Special Issue: Brian Friel || Brian Friel and the Condition of Music

Brian Friel and the Condition of MusicAuthor(s): Harry WhiteSource: Irish University Review, Vol. 29, No. 1, Special Issue: Brian Friel (Spring - Summer,1999), pp. 6-15Published by: Edinburgh University PressStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/25511524 .

Accessed: 16/06/2014 19:03

Your use of the JSTOR archive indicates your acceptance of the Terms & Conditions of Use, available at .http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp

.JSTOR is a not-for-profit service that helps scholars, researchers, and students discover, use, and build upon a wide range ofcontent in a trusted digital archive. We use information technology and tools to increase productivity and facilitate new formsof scholarship. For more information about JSTOR, please contact [email protected].

.

Edinburgh University Press is collaborating with JSTOR to digitize, preserve and extend access to IrishUniversity Review.

http://www.jstor.org

This content downloaded from 188.72.126.41 on Mon, 16 Jun 2014 19:03:12 PMAll use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions

http://www.jstor.org/action/showPublisher?publisherCode=eup

http://www.jstor.org/stable/25511524?origin=JSTOR-pdf

http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp


Harry White

Brian Friel and the Condition of Music

At the final sonata ? it was numbered Opus 111

? something

strange happened. His thoughts soared high above beef carcasses

and supply barrels; his eye left the old man and his grand piano without changing direction. The music was at once sad and playful,

bright and clear. John felt he was actually meeting up with the fine skeleton of all thought, the elements, and the ephemeral nature of

all structures, the duration and slippage of all ideas. He was imbued

with insight and optimism. A few moments after the final note

sounded, he suddenly knew. There is no victory and no defeat. These

are arbitrary notions that float about in concepts of time invented

by man.1

The presence of music in the Irish literary imagination has never been

adequately disclosed.2 If it were, Brian Friel's cultivation of that presence would loom large. His plays advance the case for music as a symbolic force which can usurp the function of language and which, on occasion, can determine the structural coherence of the drama itself. Varieties of

music in Friel signify varieties of symbolic and allusive meaning, and

the plural condition of music in his work is formally controlled by a

striking dialectic as between the claims of art music on one side and

those of popular music on the other. Although the play remains the thing, the substantive presence of music in Friel's repertory of expressive and

technical resources extends considerably beyond the parameters of

emotional mood and colour. In certain plays, the associative power of

music gives way to symbolic and then structural levels of discourse. In

this progression, the distinctive tonality of Friel's theatrical language attains its keenest pitch.

The sixty-year-old Sir John Franklin who listens to Beethoven in Sten

Nadolny's novel Die Entdeckung der Langsamkeit (The Discovery of Slowness) makes a discovery about music late in his career which many of the

characters in Friel's plays would ruefully recognise: music organises time

and re-interprets the meaning of events within time. "There are three

points in time," the protagonist of Nadolny's novel remarks, "a correct

time, a missed time and a premature time." This is a formula that virtually

1. Sten Nadolny, The Discovery of Slowness (Die Entdeckung der Langsamkeit) (New York:

Penguin Books, 1993), p. 308.

2. See Harry White, "Music and the Irish Literary Imagination", in The Keeper's Recital Music and Cultural History in Ireland, 1770-1970 (Cork: Field Day Monographs and

Cork University Press, 1998), pp. 151-59.

6



apostrophises the passage and significance of time in Friel's plays, given the dominant preoccupation therein with temporal perspectives: his

characters dwell in an uncertain present which is constantly vulnerable to the devastations of the past and the likelihood of catastrophe in the

future. Friel's fluctuating sense of the present tense, in fact, is charac

teristically a state of mind redeemed by laughter and perpetuated by a troubled comprehension of what lies behind and ahead of it. Often

'missed' and frequently 'premature', his characters' sense of time is rarely, if unmistakably, 'correct'. If his characters are superficially much given to reminiscence, the prevailing mode in which such recollections are

pitched is neither major nor minor, but modal, provisional, and

ambiguous.

