Letters to My Daughters: First Letter

This is the first of five letters that shaped Letters To My Daughters, my new work for cello and piano. I wrote it early in the process of creating the piece, at the same time that the sound world was beginning to come into focus. These letters each say something about the world now, but also something that I hope my daughters will return to one day.

More soon.

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First Letter: Ring All the Bells

To my daughters:

There are many things in our personal and collective lives which remain out of reach. Some things, like athletic or musical excellence, are out of our reach because they are notoriously difficult for individuals to achieve. I once wanted to be a professional baseball player, but I am not one because I was not good enough at baseball. I am not a great pianist (although I appreciate that you think I am) because I didn’t practice the piano enough when I was young. Other things, like curing cancer or fusing atoms together or traveling to other stars are beyond our capacity as humans, or at least they are in 2025 as I write this letter to you.

But there is a wide field of action that is possible between these personal and global challenges. In this opening are things which we avoid because nobody has organized the rest of us to do them. So much of the richness and beauty and connectedness in life happens at this overlooked, unloved medium scale.

There is a thought experiment that I think of often, but have never put into action because I do not have the energy or the willpower. Maybe someday I will. I imagine a day on which the citizens of Philadelphia, where we live, agree to ring every bell in the whole city all at once: the bells of the churches and cathedrals, of course, but also the little bells that people have in their homes and the old-fashioned alarm clocks and the decorative sleigh bells for Christmastime and all the rest of them, on and on, large and small. This festival of bells would be spectacularly beautiful, but we haven’t done it. It does not evade us on a technical level: we know how to make and ring bells. It does not evade us on a financial level: the bells already exist and it costs nothing to ring them. It doesn’t require new forms of social or political organization: all of our society’s problems would still be there the day after we rang the bells. It’s just something that would be exquisitely lovely but which we haven’t done because nobody has helped us do it.

Last year, there was a total solar eclipse which passed over some parts of our country. You both watched it at school using these silly cardboard goggles which millions of us bought, used once, and then threw away. My colleagues and I watched it while laying on the lawn behind my office—something which we would never have done under any other circumstances—where you sometimes do cartwheels when you come to visit me at work. We felt the warmth of the sun disappear and saw the stars and heard the animals which usually only come out at dusk. Some people who experienced it described understanding their relationship to the cosmos in a completely new way, a moment where the hidden relationships between things on a vast, inhuman scale were suddenly made visible.

Unexpected, large-scale acts of cooperation do the same thing. They reveal the hidden connections between ourselves and others, they bring us all out in the open, and they give us something to talk to each other about. Think about it: how many bells are hiding out there that you don’t know about? As soon as they started ringing, I know you would feel something about the city around us that you’d never felt before. You would stand on our rooftop and see your surroundings in a new way. Features of the landscape which had always been meaningless to you might now matter in some small way.

These bells are my flight of fancy. What is yours? What else remains undone, for no good reason, at an unexpected scale? What else could we do if someone brought us together and inspired us to do it?

I love you so much,

Dad

On Telling the Truth

In 2008, the English historian Tony Judt was diagnosed with ALS, a deadly neurological condition that would claim his life within the next two years. During the final months of his life, as his condition rapidly worsened and he lost nearly all of his motor function, the Yale historian Timothy Snyder visited him weekly in his New York apartment to discuss the intellectual currents of the 20th century which had provided the material for Judt’s remarkable career as a historian.

Their conversations ranged over Judt’s upbringing in postwar London, his relationship to his cultural heritage, and the interaction between that heritage and the intellectual world in which he would ultimately make his career. Most importantly, though, they discussed the role of intellectuals in a century that was, in many ways, defined by its capacity to produce individuals who read, wrote, and engaged in public critique as a profession. 

As I recently re-read Snyder’s foreword to these conversations (Thinking the Twentieth Century, 2012), one idea stood out with tremendous clarity and spoke directly to the current moment. Snyder articulated the difference between so-called “small truths” and “big truths.” The small truth is the matter-of-fact observation, the description of the world in front of us, the recounting of others’ behavior and actions. It is accurately recalling how things happened yesterday, last month, or last year.

Big truths, on the other hand, are the overarching stories we tell ourselves or which are told to us by others, helping us understand and organize the complexities of the wider world. The 20th century was a time of many large truths: the historical inevitability of Marxism (in some quarters) or liberal democracy (in others), the myth of Aryan racial superiority, the economic infallibility of capitalism, and many others besides.  

In their conversations, Judt and Snyder went on to articulate the many ways in which citizens of the 20th century were willing to tell blatant lies in the service of what they believed to be grand truths. It is through the recognition of these two kinds of “truth” that we can begin to understand why people were willing to participate in such acts of dishonesty—blatantly, shamelessly, consistently, and with profoundly dire consequences—in the last century. 

