In 1961, Rochberg’s 17-year-old son Paul was diagnosed with a brain tumor. George wrote to fellow composer Istvan Anhalt, “Things are not as good here as we would like. Paul’s condition remains only poor to fair and new complex developments keep arising. Perhaps we are too impatient but it seems like a long time for him to remain this way without the assurance of better days ahead.”[1] Paul underwent brain surgery in late October 1961. In January 1962, Rochberg wrote again to Anhalt: “Paul is improving week by week.”[2] But later that year, Paul’s condition took a turn for the worse:
On Aug. 7 he was operated on again […] We now know that his life is severely endangered, in fact the situation is virtually hopeless […] We are almost broken by this blow, but we are trying hard to keep going, to keep our daughter from the knowledge, to keep the house from falling part, to help our Paul keep up his courage. He has been through so much and it is cruel and senseless. I understand nothing any longer.[3]
Following another surgery in June 1963, Paul’s condition improved: after a short procedure, he was able to walk around the house on his own. His father wrote hopefully: “Once past this, it may well be possible to put aside the whole 2 years previous (since Oct. 1961) as a very bad dream, an existence which seemed utterly impossible to survive […].”[4] Ultimately, this surgery too was unsuccessful: Paul Rochberg died on November 22, 1964, not long after his twentieth birthday.[5] Paul’s death took a toll on his father, and a radical change in his musical language reflects his despair.
For many composers—Rochberg is no exception—composition offers a way of dealing with their world. In a letter to Anhalt dated 3 November 1968, after recounting the large amount of work on his plate, he writes:
As you can see I have been working furiously—for lots of reasons not the least of which is that my schedule which is very light (Tues. & Wed. p.m.) permits it. But the real reasons have to do with a fantastic sense of the internal pressure, obsession, compulsion—a way of staving off the unraveling of the world around us, a counter to the chaos which is descending. I feel like the world is burning up and perhaps there is only a little time to say & do, to “hear our voices again.”[1]
From the context of the letters surrounding this one, it is apparent that Rochberg is referring to the Vietnam War; however, he was no doubt still grappling with the loss of his son. In his autobiography, he talks about the relationship between art and life:
[W]hatever else the pursuit of art may be in the ordinary round of human existence, whether for self-realization or the pursuit of personal fame and fortune or simply for the pleasure of others, ultimately art was a way of defying the brutal depredations and diminishments of Time and Death and fighting to live against their crushing forces. The immortality of the great works of the past is itself—illusion or not—the measure of humankind’s ceaseless fight to live against Death and Time.[2]
[1] EM 67
[2] Rochberg, Five lines… 149.
[1] István Anhalt and George Rochberg, Eagle Minds: Selected Correspondence of István Anhalt and George Rochberg. Ed. Allan Gillmor. Waterloo [ON]: Wilfrid Laurier University Press. 3.
[2] Ibid, 11.
[3] Ibid, 15
[4] Ibid., 21.
[5] Incidentally, 22 November 1964 is the same day that John F. Kennedy was assassinated. Rochberg’s father also died in 1964.