Music is foremost among the resources which Friel explores in order

to register this fluid sense of time: throughout his work, but especially in early and later plays which neighbour each other thematically as well as chronologically, it is by means of music that Friel organises and tests

his response to the exposition of a dramatic problem. Thus Philadelphia, Here I Come! and The Loves of Cass McGuire share not only a preoccupation with emigration (in which respect the latter play is an outgrowth of the

former, and its obverse in thematic terms), but also a preoccupation with

music as a symbolic presence and as a structural resource. In a related

manner, Wonderful Tennessee and Give Me Your Answer, Do! examine the

disintegration of past illusions under the impact of present crises, with

music in either case functioning not only as a symbolic code but addition

ally as a subversive metalanguage in the advancement of dramatic

meaning. Paired in this way, these plays, separated by at least sixteen

works and some thirty years, can usefully represent the condition of

music in Friel's imagination, even if self-evidently they do not exhaust

it. The explicit address upon music in Aristocrats, in Faith Healer and in

Dancing at Lughnasa , testifies to the enduring nature of this (aesthetic)

phenomenon in ways which are substantially different one from the

other.3

3. I have discussed Friel's use of music in Aristocrats in some detail in "Brian Friel, Thomas Murphy and the Use of Music in Contemporary Irish Drama", Modern Drama

33, no. 4 (1990), pp. 553-62. For a discussion of the same subject which complements the present text, especially with regard to Philadelphia and Cass, see Patrick Burke, "'Both Heard and Imagined': Music as Structuring Principle in the Plays of Brian

Friel", in Donald E. Morse, Csilla Bertha and Istvan Palffy, eds., A Small Nation's

Contribution to the World. Essays on Anglo-Irish Literature and Language (Irish Literary Studies: 45) (Gerrards Cross: Colin Smythe, 1993), pp. 43-52, 221. Burke observes

that the juxtapositioning of art music with traditional Irish or popular music con

stitutes "a recurring Friel concern ? reconciling fine aspiration and earthy actuality

in so humane a manner that the former does not teeter into mere escapism or the

latter into crass insensirivity." (p. 50). Although I would modify that argument (as in the present paper) to suggest that the tension between aspiration and acutality is

not always resolved, the "conflict of sensibility" which Burke identifies in Friel's

recourse to music seems to me the abiding theme here.

7



IRISH UNIVERSITY REVIEW

The symbolic presence of music in Philadelphia, Here I Come! is

dominated by the Mendelssohn violin concerto. In the world of German

fiction, perhaps, a beautiful young woman might dismiss the

Mendelssohn as kitsch and espouse instead the pleasurable fascism of

Orff's Carmina Burana (I have known it done). But in Brian Friel's work, in the impoverished landscape of Philadelphia, the concerto is construed

otherwise:

[GAR]: Listen! Listen! Listen! D'you hear it? D'you know what that music says?

... It says that once a upon a time a

boy and his father

sat in a blue boat on a lake on an afternoon in May, and on that

afternoon a great beauty happened, a beauty that has haunted the

boy ever since, because he wonders now did it really take place

or

did he imagine it.4

If, as I have suggested elsewhere, the concerto functions both as the

sound-embodiment of Gar's imaginative escape from the dreary condition of his surroundings, and simultaneously as the expressive source of his constantly undermined belief that something worthwhile

may be redeemed from the apparently barren relationship between his

father and himself, it does so on two levels. Explicitly, gesturally, the

Mendelssohn invokes the emotional soundscape of the romantic tradition

in music: it represents (in both senses of that verb) a condition of feeling. It encodes sensibility, and it does so not as an extraneous 'emotional

crutch' (a term which Friel uses with respect to music in Cass McGuire), but as an inherent resource, conditioned as it is in turn by the virtuoso

context in which it is heard. This context is largely determined by the

exchanges between Gar Private and Gar Public, but it also extends more

generally to the felt life of the play. The concerto, the ballads, the re

worked Jolson number (embodied in the title) consort as a single force

which binds together the vignettes of which Philadelphia is made. And

these other musical elements also contextualise the concerto itself:

juxtaposed alongside "She moved through the fair" and "Give the woman in the bed more porter", the Mendelssohn enjoys a range of

musical and emotional perspective without which it would almost

certainly lapse into kitsch. It is true that for Friel, the Mendelssohn both

reifies and ennobles Gar's condition of feeling, just as some of the ballads

do, albeit to a lesser extent The musical rhetoric of the concerto is not

intrusive or (merely) sentimental, but climactic in its effect Its recurrence

at moments of crisis in the play, moreover, is counterpointed by a verbal

motif (the opening of Edmund Burke's Reflections on the Revolution in

France) which signals the wake of imagination in face of the depleted,

4. Brian Friel, Philadelphia, Here I Come! in Selected Plays (London and Boston: Faber

and Faber, 1984), p. 89.

