During the 1990s, when I was teaching at the University of California at San Diego, I had several conversations with Carol Plantamura—music teacher, colleague, and good friend—about the possibility of a course that would focus on operas and their literary or dramatic sources. We planned to explore the ways in which central ideas, including philosophical ideas, were treated differently in the opera or in the story or play. I no longer remember all the possible pairings we discussed, but I recall the examples we definitely planned to use: Otello and Othello, Wozzeck and Woyzeck—and Death in Venice and Death in Venice.
The course was never taught, but, after my move to Columbia, I continued to think about the guiding idea and, as I read and reread Thomas Mann, about the example of Death in Venice in particular. Along the way, I became convinced that Luchino Visconti’s film also belonged in the mix, although more for its use of Mahler’s music than as an artistic work in its own right.
When Robert Belknap honored and delighted me with an invitation to deliver the Schoff Lectures, I saw it as a wonderful occasion for working out something I had pondered for a while. The Schoff Lectures offer Columbia faculty an opportunity to go in new directions, to cut across disciplinary lines with assistance from an audience of wide-ranging experts. I have tried to take advantage of that opportunity, and, although I cannot possibly claim to be a specialist about any, let alone all, of Mann, Britten, and Mahler, I hope readers will welcome an approach that seeks connections not only among them but also to philosophy, and that experts will not feel I have abused the license.
I began working out those connections during a sabbatical in Berlin, when I was a visitor at the Max Planck Institut für Wissenschaftsgeschichte. There, Michael Gordin, Tania Munz, and I formed a collective, die Tod-in-Venedig Gruppe, in which we discussed Mann’s novella, and our conversations were immensely illuminating for me. I was also extremely fortunate to be able to participate in an informal discussion group at the Wissenschaftskolleg, with Moira Gatens and Candace Vogler, from both of whom I have learned much about philosophy in/ and/of literature.
My time in Berlin prepared me to write the original lectures, and I am most grateful for the fortitude of those who came out in frigid winter weather to hear them. I learned from many good questions, and I was encouraged by the interest expressed. I owe a particular debt to three friends and colleagues who provided wonderful introductions: many thanks to Edward Mendelson, Wayne Proudfoot, and, especially, Fred Neuhouser.
The lectures were extended to a full book manuscript during the spring and summer of 2011. Columbia University Press obtained the services of two extremely careful and constructive readers, Mark Anderson and Bence Nanay, whose many comments and suggestions have enabled me to make significant improvements. I have also benefited from the insightful suggestions of Moira Gatens, Lydia Goehr, Michael Gordin, Marilyn McCoy, Fred Neuhouser, Chris Peacocke, and Candace Vogler. Although I did not work on rewriting during a second period in Berlin, when I was a fellow at the Wissenschaftskolleg during the academic year 2011–2012, that time was full of valuable conversations about philosophy in literature and music. I am especially indebted to Jeremy Adler, Alfred Brendel, Ayse Bugra, Klaus Reichert, and Mauricio Sotelo. Their insights have helped me in composing the final version.
I feel deeply fortunate to have been able to spend the later years of my career at Columbia. Its combination of intellectual tough-mindedness, openness to new ideas, and readiness to foster connections across many different disciplines makes it, in my experience, a uniquely stimulating environment. I have learned much from colleagues and friends not only across the full range of the arts and sciences, but beyond.
My dedication is intended to acknowledge the ways in which discussions at Columbia have changed my thinking. Two senior colleagues (and—again—friends), my immediate predecessors as John Dewey Professor of Philosophy, have had more influence than they might have suspected. So this book is for Isaac Levi and in memory of Sidney Morgenbesser.