This essay explores two movements that developed in reaction to naturalism and its mimetic logic of stage realism at the turn of the twentieth century. Symbolism sought to represent the unrepresentable essence of the human experience, turning to allegories, fables, and mystical images to conjure spirits from both the natural and supernatural realms. Expressionism likewise aimed at an alternative aesthetic for representing the unrepresentable but did so with an eye towards the epistemological uncertainty of knowing oneself in relation to the modern world. It featured an abstract palette of skewed lines and woodcut shadows to depict the anxious experience of unpredictability, ironically projecting movement as stasis onto an increasingly stylised mis-en-scène.

‘Schoenberg the Painter’ serves as a cultural history of the early evolution of Arnold Schoenberg’s as an artist. In particular, it explores how the personal relationship between the Austrian expressionist artist, Richard Gerstl (1883–1908) and Schoenberg became key in Schoenberg’s own artistic development. In particular, this chapter examines the paths that led to the convergence of the two men’s creative output in Gmunden in July 1908, which saw Schoenberg compose his seminal Second String Quartet, op.10, and become, in the vocal fourth movement, the first to cross the bridge to atonality, and saw Gerstl produce a series of extraordinary large-scale expressionist portraits of members of Schönberg’s circle. This chapter offers new hypotheses not only regarding the evolution of Schoenberg’s works over the period of the relationship between the two men, but also the previously under-considered level of influence that Gerstl may have had on Schoenberg’s wider creative and musical output at the time.

The chapter looks at fin-de-siècle Vienna, and reviews its cultural politics, the impact of its city life on writing and artistic expression and, above all, the new attention to language that was absorbed into literature and poetry emanating from French Symbolism. The dangers of lapsing into an aestheticism that denied political reality is discussed, and there is a focus on the importance of the indirect impact such perceived changes in expression and the value of poetic language had on Schoenberg, and indeed on Berg and Webern. Key figures included here include Rilke, Schnitzler and, above, all Hofmannsthal and Stephen George, taken here as writing in crucially different modernist modes, but both directly influential.

This chapter studies relations between Schoenberg, Stravinsky and their respective camps, from the early twentieth century through the composers’ later years in California. Beginning with an early moment in which their relations were characterized by curiosity and mutual respect, it sketches the emergence in the 1920s of an opposition between Schoenberg’s expressionism and Stravinsky’s neoclassicism. It then examines how this opposition was reinterpreted and codified (if not ossified) in T. W. Adorno’s influential Philosophy of New Music, and in his subsequent writings on both composers. Adorno described Schoenberg’s music as a seismograph that registers tremors of feeling; this chapter reworks Adorno’s metaphor in order to propose that the Schoenberg–Stravinsky–Adorno triad might register tectonic movements of a much larger modernity. Engaging with recent literature on all three figures, it suggests some ways their work might relate to modern regimes of racial difference.

Schoenberg explored atonality principally in ten groundbreaking works composed between March 1908 and the end of 1917. The atonal works can be divided into two phases, which differently develop the expressive capacities of atonality in a wide array of vocal, orchestral, chamber and solo piano genres. In this chapter, Schoenberg’s atonal musical language is contextualized relative to his broader compositional characteristics and trajectory, and the ten works are each situated in terms of genre and thematic content, to map out Schoenberg’s exploration of atonality as an expressive soundscape.

In Schoenberg’s Vienna the theatre, more so than music, was central to cultural discourse; unsurprisingly, opera and musical drama interested Schoenberg from early on, and he returned to dramatic genres repeatedly throughout his compositional career. In surveying the lively and varied theatrical life of Vienna around 1900 and after, this chapter examines shifting trends in modernist drama – including changing fashions in staging and set design – alongside the influence of significant authors, artists and innovators. It locates the Viennese stage as a site for cultural exchange with other major European centres, and ultimately argues that, if written from the perspective of the theatre, the history of Viennese musical modernism would look quite different from the story of post-tonal progress that has dominated our narratives of Schoenberg’s creative trajectory.

In Boulez’s artistic framework, the principle of negation serves as a pivotal ideological and compositional foundation, symbolising a generational reset and a radical departure for new music. This chapter delves into Pierre Boulez’s utilisation of poetry and the singing voice as foundational elements in his pursuit of the negational principle. Focused on his concept of ‘reforming’, I examine Boulez’s vocal compositions based on selected poems by René Char, Henri Michaux, Stéphane Mallarmé and E. E. Cummings. Within these compositions, Boulez skilfully juxtaposes traditional elements with serialism, using the serial language to neutralise and negate the established norms. The ‘centre and absence’ principle takes centre stage, serving as Boulez’s fundamental approach to implementing deconstructive processes. This analysis proposes a novel interpretation, presenting this principle as a dynamic force governing the dramatic trajectory of vocal compositions beyond its role as a mere structural device.