8



BRIAN FRIEL AND THE CONDITION OF MUSIC

atrophied and emotionally painful life which Gar is prepared at last to

abandon. And in the auditory imagination, the contrast between the

private context of the Mendelssohn (construed by outsiders in the play not as kitsch but as 'noise'), and the public arena of "Philadelphia, Here

I Come!" is at the last a contrast between private and public pairings which secure the continuity of feeling throughout the text. This is self

evident in the case of Gar (Public and Private) but less so in the case of

his father. The latter's final appearance in the play represents a depth of

emotional reminiscence and feeling which is one of the most remarkable

modulations of character in Irish theatre. Superficially, it is the contrast

between the old man's customary reticence and the shock of this final

disclosure which secures the emotional intensity of the scene. But

S.B. O'Donnell's reminiscence is also the most powerful cadence in the

play because it answers the question posed throughout by Gar and

unmistakably symbolised by the concerto. This sudden disclosure of

emotional currency draws the old man into the public-private pairings which lie at the heart of the play.

In achieving this closure, Friel's dramatic technique is strongly

suggestive of musical closure, and especially in the literal sense of

thematic cadence. This second level of musical presence is less apparent than the first, but no less significant. As the sensibility

? and condition

of feeling ?

represented by the concerto extends to S.B. O'Donnell, the

function of music as symbolic code is transcended by music as structural

paradigm. The organisation of Philadelphia into 'episodes' rather than

scenes tends to support this reading: each of these episodes is to a greater or lesser degree controlled by the musical motifs which signal

modulations of mood and feeling in the text. Thus in Episode One, Gar's

ebullience at the start of the play is signalled by his re-working of

'California, here I come!", but as he contemplates more narrowly the

implications of his leavetaking, he abandons Al Jolson in favour of

Mendelssohn, and then the first movement of the concerto in favour of

the second. And these musical shifts in gear produce in turn a deepening

introspection which is centred upon his mother and the loss of emotional

life which her early death represents. As Gar becomes conscious of where

this train of thought might lead, the Burke motif makes its first

appearance. Its deployment is expressly musical (in terms of its motivic

quality) and it sustains the dangerous contemplations evoked by the

concerto. And then this happens:

PRIVATE: And to hell with that bloody mushy fiddler!

(PUBLIC goes quickly to the record-player and sings boisterously as he

goes.) PUBLIC: 'Philadelphia, here I come ?'

PRIVATE: Watch yourself, nut-head. If you let yourself slip that way, you might find that ?

9




PUBLIC: 'right back where I started from/

(PUBLIC has taken off the Mendelssohn and is now searching for another.)

PRIVATE: Something lively! Something bloody animal! A bit of the aul thumpety-thump!5

The usurpation of mood which the new record achieves is short-lived:

Friel calls for "any lively piece of Ceilidh Band music", to which Gar Public

dances in violent counterpoint to the unremitting intrusions of his private self. The conjunction of music and text, the seamless interplay between

the two and the abrupt, cadenrial marker which the change of recordings

signifies, collectively advance the structural importance of music in this

play. When Gar Private announces that "The main item in tonight's concert is the First Movement of the Violin Concerto in E minor, Opus 64, by Jacob Ludwig Felix Mendelssohn", and that "The orchestra is

conducted by Gareth O'Donnell and the soloist is the Ballybeg half-back, Gareth O'Donnell" (p. 36), it is difficult not to conclude that Friel is

referring to the concerto paradigm which underpins the play as a whole.

Gar is conductor and soloist both structurally and metaphorically, and

the play is his concerto. The movement from one encounter to the next

is dominated by his presence or absence, just as the mood from one scene

to the next is dominated by the recurrence of musical and verbal motifs.

Friel draws attention so insistently to the emotional significance of music

in the play that its structural significance is correspondingly less obvious

and more subtle. The tonal contrasts (as between Gar Private's rhetoric

of remembrance and anguish and the plain speaking of his interlocutors) which Friel repeatedly engenders are strongly suggestive of the contrast

between virtuoso soloist and the rival claims of the orchestral ensemble;

likewise, the structural coherence afforded by the concerto model itself

supports the proverbially episodic flow of the text.

