Real Genius

Ripped into Beethoven's Bagatelles for the first time in ages, and found that they are all awesome, but one in particular really bowled me over this time, and it turns out, it's in C minor (seems that a huge proportion of my favorite works are in Cm). Anyway, futher turns out that this work has a bizarre notation after it, rather than an opus number, it says WOo52 which stands for without opus, #52. Looked it up on the web, turns out it was composed in 1797. In case you wanna see the other WOos: http://home.swipnet.se/zabonk/cultur/ludwig/beewoo2.htm. Anyway, that got me all the more fired up because of the work's proximity to the first three piano sonatas. A long time ago, I'd listened to many of the sonatas, starting with the familiar ones (8, 14) and moving onto other familiar ones (17, 21, 31, 32), and happened upon a book one day in the library of letters of Arnold Shoenberg. Having no ability to listen to his music, why I even opened the book is somewhat of a mystery, but in there I found some really hilarious material. In particular, a letter in which AS was excoriating some poor concertmaster/conductor for a recent performance of one of his works, thanking him at the end for never considering one of his compositions again in the future (mark this spot as recurring theme for future visitation). But then I found a letter in which AS made a very interesting argument that Beethoven's Sonatas were wonderful and all, but the greatest ones were 1, 2, and 3. This fired my curiosity. I went to Tower Records in the Valley, where I knew one of the guys at the register. He wasn't there that night, but another would be composer took the box from my hands and rang it up as $15 (instead of $55). Just like my friend had done many times. I thanked my lucky stars and left. Turned out Schoenberg was right. I was completely obsessed with 1, 2, and 3 for months. But they also opened up a whole new vista on Beethoven, and genius for me. This new piece was written the next year. Shows that Beethoven, though he chided himself for his lack of lyricism, was a genius of turning the usual rounds of the classic period into hypnotic, almost shamanic fits of gyromancy.