survive horrible conditions - with constant fear, constant hesitation, amazed and at the same time ashamed to have survived the doom that took away so many. To live so that "it was life he was afraid of, not death"... What kind of life is that (?)... Shostakovich's son Maxim has seen his father cry only twice: when his wife died and when he joined the Party - the latter obviously under unimaginable duress.... Talk about mental anguish... One could only survive in his shoes only with tons of irony as his means of defence. "Instead of killing him, they had allowed him to live, and by allowing him to live, they had killed him." There is no better way of putting it.Julian Barnes writes with certain melancholy, and in his other two books that I read ("Staring at the Sun" and "The Sense of an Ending") I minded that a little bit. Not here. Here his melancholy seems totally justifiable. This novel is quite a gem.

[ebt1002 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

"Why, he wondered, had Power now turned its attention to music, and to him? Power had always been more interested in the word than the note: writers, not composers, had been proclaimed the engineers of human souls. Writers were condemned on page one of Pravda, composers on page three. Two pages apart. And yet it was not nothing: it could make the difference between life and death.""Art belongs to everybody and nobody. Art belongs to all time and no time. Art belongs to those who create it and those who savour it. Art no more belongs to the People and the Party than it once belonged to the aristocracy and the patron. Art is the whisper of history, heard above the noise of time." This was almost a five-star read. Told from the point of view of composer Dmitri Dmitrievich Shostakovich, the narrative spans his life from age 30, in fear for his and his family's lives after his most recent Symphony falls into Stalin's disfavor, through shifts in Soviet Russia and into the years of Khrushchev's "gentling" of the Power imposed by the Soviet regime. The beauty of the writing is the captivating voice Barnes creates for the embattled and embittered composer; the reader is transported deeply inside Shostakovich's mind. It's not always a pretty place to be but it rings perfectly true. The novel provides an excursion through the vagaries of Stalinist Russia from within Shostakovich's mind. But its power is its evocation of his terror, resignation, and his contemplation of the question of the permanence of anything that matters and the power of art to inspire and redeem the human soul. If you want to be told a story, this is not the novel for you. If you want to mill about in a composer's mind, one who was closely monitored and threatened by the Soviet state, this is the perfect book to pick up next. I do wish I had read a biography of Shostakovich before reading this novel. I plan to do that (in the form of Symphony for the City of the Dead) and then to return to this special work of art. I suspect that enhanced knowledge, on my part, will translate into bestowing upon The Noise of Time the coveted five-star rating.

[eyejaybee · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

Julian Barnes has had an illustrious writing career. His early novels such as 'Metroland'' gave notice of a talent beyond the normal, and his Booker-nominated 'Flaubert's Parrot' showed the scope of his imagination and his capacity to blend beguiling fiction with a strong factual basis. His talent has not been restricted simply to fiction, and he has enjoyed considerable success, both in Britain and in France, as an essayist, In 2011 he won the Booker Prize with 'The Sense of An Ending'. I was, therefore, looking forward to reading this novel but, as soon often seems to happen with books that I have been eagerly awaiting, in the event I found it slightly disappointing.The Noise of Time' focuses on some of the key events in the life of Russian composer Dmitri Shostakovich, and in particular his tempestuous relationship with the Soviet regime. As the book opens, he is waiting in his apartment building in 1936, expecting to be arrested and taken to face interrogation at 'The Big House'. This is following an unexpectedly acrimonious response to the premiere of one of his works, not least because of a slightly farcical performance which was itself caused by the orchestra's unease at the presence of Stalin and many other senior members of the regime.Expecting that he will never return home, Shostakovich tries to prepare for the imminent grilling, and reflects on the unexpected course his life had followed up to that time. For various reasons, not all of which are made clear to him, or indeed to us, that grilling never happens. This does not, however, mean that he is free of future concern, and while his position within Soviet society is gradually rehabilitated, he recognises that it will only be a matter of time before he inadvertently transgresses the invisible demarcation lines again.The novel showcases Barnes's lovely prose, though I did find the staccato delivery of mini-chapters, seldom in chronological order, detracted from, rather than added to, the cohesion of the story. The vignettes of Prokofiev and Stravinsky were very entertaining, and the overall impact of the book was informative, but somehow, and unusually for Julian Barnes, especially given the potentially fascinating subject matter, the story never quite ignited.

[vivienner_3 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

In spare, eloquent prose, Barnes packs a lot into this fictional look at the life of Russian composer Shostakovich. To be at the forefront of any art under Stalin was dangerous, maintaining integrity almost impossible. Was Khrushchev, "the corn cob" any different? Thought-provoking, poignant, compassionate, this is a brilliant work, worthy of the accolades.

[daniel · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

Imposible de abandonar, es apasionante, vertiginoso, horroroso, pero muestra una cara muy franca de la vida e este magnífico compositor. Una genialidad.

[Rocío Durán · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

Es una novela extraordinaria, por la vida contada de Shostakovich, por la forma de narrarla de Julian Barnes. Desde la portada, donde se ve un Dmitri D. con su maleta lista para cuando llegaran por él. Muy conmovedora.