Friel's integration of music as explicit resource and as structural model in Philadelphia has rarely been surpassed, let alone equalled, except by

Tom Murphy in The Gigli Concert. Nevertheless, his preoccupation with

music, and with the concerto model in particular, is notably sustained in

The Loves of Cass McGuire. In musical terms at least, this is a problematic work. In his 'author's note' to Cass, Friel underlines the musical para

digms which govern the structure of the play: rhapsody and concerto.6

The problem lies both in the mutually exclusive forms which these genres

represent and in the thematic material which these govern. Cass is a play

5. Brian Friel, Selected Plays, p. 38.

6. See Brian Friel, "Author's Note", in The Loves of Cass McGuire (Dublin: Gallery Press,

1984): "These [rhapsodies] occur, one in each Act, as part of the formal pattern or

ritual of the action; and the musical term rhapsody, seemed to me to be the most

accurate description of them? (And to pursue the musical imagery a stage further, ... I consider this play to be a concerto in which Cass McGuire is the soloist.)"

10




about failure and the sustenance of imagination, and these themes are

rehearsed as between the grim present of Eden House (a "home for old

people") and the uncertain, partly fictionalised remembrances of Trilbe,

Ingram and Cass herself. Music suffuses these recollections, and in

particular the music of Richard Wagner, which in Cass enjoys a

prominence comparable to that of Mendelssohn in Philadelphia. The formal problem is itself two-fold. If Cass is indeed the soloist in a

concerto, her presence in the play is nevertheless attenuated by the

rhapsodic interventions of Trilbe and Ingram in the first and second acts

and by the multiplicity of rival soloists in Eden House and in the McGuire

family to which she has returned. The play shifts focus too frequently for Cass to establish structural dominance (even if verbally she dominates the text). Secondly, the concerto-rhapsody models are uncomfortably set against a third model, which is drawn from Tristan and Isolde. The

Tristan presence in the play is literal (we hear the Liebestod during Cass's

rhapsody in the third act), verbal (as in Ingram's account of the plot of

the opera, which represents the 'private world' to which he and Trilbe

retreat), and paradigmatic (in the recurring motif of love lost at sea which

Trilbe, Ingram and Cass share). There is simply too much music in The

Loves of Cass McGuire. If the symbolic allure of this music finds partial resolution in a non-musical motif (a quotation from "He wishes for the

cloths of heaven"), the addition of Yeats to Wagner nevertheless

underlines the distracting plenitude of symbolic resonances which crowd

the structure of the text.

The thematic difficulties are clearly related to this plenitude. Everyone in Eden House is in his or her own private opera: only the invention of a

soothing past will reconcile them. But the reconciliation is tense,

unpersuasive and overly dependent on the 'emotional crutch' which

the Wagner excerpts afford. When the music is silenced, the fractured

lives of Cass, Trilbe and Ingram remain fundamentally independent of

each other. Each one is advanced for inspection, each one provides a

gloss (symbolic or literal) on the other, but none is satisfactorily resolved.

Indeed, the formal alignment of Cass's rhapsody (when she succumbs

to the illusions of Trilbe and Ingram) with the rhapsodies in the preceding acts tends to underscore this formal-thematic irresoluteness.

Friel notes that in the first production of Cass the "Wagner was

dropped". It is retained nevertheless in the published text, and its

presence there, together with its subliminal role in the first production, affords some explanation as to why music in Cass only partly succeeds

in enabling the structural and expressive elements of the play. Put plainly, the condition of music in Cass is too much itself. We are not discomfited

by Gar O'Donnell's reliance on Mendelssohn because the structure and

focus of Philadelphia allow the concerto to be integrated fully into the

text which it partly inspires. In Cass, however, the presence of music ?

