Beethoven began going deaf at the age of 26 years old. By his early thirties, he reported that his hearing loss significantly impacted both his personal and professional life. I can’t help but wonder that — if he had not sat down at a piano at age four or whatever, and rather 15 or 20 years later — would he have been too late to the game to discover his genius?
Perhaps he would have followed in his father’s footsteps as a cobbler. Or maybe his father was a statesman. I’m not really sure. But imagine Ludwig van Beethoven whittling wood or sowing seeds. Miserably dragging himself home each night and scrubbing the grime off of his delicate fingers.
He would stare at his fingers in contempt, knowing they’re quite able to do something else — perhaps designed for one thing only — and yet he’s employed them to soften leather (or whatever the case may be).
And when he played beautiful music on the piano, his family and friends would smile genuinely and say, “That’s really something, Ludwig!” And then they would finish their tea and retire for the evening.
I imagine him lying in bed staring at the ceiling, desperately wanting to know that when he awakens in the morning, he’ll head straight to the piano to warm up. Then he’ll sit at his desk with ink and paper and empty his head of the musical notes that just happen to create magical symphonies.
He’d fall asleep eventually. A few hours later the sun would slap him in the face, he’d walk downstairs and past the piano. Glaring at it as Middle C became a middle finger.
He’d grab his toolbox or what have you and head out the door.
Maybe he’d welcome deafness — in spite of himself. The only way he could make the music go away so as not to torment him all the live-long day.
But he sat at a piano when he was four.
neuspaper 