[geza.tatrallyay · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

Excellent book; Barnes draws you into the soul of Shostakovich, a composer trying to make a living in Stalinist Russia. The encounters with the tyrant and the horrific system are believable, and Shostakovich comes across as an all too human character. The writing is wonderful; this is an enchanting little book I found hard to put down. Kudos to Mr. Barnes.

[asxz-2 · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

So that's Shostakovich then. But too much Stalin for my taste. Soviet Russia was not much fun is one of the key takeaways here. I have tended to find Julian Barnes just a little hard to enjoy apart from Arthur & George. This was a little hard to enjoy.

[jonfaith · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

Sibelius had apparently been full of dissatisfaction and self-contempt. It was said that the day he burnt all his surviving manuscripts he felt a weight lifted from his shoulders. That made sense. As did the connection between self-contempt and alcohol, the one inciting the other.

3.5 Stars. Julian Barnes crafted a patient portrait of Shostakovich. It lacks the splendor and kinesis of Bill Vollmann's searing images in Europe Central. Barnes reflects on loss and the shame of indecision. Hamlet looms large. I have been on holiday and this book is a fitting summation. Much of my time recently has involved reflecting on Nixon and Islam. This keeps me away from over-exposure to futbol and ale. My time with both have been extensive but manageable with these other pursuits.

There's also been music. I find my self staring in silence towards the idea of music these days. It is but a field of certain composers which ultimately reign in my mind. Sibelius, Stravinsky, Vaughan Williams and, well, Shostakovich. There's always a time for Count Basie or Blood on the Tracks. Yet somehow I sense a change. Barnes relates this gradual shift in priority with a deft hand. This tectonic activity remains subtle and submerged.

I should add a coda on politics and art, a soft linking of the two is explored in this novella: one which is addressed with asides and the anecdote. I would only muddle my effort.

[josephcamilleri-1 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

Years back, I had greatly enjoyed Julian Barnes’ novel Arthur & George. Drawing on the real-life case of the “Great Wryley Outrages” which saw Arthur Conan Doyle embarking on some sleuthing of his own to disculpate wrongly-convicted suspect George Edalji, Barnes gave us a fictional but plausible imagining of the interior lives of these two historical characters. "The Noise of Time" is a similar exercise of what we might call “literary empathy”, this time round adopting as subject the Russian composer Dmitri Shostakovich. This is a novel about a composer, but it is not about his works, nor even about music in general. Which may be a good thing, since when Barnes decides to provide the reader with some “musicological” nuggets, he tends to blandly reproduce what can be easily found in any decent music dictionary. The novel’s strengths (and themes) definitely lie elsewhere. What concerns Barnes is the uncomfortable relationship between art and political power, and the extent to which dictatorial regimes are willing to use methods – overt and covert – to stifle individuality and harness art (or what passes for it) for their political ends. Shostakovich is the perfect figure onto which Barnes can project his thoughts on the subject – indeed, the composer’s uneasy relationship with the Stalinist regime is well-known, with his music alternately damned (and banned) by the powers-that-be and presented as a model of Soviet art. In line with the thrust of the novel, this slim book is split into three sections, each of which represents one of Shostakovich’s principal “conversations with Power”. The first movement, to use a musical metaphor, takes us to 1936. It deals with the aftermath of the publication of "Muddle instead of Music", an unsigned Pravda editorial (possibly penned by Stalin himself) which denounced the opera The Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District as appealing to “the depraved tastes of bourgeois audiences”. This was the earliest of Shostakovich’s several brushes with the authorities but probably the one which took him closest to being executed as a traitor of “Soviet Socialist ideals”. The second part of the novel is set in 1948, when Shostakovich was sent by the regime to the US as one of the delegates in the “Cultural and Scientific Conference for World Peace”... despite his music having just been “rehabilitated” after yet another official ban. The final section deals with Shostakovich’s controversial decision to become a member of the Communist Party in 1960 after having resisted this for the most dangerous decades of the regime. Throughout, the composer comes across as anguished and terrified, his creativity and will to live sapped by the regime breathing down his neck, and with irony – for all its worth – as his sole means to maintain his self-respect. The protagonist’s feeling of suffocation is expressed through the subtlest of descriptions – his tics, his habit of pushing up his spectacles, his hurried, mumbled speech. Otherwise, the language and style used is apparently at odds with the fearful atmosphere being portrayed – typically for Barnes, the language is elegant – poetic, even – moving along as suavely as an ear-catching melody. Make no mistake, though – first impressions may be misleading and the novel is incredibly powerful and, ultimately, terrifying. Suffice to say it literally gave me nightmares in which I joined Shostakovich in his nightly vigils next to the lift of the block, suitcase packed, waiting for the Secret Police to escort us to interrogation and probable death.Of course, Shostakovich is (and will likely remain) one of the greatest enigmas in 20th century music and Barnes in no way purports to have the measure of the man. However, his fictional rendering of the tormented artist’s internal monologues makes for a great novel ... and a gripping read.