11




notwithstanding Ingram's preoccupation with the Tristan story ?

remains largely unintegrated and extraneous to the context in which it

is heard. Its presence is imaginary rather than real, and literal rather

than integral. At worst, it tends to uridermine rather than support the

dramatic integrity of Friel's imagination. No-one, I suspect, can afford

to let Tristan loose in a dramatic text, without threatening the currency of the text itself. Friel did not repeat the experiment after Cass, Never

theless, even (or especially) in the dislocated world of Cass McGuire, the

sense in which music conditions time survives these thematic-formal

problems. It is simply better and more stringently managed in the plays that follow. In Faith Healer, for example, Friel restricts himself to a single

musical fragment (gradually maturing in Teddy's monologue into the

full recording of The Way You Look Tonight) and an incantatory formula

of Welsh and Scottish villages in which language attains to the thematic

spell of a Leitmotif, Both elements recall the techniques of Philadelphia and stand in notable contrast to the surfeit of music in Cass. The symbolic power of such musical elements in Faith Healer is unmistakable: they are

the dominant motifs of a shared but variously recollected past which

reaches its terrible apotheosis in the final monologue of the play. In

Translations, the presence of music is even more discreet, given the play's absolute concern with language. But the love scene between Yolland

and Maire ? an incomparable tour-de-force in technical terms ? draws

attention, if briefly, to the music of language itself, especially when

Yolland and Maire exchange placenames in Irish. In such virtuoso

moments of discretion, Friel's abiding concern with music finds its most

subtle and memorable articulation.

There are, however, other modes of musical articulation in Friel's later

work which recover the symbolism of the early plays. In Wonderful Tennessee, the ascendancy of music is such a striking feature of the text

that it becomes virtually an alternative to language. This is literally the

case insofar as one of the six characters, George, is suffering from throat

cancer and consequently expresses himself almost exclusively in music.

His accordion playing, and the singing which it stimulates, become a

distinctive mode of discourse, a metalanguage which modifies and

sometimes subverts the play. The three married couples in Wonderful Tennessee are on the brink of middle age ('late thirties/early forties'); at

any rate, they are old enough to look back. And when they do look back,

they sing. The play is an unbroken weave of reminiscence and failure, even if it begins in an almost hysterical effort to climb clear of wrong

beginnings and the treacherous disappointment of life half-spent. The

word 'wonderful' leaps out from the text with a kind of nervous grandeur, as the pier on which the action takes place is discovered. Everything is

determinedly 'wonderful', including the singing. There are thirteen

musical numbers in the first scene of the act alone; the sense of language,

12




of ordinary conversation, is thereby constantly vulnerable to the rival discourse of song. And it is a discourse of aspiration: "I want to be

happy". George both initiates and responds to this discourse, particularly in the first act, and notably at points in the dialogue where reminiscence

threatens to overcome the will to happiness. Especially in the first scene

of the play, where exposition and exposure are Friel's chief concerns, the constant intrusive presence of music destabilises the avowed sense of

pilgrimage which suffuses the play. Although my concern here is not

with the mythic ramifications of this enterprise), it is a striking feature

of Wonderful Tennessee that music not only interrupts and halts the action

of the play, it also modifies and comments upon the explicit disclosures

which are its central preoccupation. Thus the disclosure in the opening scene that Terry (as manager) and George were part of a band called

"The Dude Ranchers" for twenty-one years is radically modified by

George's furious performance of the opening of the third movement of

the Moonlight sonata in the second scene, a gestural defiance which in

turn prepares for the revelation that George abandoned his career as a

classical pianist in order to make money and marry Trish. And the parallel which Friel draws between the classical duo to which he belonged ("The

Aeolians") and "The Dude Ranchers" is one which depends on a musical

implication for its integrity. It is also an aesthetic implication and it is

keenly felt: to abandon Beethoven in favour of "I want to be happy" is a

mistake, if an unavoidable one. Friel is insistent and explicit on this:

what we learn about George's career has already been signalled by the

fate of his partner, a violinist now down on his luck in London. If

Wonderful Tennessee hinges on a failed attempt to recover and renew a

sense of the spiritual, then the significance of this preoccupation with

art music and the ebullient shards and fragments of popular song which

replace it is paramount. "The rage for the absolute" is Beethoven; "the

acceptance of what is" is George and his dying accordion.7

The rage for the absolute and the acceptance of what is are themes

which endure in Give Me Your Answer, Do!, a play which incidentally can be related in musical terms to Philadelphia, Here I Come! ("What about

