Underwritten fabulation, mostly because Suchet is trying to wring a narrative from unreliable fragments and anecdotes. The amount of times he says "I confess the conversation and that last quote are drawn from my imagination..." in the first 4 chapters is enough to make one consider returning the book. Despite the acknowledgement, this much pure invention is un-biographical. If you're going to fictionalize, then just write alluring fiction for christsake! The broad strokes, while comprehensive and gossipy, are far too plainly written. His prose style resembles the quotidian musings of a simpleton.
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On the child Beethoven's handwriting:
"His handwriting was close to illegible,
his punctuation and spelling poor, and he was useless with
figures – there is evidence later on that he could not add up
his household bills. In later life his signatures were often so
erratic that future musicologists had trouble deciding
whether some were authentic."
On meeting Mozart:
"Ludwig was taken to Mozart, who asked him to sit at the
piano and play something. Ludwig did this, but Mozart was
cool in his praise, saying he had obviously prepared a
showpiece specially. Ludwig then asked Mozart to give him a
theme that he could improvise on. Mozart did so, and Ludwig
began to improvise. His playing became more and more
elaborate, because he was inspired in the presence of the
master musician whom he so greatly admired. Mozart became
more and more impressed, and finally, without saying
anything to Ludwig, went into the adjoining room where some
friends were sitting, and said, ‘Watch out for that boy, one day
he will give the world something to talk about."
On the contest with Steibelt:
With
one finger he hammered out a series of notes from the first
bar of Steibelt’s music. He made it sound exactly what it was:
crude and unsophisticated. He then began to improvise. And
boy, did he improvise. He imitated Steibelt’s playing, he
unpicked it and put it back together again, he played some
tremolandos, emphasising their absurdity. He played in a way
no salon audience had heard before, and that Steibelt could
not have believed was humanly possible.
It is easy to picture that powerful head, hair untamed,
clothes inappropriate, fingers moving in a blur, no doubt
singing, shouting, quite possibly hurling insults at the
Prussian, who was probably sitting, back erect, powdered wig
in place, clothes perfectly fitting, fingers curling tighter and
tighter, as he realised he was not just being outplayed, he was
being humiliated – in front of the most sophisticated musical
gathering in the most sophisticated musical city in Europe.
Steibelt did not sit that way for long. With Beethoven still
playing, he rose from his chair and strode out of the salon. He
made it clear he never wanted to meet Beethoven again, and
that if ever he was invited to perform again in Vienna, he
would do so only if Beethoven was not present.
On becoming deaf:
"My ears continue to hum and buzz day and night. I must
confess that I lead a miserable life. For almost two years I have
ceased to attend any social functions, simply because I find it
impossible to say to people: I am deaf. If I had any other
profession I might be able to cope with my infirmity. But in my
profession it is a terrible handicap ... As for the spoken voice, it
is surprising that some people have never noticed my
deafness. But since I have always been liable to fits of absent-
mindedness, they attribute my hardness of hearing to that.
Sometimes I can scarcely hear a person who speaks softly. I
can hear sounds, it is true, but cannot make out the words."
"But what a humiliation when someone next to me heard a flute in
the distance and I heard nothing, or someone heard the
shepherd sing, and again I heard nothing. Such things have
brought me near to despair. Only a little more and I would
even have ended my life. Only my art, that is all that held me
back. It would have been impossible for me to leave this world
until I had brought forth everything that was within me, and
so I continued to eke out a miserable existence – truly
miserable, my condition so sensitive, that a sudden change of
mood could plunge me from happiness into despair – Patience
– that is what I must now let guide me, and what I have let
guide me – I hope above all that I will be resolute enough to
wait until pitiless fate determines to break the thread. Maybe
my health will improve, maybe not. Whatever, I am prepared.
Already in my 28th year I was forced to accept my fate, and
that is not easy, in fact it is harder for an artist than for
anybody. "
On the infamous third Piano Concerto performance:
"Beethoven asked Seyfried to turn the pages for him. But,
‘as was so often the case’, says Seyfried, Beethoven had not
had time to put it all down on paper. Seyfried’s blood ran cold
when he looked at the piano part on the stand and saw almost
nothing but empty sheets of paper. ‘At the most on one page or
the other a few Egyptian hieroglyphics which were wholly
unintelligible to me, scribbled down to serve as clues for him
... He gave me a secret glance whenever he was at the end of
one of the invisible passages, and my scarcely concealable
anxiety not to miss the decisive moment amused him greatly,
and he laughed heartily at the jovial supper which we ate
afterwards.’"
etcetera