Yeats was an important – if sometimes ambivalent – early supporter of O’Casey. As co-director of the Abbey, Yeats played an important part in first getting O’Casey’s Dublin writing to the stage and in defending that work from critics. Yet, although the Abbey had fostered O’Casey’s talents, W. B. Yeats led his fellow directions in rejecting O’Casey’s 1928 work The Silver Tassie in a way that had a major impact both upon O’Casey’s career and upon the Abbey Theatre’s own history. This chapter interrogates the relationship between O’Casey and Yeats, which is inextricably bound to central tensions at the heart of the early years of the Abbey Theatre.

“Prometheus Found” moves back to the German sphere in order to contend with the discourse of the neuer Mensch (new human) developed in German Expressionism, a movement that explicitly rejected Impressionism and fin-de-siècle refinement. For Expressionists like Else Lasker-Schüler, dispensing with the bourgeois pieties they attributed to nineteenth-century liberalism required imagining new anthropological entities, new humans, much in the mold of the Nietzschean Übermensch. In the case of Lasker-Schüler, though, the “new human” became a means for modeling a Volk rather than a Mensch, and in particular, the Jewish Volk at a moment when Zionism was at apogee.

This chapter moves from the macro-level of social and narrative imagination to the micro-level of speaking and seeing. It continues to consider the interplay of inheritance and originality in these practices: the constitutive underdetermination or equivocity of what we see and say. The chapter illuminates the ways in which even at the smallest levels, we construct the world imaginatively. It then begins to discuss how art and poetry loosen the grasp of automated perception and do not impose an alternative vision but rather grant a double vision of our lives, allowing us to see it from new perspectives or in new ways. The chapter concludes with a consideration of liturgical and biblical renewals of perception.

As titles referring to compositional genres, Nocturne, Notturno and Nachtsmusik had a particular resonance for nineteenth-century composers sensitive to romantic traditions extending from Schubert and Schumann to reach an apogee in Wagner’s celebration of the ‘fabled realm of night’ in Tristan und Isolde. Though placed there in explicit opposition to the mundane reality of daylight, Wagner (notably in Siegfried) also made much of the glorious effects of the rising sun. The tension between darkness and light as reflecting radically different states of mind as well as different effects of nature, was also a favoured topic for late romantic poets and painters active in the Viennese culture in which Schoenberg came to maturity. Nevertheless, the aspect of romantic sensibility that offset nocturnal unease with a heightened sense of the sublime and the supernatural ensured that examples of Night Music could have a special ambivalence in keeping with their exploratory technical resources.

“What now? Enough is enough. Now we have to begin. Into our hands, life has been given.” With these exasperated words, Ernst Bloch’s The Spirit of Utopia begins like no other work of philosophy. In anger and aspiration, it does not begin with a pedantic preface or scholarly introduction. It begins in situ with a catastrophe that has thrown human existence back upon itself, from which no deliverance seems to be at hand. What is to be done? How can one survive? Caught in the condition of pitching “senselessly back and forth,” something nonetheless endures, we know not what, we know not how, but with nothing in our hands save our own obscurity, life still darkly speaks, for which, in this end of days, we want to be its initiative as well as its end.

Before his commission to illustrate Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre, Fritz Eichenberg (1901–90) had neither read the novel nor been to Britain. To illustrate it from New York and in the middle of World War II, he imaginatively occupied Jane’s lucid gaze. Brontë’s first-person account seems so profoundly personal that many Victorian readers thought that, as its subtitle “An Autobiography” suggested, it must be a memoir. Woolf said that to write down one’s impressions of the novel year after year would be tantamount to recording the story of one’s life. The same could be said of illustrating it. Eichenberg had fled Berlin for New York with his Jewish family in 1933, motivated by fear of retribution for his anti-Hitler cartoons. As he immersed himself in visualizing Jane’s voice, and shaping his figures, background, and compositions around her perspective, he overlaid his experience of flight, emigration, and movement onto Jane’s. His gouging, roughly hewn engravings are a self-portrait, narrativized not by his life events but by Jane’s. His Jane Eyre is also telling of a culture of collection and ownership; the Book-of-the-Month Club distributed his edition to subscribers.

In Germany the years of the First World War saw an overwhelming outpouring of verse, fired for the most part by intense patriotic enthusiasm around 1914. The lyric form provided both an immediate outlet for ordinary Germans to record their experiences and feelings, but also ready-made traditional models to shape those experiences. Alongside chauvinistic hymns by poets who remain, to all intents and purposes, ‘lost voices’, were soldier-poets, writing from the front – some of them prolific and enormously popular at the time, yet now almost completely forgotten, others still read today. But there were also worker poets, other critical voices, expressly anti-war poets and women poets who focused often on the victims left behind. Later too came the satiricalor epic voices. German poetry of the period is inevitably mixed up also with Expressionism, which made for a more radical formal experimentation than in many other national literatures at the time.