Mr Mendelssohn, for old time's sake?" Jack Donovan touchingly asks

late in the play) and Aristocrats (the spectre of the failed pianist as

metaphor for a failed life). The latter play is also recalled in the setting and in the persona of the visiting academic, insofar as Tom Hoffnung and David Knight both attend on a family which has collapsed inwards

upon itself. Nevertheless, Give Me Your Answer, Do! is not simply an earlier

Friel play re-visited (although the text seems deliberately to recall themes

and motifs long familiar from his previous work). In respect of music,

7. See Brian Friel, Wonderful Tennessee (Dublin: Gallery Press, 1993), p. 52.

13




there are also familiar strategies: the juxtaposition of classical and popular forms, the aesthetic discrimination between them (so that one represents an unfulfilled artistic promise and the other a broken compromise) and

what Garrett calls "the unsaid, the silent counterpoint" which music voices against the tide of venal conversation. But there is also something new. It derives ?

perhaps ? from the use of music to control formal

structure in Cass (even if music overpowers rather than controls in that

play). In essence, Friel uses the structure of an art song, and more precisely of a German lied, to contain the design of the play and the passage of

time therein. The monologues which open and close the work ? Tom

Connolly avowedly in conversation with his ever silent daughter ?

correspond closely to the Prelude and Postlude which respectively

preface and conclude songs in the German art tradition. The substance

of the work ? the song itself, or in this case the play ? comes between.

Friel appears to signal this structure explicitly in the two versions of

Mendelssohn's "On wings of song" which are used: an arrangement for

piano alone in the opening and closing sequences and the original song

(performed by Elizabeth Schwarzkopf) in the body of the play. When

Daisy recites the words of the song ("Auf Flugeln des Gesanges") late in

the second act, the spoken text stands in ironic isolation from the music:

but by then the very matter of Heine's poem has been completely absorbed into the strange pairings of which Give Me Your Answer, Do! is

made: Tom and Daisy, Garret and Grainne, Jack and Maggie, even David

and his former German girlfriend Marinella all belong within the

substance of the play in a way that Tom's double encounter with Bridget does not. Two of these pairings are focused on music: Daisy's failed

promise as a musician and her father's fall from grace (as a cocktail pianist and kleptomaniac) counterpoint the very act of redemption which Daisy

perceives if not for herself then for her husband in her resolution that he

must not sell his manuscripts. Her toast to the "Necessary Uncertainty" has more than a touch of German romanticism about it. In fact it indicates, both in terms of its placing and its articulation, that the play is not about

Tom's fate as a writer (its purported theme) but about the failure of life

without art. The Chekhovian dessication of Tom and Daisy's life together is paired against their successful but shallow novelist friend and his bitter

wife, as it also is against the failed careers of Daisy's parents. And each

version of decay which Friel proffers is related ultimately to the final

failure, the arresting image of Tom with his daughter, imagining a better

life against her silence and the hope enshrouded in Mendelssohn's

imperishable affirmation of the power of music. Although the main body of the play is structured as a straight narrative line in the present tense, the closing monologue undermines this apparently straightforward

procedure. Daisy's sudden plea, which closes the play, confuses the two

spaces in time, as if to suggest more explicitly than before, and at the

14




very last available moment, that art transcends life, rather than the other

way around. Just as the Mendelssohn controls our perception of the play, so also does Tom's remark to his daughter about his new novel:

TOM: But that's all I'm going to say at this point. I dare not say any more. But if it were to emerge for me, my darling; if I could coax it out; if I could hold it and then release it into its contented rest, into its happy completion (From very far off and very faintly we hear the sound of "On Wings of Song" on the piano), then, my silent love, my strange little offspring, then I would come straight back here to you and fold you in my arms .. .8

Consider the extraordinary avocation which this speech contains, overlaid as it is by the Mendelssohn song. Tom would rescue his daughter from her solitary incarceration were he able to write his novel, but not

before. At the last, and in a play which dramatises the ruinous con

sequences of artistic neglect, Friel proposes the necessarily redemptive condition of art as a precondition for life itself. In this controversial

ordering, it is music which is pre-eminent: as metaphor, as symbol, and

as an imperative structural precedent. Deployed thus, the condition of

music both absorbs and re-defines the condition of the drama itself.

8. Brian Friel, Give Me Your Answer, Do! (Oldcastle, Co. Meath: Gallery Press, 1997),

pp. 83-4.

15



Date post:	20-Jan-2017
Category:	Documents
Upload:	harry-white
View:	221 times
Download:	1 times

Special Issue: Brian Friel || Brian Friel and the Condition of Music

Documents