Gustav Mahler at 165: The Birth of a Universe
July 7, 1860 — July 7, 2025
I. The Titan Is Born
Today, 165 years ago, in a small Bohemian town, a universe was born.
Not just a man.
Not just a composer.
But a world-builder.
Gustav Mahler.
He didn’t leave behind an enormous body of work. No string quartets. No solo piano sonatas. Only ten and a half symphonies, a few song cycles, and that’s all.
But each one—each symphony—is a world.
And together, they form a cosmos.
“A symphony must be like the world. It must contain everything.” — Mahler
II. Becoming Mahlerian
Recently, he has become something of an obsession for me.
I rarely listen to anything else.
But it’s not just listening—it’s a whole way of thinking.
I’ve started thinking in Mahlerian.
In arcs. In ruptures. In return. In death and resurrection.
In the language of unbearable tenderness and colossal force.
You begin to live symphonically.
It’s not a straight line. It’s not narrative.
It’s something else—deeper, more musical.
III. In the Beginning—Symphony No. 1
If each symphony is a world, the First is the beginning of the universe.
It's not a Big Bang, but a whispered command: Let there be music.
It begins as all sacred things do: not with certainty, but with mystery.
A trembling pedal tone. A hush. A breath.
Nature stirs. And the world takes shape.
For me, the First Symphony constantly continues to deepen in meaning.
Here’s a poem I wrote about it:
The First Symphony
I’m still trying to understand the Titan.
What could be more fitting for my journey back to Hamburg…
Is it the story of Gustav’s struggle with his Jewish identity?
That identity that always haunts him.
Is it Gustav’s dream of a world in which he has overcome what was stamped upon him?
I think the third movement is the key.
The first is the creation of the world,
the second—a kind of alpine dance.
The third—life itself.
And the fourth:
the triumph over fate.
The defeat of the hammer that fails to strike.
It is without doubt one of the most successful hero’s journeys in history.
— On the plane back to Germany from the U.S., 6/7/25
And another poem, written days before, while leaving Germany towards the US:
On the Train to Berlin
I am on the train from Hamburg.
An “Atlantic Hotel” pen in my hand.
Still in the red notebook.
I’m traveling to Berlin,
to catch a flight to Boston.
This route:
Vienna, Hamburg, Berlin, America—feels familiar.
Suddenly, the sounds of the oboe burst forth.
The clarinet joins in too.
These wind sounds are foreign to Hamburg,
something in them folk-like, perhaps Slavic,
Jewish?
They continue,
suddenly the drum joins.
The rhythm quickens, then slows again.
Back to the clarinet:
the bassoon takes part too,
drums again,
faster:
then slow again.
Something tries to break out,
but cannot succeed.
Berlin is a hard city for me.
There, more than anywhere in this land,
I feel the heavy weight of those six million.
The harp joins gently,
accompanying the song of the oboe and clarinet.
The violins finally join too,
then silence again.
The harp returns,
the woodwinds play a familiar tune,
you could imagine street musicians in a village with that melody.
But their rhythm is different.
As if they are in mourning.
There are moments of bursting speed and drumbeats,
but they are halted again and again.
What holds you back?
For whom do you mourn?
The image of Nussbaum’s “Triumph of Death” comes to me.
Is this how you look?
Is it you who play, six million?
— Written on the train to Berlin while listening to the third movement of Mahler’s First Symphony. 1/7/25
IV. The Fifth Is the Ultimate Celebration
In Boston, on the Fourth of July, something unexpected happened:
Mahler in the Streets of Boston
As I walked through the old city streets,
I turned right into a kind of alley.
But something made me turn back.
I continued a little further on the main road.
Suddenly I stopped.
I heard something familiar.
I drew closer.
I froze.
It was this.
I had no doubt.
It was the third movement —
The Scherzo—from Mahler’s Fifth.
What are you doing here?
— Boston, July 4th, 2025
Later that day, at a conference concert, the contrast became clear. They played American marches, light waltzes, and even operettas. to celebrate America’s Independence Day, but my thoughts were elsewhere.
At the Concert, at the Conference
I’m sitting here at the American conference.
In honor of the Fourth of July, they’ve arranged a festive concert with a small orchestra.
They’re playing American marches, waltzes, even operettas.
Is this a true celebration?
No.
For me, no music is more celebratory than your Fifth.
You, who know how to appear everywhere —
even on this day,
in this unrelated city,
on this unrelated street.
Where I come from,
independence comes after remembrance.
Not just celebration—but memory.
To hear the trumpet of the Trauermarsch,
To bear storm that follows,
the colossal Scherzo,
the peak of beauty in the Adagietto,
and the epic finale—
That is the ultimate music of celebration.
It speaks truth.
It reaches deepest.
This, and none other.
Happy holiday.
— Boston, July 4th, 2025
Mahler is famously quoted as saying of the Fifth Symphony:
“Nobody understood it. I wish I could conduct the first performance fifty years after my death.”
He knew what he had written.
The world just hadn’t caught up.
The Personal and The Political
As I reflect on these two symphonies—the First and the Fifth—I had this thought today:
The First is political.
The Fifth is personal.
The First tries to forge a new identity.
The Fifth confesses one.
That’s the difference between the outer journey and the inner one.
And Mahler, miraculously, gave us both.
VI. The Mahlerian Language
Mahler’s music is unlike anyone else’s.
He was a radical—a fanatical world-builder who would not compromise for anything less.
He didn’t write to entertain. He wrote to contain the cosmos.
He speaks in ruptures. Pauses. Echoes. Dissonance. Redemption.
A way of expressing a world that can’t be expressed any other way.
One day, a missile falls. The next day, I board a plane to Vienna.
What does that mean?
You can’t explain that in prose.
You need a symphony.
And Mahler wrote it.
VII. The Universe Itself
He never belonged.
Not fully.
Not in his Vienna. Not in his time. Not even in his profession.
And so he built a world where he could.
A symphonic world.
A Mahlerian universe.
And it changed mine.
I don’t want to leave it.
I don’t think I can.
Because it’s not just his.
It’s his gift to humanity.
And discovering it has changed everything.
VIII. Ewig, Ewig
So on this day—Mahler’s day—I don’t just say Happy Birthday.
I say thank you.
Thank you for the world.
Thank you for the language.
Thank you for the Fifth.
For the Adagietto.
For the Third.
For the scream in the Sixth.
For the eternal whisper of Ewig…
It all began 165 years ago.
With a man.
With a tremble.
With a birth—not of a child.
But of a universe.
Do yourself a favour.
Listen to Mahler’s First.
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The optimist's horns at the first movement then slips going down the slope, in the dark. [The 5th Symphony]