You do not have to be able to carry a tune to take part in the chorus for Handel’s Messiah, as countless sing-alongs around the world this time of year prove. It may well be, as Charles King writes, “the greatest piece of participatory art ever created,” but almost as miraculous as the composition itself is the way it was created. Handel had seen better days when he started work on it, in 1741, relying on a selection of scriptural quotations put together by a wealthy misanthrope. Handel himself performed the oratorio 36 times, and its popularity was due in large part to the composer’s agreeing to hold an annual concert featuring his work to benefit a charity for needy children.
King does an enthralling job orchestrating all the characters and the political atmosphere that propelled Messiah to such contemporary renown. It remains a minor mystery why Messiah, about the birth, death, and resurrection of Jesus and written for Easter time, has become such a Christmas staple, but let’s be thankful the “Hallelujah” chorus elevates a holiday that has become so shamelessly commercial.
Retiring at a still-robust age is a mixed blessing, with its plus being that now your time is your own and the minus being you may miss what you used to do all the time. But retirement is a relatively modern invention, since most folks used to work until either they died or became too feeble or sick to do so, which often led to penury. The introduction of Social Security in the 1930s, the postwar boom in pensions, and longer lifespans changed all that, and James Chappel brilliantly and engagingly charts how old age became transformed into something called retirement, with shiny communities and happy couples buying sailboats and sailing into the sunset fueled by 401(k)s.
His real service, however, is in exploring the disparities in wealth and health that old age stills brings, and how much our own aging as a nation (the number of Americans over 65 will soon be larger than the number under 18) threatens our gray future. Chappel offers some intriguing ways to make old age more dignified and meaningful, and they do not include taking your grandkids to an amusement park.
If the title of this book does not promise joy, well, so much for book titles. Still Life with Remorse is joyful and wise and witty, Maira Kalman’s words complemented beautifully by her colorful paintings. Married to the designer Tibor Kalman for nearly 20 years before his death, at age 49 in 1999, the author is no stranger to grief, anger, disappointment, and a troubled father (not to mention father-in-law), but out of these stories she spins hope. Misery is part of life, but so is mystery, and what better way to live with remorse than “to inhale the scent of flowers. To read books. To listen to music. To drink pots of tea. And not talk, just sing.” And, we might add, to buy Still Life with Remorse. You will be grateful you did.
Jim Kelly is the Books Editor at AIR MAIl
