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Julian Barnes, The Noise of Time

Das Buch verdient auf jeden Fall ein baldiges Wiederlesen und etwas gründlicheres Studium - beim ersten Lesen war ich zu nervös und unter Zeitdruck vor allem bei den ersten Kapiteln. Trotzdem oder gerade deswegen berührten mich die Stellen, in denen Shostakovich reisefertig mit dem Koffer in der Hand nächtelang vor dem Fahrstuhl wartet, nur damit er bei seiner Verhaftung nicht unvorbereitet aus dem Bett geholt wird, ganz besonders mit ihrer tragischen Absurdität. Und ja, es ist keine "richtige" Biografie, sondern bei aller akribischen Recherche reine Fiktion, aber so überzeugend, dass sie genauso gut als wahr und realistisch angesehen werden kann. Gut genug auf jeden Fall.
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What he hoped for was that death would liberate his music: liberate it from his life. Time would pass, and though musicologists would continue their debates, his work would begin to stand for itself. History, as well as biography, would fade: perhaps one day Fascism and Communism would be merely words in textbooks. And then, if it still had value - if there were still ears to hear - his music would be ... just music. That was all a composer could hope for. Whom does music belong to, he had asked that trembling student, and though the reply was written in capital letters on a banner behind her interrogator's head, the girl could not answer. Not being able to answer was the correct answer. Because music, in the end, belonged to music. That was all you could say, or wish for.
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And this, perhaps, was their final triumph over him. Instead of killing him, they had allowed him to live, and by allowing him to live, they had killed him. This was the final, unanswerable irony to his life: that by allowing him to live, they had killed him.

(Julian Barnes, The Noise of Time, 2016)