Hector Berlioz is his name.

To an untrained ear, his music sounds like much of the music of the Romantic Era. To a seasoned ear, he is in a class all unto himself.

I am especially fond of Berlioz’s romantic sensibilities. He writes in his memoirs about a visit to the Paris opera. During a particularly moving aria, Berlioz overheard a conversation between two men behind him:

“Good Lord, sir, calm down! Control yourself!”
“I can’t! It’s too beautiful!”
“You silly ass, don’t let the music affect you so!”
“Just leave me alone!”
“It’s only music, you fool. Get over it! Here, have a piece of this orange, it will make you feel better.”
“It’s wonderful!”
“It’s fresh and imported from Spain!”
“I was talking about the music, you nincompoop!”
“Oh, yes, the music – it’s alright.”

Soon after this, Berlioz himself begins to weep at the overwhelming beauty of the music. At the end of the aria, he is lifted from his seat by the man behind him, who is overjoyed to have found someone who was equally moved. They embrace and share a moment together, and never see each other again.

For many people, this is a difficult month. The holidays are over, the parties have ended, and all of a sudden, we are left alone with a long, cold winter ahead of us.

People who are immune from these feelings often dislike Franz Schubert‘s great song cycle, Winterreise. To me, it brings great comfort, even validation, that others also struggle during this time of the year; we aren’t alone, and Spring will come again. I play it every year during the winter; and if you also suffer during the Winter, I hope it will bring you some peace, knowing another of the many marvelous and beautiful things that humans have created.

I came as a stranger, I leave as a stranger.
May, with its beautiful flowers, was wonderful.
She and I spoke of love, even of marriage.
But now the world is dead and bare, and the path is covered with snow.

Though not my choice, I must leave now,
and struggle to find my way in the dark.
The shadow of the moon is my only companion,
as I make my way through the cold white fields.

It’s better to leave now on my own accord, rather than be driven out later.
Let the dogs howl at me.
God has made Love fickle – she loves to wander from one to the next.
Good night, my love!

I won’t wake you; continue in your dreams.
You won’t hear a noise from me as I leave.
As I leave, I’ll write “Good Night” on the gate,
So you’ll know I continue to think of you.

If are from the Philadelphia area, and listen to Art Music regularly or semi-regularly, you are probably aware that the classical music station has something called the “Sousalarm” every morning. (get it? Sousa, as in John Phillip, sounds like and alarm? sounds like snooze alarm? just making sure …)

I grew up with this – every day, right at 7:15, the radio would play a march of some sort. It’s the perfect way to wake up and get moving. The days are now getting longer, thankfully, but it’s still hard to get out of bed. Why not try a march to get yourself moving?