To edit language about disability is, to some extent, to edit the disability itself—to shape for a reader the identities and experiences of individuals for whom a “disability” is the norm. From Riley to the RTC, we have sampled the (often conflicting) demands that a conscientious editor must satisfy: fidelity to the author’s voice, the audience’s expectations, and advertisers’ agendas; conformance to house style and/or external guidelines; concerns of layout and location; and, not least, the subject’s own experience. What additional challenges arise when the individual under consideration is not a contemporary celebrity like Christopher Reeve, but a cultural touchstone from the distant past? A short list of issues might include how or whether to “translate” historical terminology for a modern audience (either from a foreign language into English or from antiquated expressions into contemporary euphemisms); how to accurately assess the extent of a disability and/or the individual’s experience thereof; and the role allotted to the disability in shaping the overall narrative.
Consider the following excerpt from a recently published music appreciation textbook:
“Beethoven cut a strange, eccentric figure as he wandered the streets of Vienna, sometimes humming, sometimes mumbling, and sometimes jotting on music paper. Adding to the difficulties of his somewhat unstable personality was the fact that he was gradually losing his hearing—a serious handicap for any person, but a tragic condition for a musician. Can you imagine a blind painter?”[1]
The passage goes on to describe Beethoven’s progression into total deafness and his consideration of a suicide attempt; subsequent passages describe the music Beethoven composed in the years following his realization that the hearing loss would be irreversible (1803-1813, his so-called “Heroic” period). As an example of modern standards for writing about disability, the excerpt fails miserably; I can imagine Charles Riley recoiling in abject horror from the textbook, and the reference to the “blind painter” strikes a sour note even to my less acutely sensitive ear. Yet, the romanticized discussion of Beethoven’s deafness participates in a well-established historiographic tradition: for reasons not exclusive to his personal challenges, Beethoven long has been considered the first (and, by some, the greatest) exponent of the “Romantic” era of Western classical music history.
Graduate students in music history read—in German—the historical documents from which the language of this excerpt is derived: contemporaneous descriptions of the composer by his friends and associates, as well as his own accounts of his condition. They come to understand as well that the designation “heroic” refers less to Beethoven’s personal challenges than to his outlook on contemporary politics (the rise and fall of Napoleon Bonaparte) and his choice in dramatic texts (the opera Fidelio, about a political prisoner and his wife). I would even venture to suggest that, for many historians, Beethoven’s deafness ultimately becomes more a piece of trivia than the central concern that it appears to be in the excerpt above (admittedly, only one paragraph out of an entire chapter devoted to the composer).
Too much emphasis on Beethoven’s auditory issues risks descending into caricature; too little ignores the certain fact that his condition mattered to him and to his art. Is there a “right” approach to writing about Beethoven’s deafness?
[1] Craig Wright, Listening to Western Music, 6th ed. (Boston: Schirmer, Cengage Learning, 2011), 214.
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