[rmckeown_9 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

Dating back to graduate school, I have admired Julian Barnes for his quirky novels. In most of his works, he does not use anything resembling the conventional structure of the novel. However, as a Booker Prize winner, he has the sort of position which allows him to be as unconventional as he wishes. His latest novel, The Noise of Time, is certainly no exception. This interesting historical account of the career of Dmitri Shostakovich has some flavor of historical fiction, but at the end of the novel, he has profusely thanked Elizabeth Wilson, who “supplied [him] with material I would never have come across, corrected many misapprehensions, and read the typescript” (201). He continues this adulation with, “this is my book not hers; and if you haven’t liked mine, then read hers” (201). Thanks for the offer Dmitri Dmitrievich, but I liked your book a lot.I have been fascinated by Russian history for decades, and I also have a fondness for Russian music – particularly Prokofiev, Tchaikovsky, and Shostakovich. When I learned of the relationship between Dmitri and Josef Stalin, I was perplexed. I always thought music was a bridge over any troubled waters on the planet. The composers refusal to join the Communist Party caused him much trouble. At one point in his life, he so feared the Russian secret police, he slept in his clothes with a small handbag on the floor. He did not want to be dragged away in his pajamas.Eventually, Stalin died, and Nikita Khrushchev became the First Secretary of the Party. While Stalin abhorred Dmitri’s talent, and the official party line was that Dimitri’s music was “Muddle and Muck.” Most of his work was banned for years. When Nikita took over, he was rehabilitated after joining the party. He refused as best he could, but the pressure was intense. Many of his fellow composers and musicians turned their backs on him for giving it to Khrushchev Barnes spent a lot of time on Dmitri’s introspection. In 1949 when the pressure under Stalin was at its greatest, Shostakovich mused, “If music is tragic, those with asses’ ears accuse it of being cynical. But when a composer is bitter, or in despair, or pessimistic, that still means he believes in something. // What could be put up against the noise of time? Only that music which is inside ourselves – the music of our being – which is transformed by some into real music. Which, over the decades, if it is strong and true and pure enough to drown out the noise of time, is transformed into the whisper of history” (135). Wow. This requires some serious thought to digest this – especially for a non musician.Towards the end of his life, Shostakovich feared his memories. Barnes writes, “he could not stop hearing; and worst of all, he could not stop remembering. He so wished that the memory could be disengaged at will, like putting a car into neutral. That was what chauffeurs used to do, either at the top of a hill, or when they had reached maximum speed; they would coast to save petrol” (182-183).What troubled me the most was the politicization of music. Music should join people together not drive them apart. Music should soothe, refresh, invigorate, and raise ones sensibilities. It should not be a political tool manipulated for the accumulation of power. Music has power of its own, and that should be the end. Julian Barnes’ 21st book, The Noise of Time is an absorbing and thought-provoking exploration of the clash between art and power. Whether you are a composer, a musician, or merely a listener like me, this novel should move you to a better place. 5 stars--Jim, 10/26/16

[randymetcalfe · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

Life under tyranny is precarious. For the artist its risks are as much to the art as to the person. What is art deformed by tyranny? Is it even art any longer? And how can you walk the tightrope of conforming just enough to allow your art to surface without becoming so noticeable that the tyrant is forced to take note of it? Such was the challenge of life and art for Dmitri Shostakovich in communist Russia.Julian Barnes presents, in fiction, the whole of Shostakovich’s life. The evidence of his research into the biographies of Shostakovich and his peers is rife. And so the fiction reads, to an extent, like biography. It is somewhat distant, diffident, daunted perhaps by the two large elephants in the room. On the one hand there is the Soviet version of tyranny, a monstrosity so enormous that any account of it comes across as banal: it was bad…very bad. On the other hand there is Shostakovich’s music, a sizeable oeuvre over a long life, but in the absence of being a serious student of music, what can one say about it? Some of it was very good. Some of it was very bad. But which and for what reasons? Barnes largely foregoes the challenge of assessing Shostakovich’s music. Instead he concentrates on Shostakovich as an exemplar of life under tyranny. But it isn’t clear whether Barnes gets beyond the observation that it was bad…very bad.Despite Barnes’ workmanlike account of Shostakovich’s life here, we would be hard-pressed to claim that we gain any insights into him, at least beyond what a competent biographer might have provided. Which leads one to wonder what more Barnes was hoping to achieve in writing this fictional account of Shostakovich’s life. And is the object of Barnes’ quest perhaps too subtle for the broad brush of fictional biography that he brings to it? Certainly there is something about Shostakovich’s life that gives us pause. The problem is that without an adequate presentation of his musical gifts, there is nothing for the reader to use to distinguish Shostakovich from, say, Khrennikov.Not a bad book. But not one that will bring the reader to a new understanding, I think, of either Shostakovich or Soviet tyranny.