Parsifal's Promise or Parsifal's Reality? On the Politics of Voice Exchange in Wagner's Grail Operas
Both Parsifal and Lohengrin are operas about futurity: hope that prayers will be answered, promise that redemption will bring about a new day. Yet paradoxically, the two works also share an investment in reversing futurity: time turned into space, modernity exchanged for medieval regalia. These external similarities between Wagner’s “grail operas” are more than mere family resemblances, however, for this hesitant nexus of hope and despair, of progress and stultification, is perhaps at its strongest in the movement between the two works. Parsifal comes to its autumnal close so that Parsifal’s son may attend to his heroic duties, just as Lohengrin bows its head as an opera to make way for its prophetic older sibling, the music drama. Fueling this circular movement between the two works is the catalyst of self-realization, the promise—and the cost—of finding one’s voice, of fulfilling prophecy. This, then, is an essay about coming into one’s own within the ambivalent and closed economy of Wagnerian myth. Our starting point is the beginning of the third act in Parsifal, as Parsifal the character—now the “Black Knight”—shares with Gurnemanz what he has learned about his place within Parsifal the story: “Und ich,” he cries, “ich bin’s, der all dies Elend schuf” [And I, I am the one who caused all this misery]. The “misery” is Titurel’s death, and it represents the sorry state into which Montsalvat has fallen since Parsifal’s initial failure to recognize his redemptive potential. The bad news initially threatens to overwhelm Parsifal, but it ultimately serves to strengthen his resolve. “Ich bin’s”: I am the one I myself heard prophesied. Although this hard-won realization carries embarrassingly little dramatic suspense—Wagner made the “pure fool’s” identity painstakingly obvious in act 1—it serves as a decisive linchpin in the opera’s dénouement: Parsifal exchanges his old mien for a new one, and now armed with both spear and the knowledge of his role within a preordained narrative, he is able to heal Amfortas, baptize Kundry, and proclaim healed all the ills that have befallen Montsalvat. I begin with this moment in Parsifal not because it is unfamiliar, or because its mechanics demand detailed exegesis, but precisely because there is something so familiar about it. Indeed, we have heard Parsifal’s words before in other of Wagner’s works, and so, too, have we witnessed similar scenes of self-realization. Senta, at the turning point of her ballad, switches from narration to apostrophe to
"Taceat Mulier in Theatro": Guntram, Schopenhauer, and the Female Voice
Arthur Schopenhauer, in what is perhaps the most stridently misogynist text of the nineteenth century, describes how women ruin a man’s concertgoing experience by “continuing their chatter” [ihr Geplapper fortsetzen] even “during the most beautiful passages of the greatest masterworks” [unter den schönsten Stellen der größten Meisterwerke]. This terrifying vision of man’s masterworks disrupted and destroyed through feminine chatter moves Schopenhauer to make a modest proposal:
The Tsadik and His Soul’s Sparks: From Kabbalah to Hasidism
The present study shows the continuity between the Safedian Kabbalistic view of the relations between the sparks of a certain soul, and the Hasidic theory, that was conceived of as innovated by and characteristic of 18th century Hasidism, as to the responsibility of the Tsadik for the sparks that belongs to his soul. In the two literatures, the rescue of a spark of one's soul is related to the beautiful captive woman that is conceived of as an externalization of an inner dimension of the righteous person, immersed in a shell.