This tendency to distort or obscure reality for ideological ends is not a phenomenon confined to the twentieth century. As we enter a period where the American intellectual and political project is less stable than it has been in living memory, I see a similar willingness to lie about the world as it exists in front of our very eyes in order to accomplish some kind of greater transformation or in service of what we believe to be a greater truth. 

My concern, however, is not primarily with those who lie to further their own political or personal objectives. This is commonplace and banal. Instead, I am terrified by the fact that so many of are willing to accept these lies, even when they contradict the most basic aspects of observable reality.

I do not know whether our country is on the verge of descent into totalitarianism, illiberal democracy, or some variant thereof, but recent trends in political discourse and behavior give cause for deep concern. No one can say with certainty what the next several years will bring, but I do feel compelled to assert the centrality of simple, everyday truth-telling in the project of resisting whatever is before us.

This is also a time when it is essential for artists and intellectuals to speak publicly on behalf of our values. My values include tolerance as well as conflict, progress as well as an open mind about how that progress might be achieved, integrity even when telling the truth comes into conflict with my strongly held beliefs, the dignity of admitting when I am wrong, and intellectual modesty rather than intellectual certainty. I value kindness, generosity, and openness, even as these things may seem futile or insufficient or naive in the face of profound injustice.

I don’t live these values half as well as I would like to, but they are some of the values which guide me and to which I aspire. I want to hear from more people about what they value and why (and not just what outcomes they desire). I suspect that I share at least some of these values with people whose big truths are very different than mine.

The Hidden Cost of Streaming: What We Lose When We Stop Searching

I haven’t regularly bought music—CDs, LPs, cassette tapes, downloads, or otherwise—since I got a Spotify login from a European friend back in 2009, before it was even available in the US. At the time, it seemed like magic: unlimited access to everything, all at once. Honestly, it still does. But over time, I’ve come to realize that something essential has been lost in this new way of listening.

What I didn’t realize then—but which I think more of us are starting to recognize now—is that unlimited streaming and algorithmic recommendation engines have fundamentally degraded the experience of being a music lover. We supposed (quite reasonably) that more access would mean more enjoyment, connoisseurship, fandom, knowledge, and experience. But in reality, it’s the very act of seeking, searching, researching, and finding the music we love that makes us truly love it. When someone or something else does this for us, it deprives us of the process through which we form strong bonds with the music in our lives.

I used to discover music by reading critics whose taste I admired, browsing record stores or libraries, asking friends for listening recommendations, and, way back, exchanging mixtapes. That process wasn’t just a means to an end; it shaped my relationship with music itself. The time and effort spent looking made the music feel earned, like something I had a real stake in. Streaming, for all its convenience, has made music feel weightless—available at all times, but somehow less valuable.

We love music first and foremost for the way it sounds. Within a few seconds of listening to something, we know intuitively whether it’s for us or not. But that’s only the beginning of what it means to connect to music. We form deep connections when we know something about who made it, when and how they made it, who influenced them, where they tour and perform, and what kind of people attend those performances. When music is disembodied from these contexts—when it exists primarily or entirely within the ecosystem of a streaming platform—we cut ourselves off from the possibility of truly falling in love with it.

Megastars like Taylor Swift (whom I adore) show us what’s missing from the typical streaming experience. Her ubiquity, openness, and cultural presence give us a deep sense of connection that goes beyond her sonic world. We know and follow her influences, her backstory, her creative process. But in the world before streaming, this kind of familiarity wasn’t reserved for only the biggest stars—it was the norm for serious music fans across all genres. Whether you were into classical, jazz, punk, folk, or electronic music, you knew not just the artists but the labels they were on, the scenes they emerged from, the musicians they collaborated with. That context was part of the joy of listening.

In contrast, algorithmic recommendations do none of this. While they absolutely excel at helping us find music we’ll respond positively to on a first listen—and therefore continue streaming—they fail miserably at helping us form truly meaningful connections with artists. Algorithms serve us an endless stream of what we already like, but they don’t provide the framework to understand why we like it or where it fits into a larger world of music.

Leaving aside the horrific impacts that streaming has had on the ability of small and medium-sized artists to make a living from recordings, our current listening paradigm is also making things worse for listeners. From this perspective as a listener—not as a composer—I want to reclaim that deeper relationship with music.

A few weeks ago, I splurged on an LP of an album I’ve streamed constantly for the past few years: Shai Maestro’s absurdly excellent Human (ECM, 2021). I spent more on the damn shipping from Germany than I did on the LP itself. I tracked it obsessively as it wound its way through customs. I was physically excited when I saw the box in the mailroom at Rutgers and I opened it up on the spot. I’ve played the disc probably eight times in the past two days and it’s been pure joy. This was $40 extremely well spent.

We can’t go back to the way things were, but we can recognize what’s broken and find ways to synthesize technology with the deeper engagement that makes music meaningful. One way or another, it has to involve putting in the work.