The postwar years through to 1960 can be viewed as a Golden Age for American drama as distinctly American new plays, staging, and acting styles emerged. Changing social and political forces in the nation inspired dramatists to rewrite what was possible on an American stage, expanding themes, styles, and character types previously depicted. Women and minorities were finding their voices and making progress in writing, directing, and producing drama in mainstream theatres. Many of the period’s theatrical successes and innovations were fueled by groups of artists, whose collective vision helped bring new scripts, scores, and aesthetics to the American stage. During this period, Broadway established its primacy in musical and nonmusical theatre, but economic changes and artistic aspiration also fueled the growth of Off-Broadway, Off-Off-Broadway, and regional theatre helping create an even more vibrant American theatre.

This chapter reassesses the relationship between the Gothic and the cinematic experience within the silent cinema era. At its birth in 1895, the very medium of cinema itself was perceived as inherently Gothic. Maxim Gorky’s famous allusion to a ‘kingdom of shadows’ full of grey, silent figures that filled him with ‘breathless horror’ evoked the spectre of the uncanny that underpins the Gothic experience. Yet, this chapter demonstrates that if one examines the history of the Gothic in the silent era, the Gothic changes from being an intrinsic part of the cinema experience to becoming a series of narrative and stylistic elements that ultimately form part of a kind of proto-horror, a mise-en-scène in search of a genre. By focusing not upon story elements but rather upon the ongoing association between the Gothic and the cinematographic through the use of cinematic techniques to convey subjective states of being, this chapter examines how the Gothic potential of the cinematic experience that was fundamental to the era of cinema’s birth did not disappear but rather remained, and continues to remain, embedded within cinema itself.

This chapter explores Brecht’s understanding of political theater and sets it in the context of other contemporary approaches, including the work of director Erwin Piscator. It explains why Brecht did not view naturalism or expressionism as acceptable aesthetic models, and it demonstrates how he rooted his theater in a material approach to reality, showing the social and economic influences on, and implications of, characters’ decisions and actions. Epic theater creates the scope for the agency that Brecht found lacking in naturalist drama: it shows that characters have choices, enabling audiences to imagine how different decisions or circumstances might yield different results.

Magical realism, primitivism and ethnography are historically and theoretically interrelated discourses. Mavellous folk and fairy tales, legends and myths are remote origins that received renewed attention with the rise of the avant-grade and American archaeology in the early twentieth century. In the Hispanic tradition, antecedents date back to medieval lore, which inspired chivalric and pastoral romances as well as the picaresque novel, finding a seminal synthesis in Don Quixote. In the New World, the Chronicles of the Indies, with their outlandish tales of discovery, drew not only from medieval and early Renaissance worldviews, but also from marvellous sources as varied as John Mandeville, Marco Polo, Ptolemy, Pliny and the Bible. Latin American authors have consistently cited these sources of magical realism, yet they looked at them through the prism of the avant-garde. Alejo Carpentier conceived of his seminal concept of lo real maravilloso americano as an answer to the Surrealists’ artificial merveilleux. Carpentier and Miguel Ángel Asturias, with his Surrealist view of the ancient Maya, coincided in late 1920s Paris with avant-garde primitivism and another magic realist, Venezuelan Arturo Uslar-Pietri, a close associate of Massimo Bontempelli, whose version of magical realism became their true spark, whereas Franz Roh’s influence in Latin America was negligible. Later authors like Juan Rulfo and Gabriel García Márquez significantly developed magical realist narratology, consolidating the Latin American trend and making it indispensable for understanding its international expansion based on the allegorical reinterpretation, and subversion, of dominant history – a crucial postcolonial endeavour for cultures around the world.

In Borges’s poem, ’A Rafael Cansions Assens’, the image of the Segovia Viaduct in Madrid is a record of the years he spent in that city and of his brief but intense involvement with Ultraism. A member of the literary scene also represented in ’Luces de Bohemia’ by Ramón María del Valle Inclan, the benevolent, heterodox figure of Cansinos Assens was never wholly in tune with the aesthetic programme of Ultraism. Similarly, Borges would disown his Ultraist roots but never lost his admiration and affection for Cansinos Assens. In the long run, the experience from 1919 to 1922 of life in Madrid, Majorca, and Seville was stimulating and seminal in that it allowed Borges to experiment with techniques and themes he would later develop in his work.