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TIME: Almanac 1995
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<text id=93TT0304>
<title>
Sep. 27, 1993: Reviews:Books
</title>
<history>
TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1993
Sep. 27, 1993 Attack Of The Video Games
</history>
<article>
<source>Time Magazine</source>
<hdr>
REVIEWS, Page 89
Books
Words Without Music, for Sure
</hdr><body>
<p>By PAUL GRAY
</p>
<qt>
<l>TITLE: Body & Soul</l>
<l>AUTHOR: Frank Conroy</l>
<l>PUBLISHER: Houghton Mifflin; 450 Pages; $24.95</l>
</qt>
<p> THE BOTTOM LINE: A novel about a pianist's rise to glory is
long on sentiment but never quite manages to score.
</p>
<p> After Thomas Mann's Doctor Faustus, the names of other memorable
novels about musicians or composers do not come trippingly to
mind. This dearth may have something to do with the ineffable
nature of music. It is a language of pure sound that stubbornly
resists translation. Descriptions may register in the mind,
but they invariably miss the ears. Or, as Claude Rawlings, the
pianist-hero of Frank Conroy's Body & Soul, puts it, when asked
to explain the nature of his genius: "The higher you get, the
harder it is to put into words, actually. Eventually it gets
pretty mysterious."
</p>
<p> When he says this to his rich girlfriend by her parents' Long
Island swimming pool, Claude has already come a long way from
humble beginnings. Conroy's novel first shows the protagonist
as a young boy in the early 1940s spending long hours alone
in a basement apartment near Manhattan's Third Avenue El while
his mother, the rawboned, boilermaker-swigging Emma, drives
a cab. Fortunately for Claude, the cramped living quarters contains
an old 66-key nightclub piano, a memento from Emma's past life
on the vaudeville circuit. The boy begins plinking away and
eventually seeks advice from Aaron Weisfeld, the owner of a
nearby music-supply store.
</p>
<p> Suddenly, and rather sentimentally, Claude's life is transformed.
Weisfeld arranges for him to spend regular sessions at the Park
Avenue apartment of "the maestro," practicing on a magnificent
Bechstein piano. When the maestro dies, Claude inherits the
instrument, which is crammed into Weisfeld's shop for Claude's
exclusive use. Luminous pianists line up to give the lad free
instructions. Fellowships to a posh East Side prep school and
then to a select liberal arts college effortlessly materialize.
Claude's heart is dented by the rich Catherine, but he goes
on to marry her cousin Lady, who confides in passing that she
has a trust fund worth $5 million.
</p>
<p> Somewhere along the course of this narrative, as Claude's triumphs
on the concert tour follow one after another, as the music world's
most eminent performers clamor for his accompaniment, a reader
may become jaded with unalloyed success. What is the point of
going on? Aren't there any problems in this book? Unfortunately,
the only serious trouble to visit Conroy's story occurs when
Claude is at the keyboard. Here is what happens when he sits
in on a jazz session: "G minor C seventh, A-flat minor D-flat
seventh, A minor D seventh, B-flat minor E-flat seventh, and
then a quick little half-tone figure to come out exactly right
on F dominant seventh. It was so exciting . . ."
</p>
<p> Conroy's much acclaimed autobiography, Stop-Time, was published
in 1967, when he was 31. Body & Soul, his first novel, lacks
much of the nerve, verve and audacity that impressed readers
of that earlier book. Its plodding, chronological course never
swerves or jolts; it sadly lacks the sound track it cannot have.
</p>
</body></article>
</text>