jwilzewske: originalism

Showing posts with label originalism. Show all posts

Saturday, November 10, 2007

Chiara String Quartet & Jefferson Friedman: Creative Symbiosis

The Chiara String Quartet gave a nice reprise tonight of their March appearance at TheBrick in Kansas City. As before, the house was packed during both sets.

Let’s set the record ‘straight’: club venues can be excellent for chamber music performances. An expert sound engineer and excellent gear can make the club nearly the acoustic equal of a recording studio or a fine small concert hall. And the audience who shows up is often more engaged and appreciative than most conventional classical music presenters are accustomed to. No rustling paper programs, no premeditated conditioning to a familiar, comodified repertoire. Just attentive immersion in the music. (Note to presenters: to keep your chamber music audience from coughing, just serve them cocktails.)

The Chiaras’ set-list included movements from Brahms’ Quartet in A Minor Op. 51 No. 2; selections from their CD of Gabriela Lena Frank compositions, ‘Leyendas: An Andean Walkabout’; plus movements from Beethoven’s Quartet in E-flat Major Op. 127 and Jefferson Friedman’s String Quartet No. 2. (The Chiara Quartet’s previous appearance here had included parts of Friedman’s Quartet No. 3.)

The Chiaras’ interpretive skills and aesthetic intuition find perfect application in rendering the music of composer Jefferson Friedman. Friedman’s Quartets Nos. 2 and 3 have been acclaimed by various critics, but some reviewers have also opined about certain shortcomings and problematic sections. Some commenters, such as David Salvage of Sequenza21, have impugned some aspects of the Quartets’ craftsmanship while simultaneously praising other aspects.

Be that as it may, the expressive language in the No. 2 and No. 3 Quartets is reasonably forgiving, and the Chiaras are empathetic and insightful executants. This situation is, I think, not too different from an author having a skillful translator to render the original work into another language.

Without a doubt, the concept of expressive fidelity and authenticity operates on many levels—in musical texts as well as literary ones. One level is vocabulary—mapped as precisely as possible, even in cases where this requires using unfamiliar expressions or inventing new words in the target language: ‘neologisms’ that somehow convey the intent of the original text. In music, this can entail unusual articulation to get unfamiliar timbres; unusual orchestration; unusual voice-leading.

Ultimately, the most important question regarding translatorly fidelity is ‘meaning’. If the words (notes) and syntax and rhythm and style are carried through to the target language (musical performance), the meaning will follow. Even if the original is ambiguous, or even if it has multiple meanings, a skillful translation will replicate that ambiguity/multiplicity of meanings.

There are times, though, when circumstances force the translator—here, the Chiaras—into a particular interpretation. In that case, it’s important to take full advantage of every available clue, including syntactic details, motif usage, and the relationship to preceding and succeeding sections—i.e., the flow. What shouldn’t factor into the interpretation is the translator’s preconceived notions of what the author/composer “must have been talking about.” [Considering David Salvage’s criticisms of Friedman’s work, it seems that Salvage was taking issue with what Friedman was “saying”, not with the Chiaras’ interpretation of Friedman.]

Language is central to any discussion about translation. But there are elements involved in the process of translation that go beyond this conventional area. Literary translation involves a good deal of interpretation about intent and effect. Likewise in music performance practice. On the other hand, a good literary translator is often not as much interested in explicit transliteration as in finding an accurate mood, tone, voice, sound, response, and so forth. Music, the same. Once upon a time, Petrarch said the goal is similarity but not sameness:

A n imitator must see to it that what he writes is similar, but not the very same; and the similarity, moreover, should not be like that of a painting or statue to the person represented, but rather like that of a son to a father, where there is often a great difference in the features and body shape, yet after all there is a shadowy something—akin to what the painters call one’s ‘air’—hovering about the face, and especially the eyes, out of which there grows a likeness ... We writers, too, must see to it that along with the similarity there is a large measure of dissimilarity; and furthermore such likeness as there is must be elusive—something that it is impossible to seize except by a sort of hunt, a quality to be felt rather than defined.”
— Petrarch, Familiar Letters, The Young Humanist of Ravenna, to Boccaccio, 287-293.

So, contrary to some critics’ contention that poetry ‘loses’ in translation or that poetry is deeply ‘untranslatable’, there are others who hold that it must be illustrated and illuminated—who hold that the essence that matters most does transcend culture- and linguistic- and generational localizations. To them, poetry is always ‘found again’ and re-created by the translator—even in successive generations of people in the language and culture in which the work originated. Everything is hermeneutics! Of course, the original poetics can’t be ‘transcribed’!—they must be ‘arranged’! The new ‘arrangements’ may be even more fully realize the composer’s aspirations than the original score with its instructions and annotations.

In other words, the translator is not merely a special sort of ‘reader’. She/he is that, yes—but she/he is also vicariously a writer and performer. The translator needs to project herself/himself into these roles and consider translation from the perspective of the culture and linguistic heritage of the readers and audience. In this sense, the Chiaras are especially deeply “invested” in their roles as active musical translators/arrangers/readers/writers, not “only” performers. (Their investment style? High-risk musical growth equities! High-volatility, large alpha stocks, like Friedman!)

Good translators discover the dynamics of the work, and don’t allow its literal mechanics to trump every other card. This is what the Chiaras do so well. They take what Friedman wrote and add value to it. They make it their own. But they are also like specialists on the trading floor of a stock exchange—they “make a market” in Friedman.

A bout two-thirds of the way through, something special happens: the instruments climb into their highest registers, start playing quick glissandos and unisons of varying vibrato widths, and, for a few breathless moments, break into birdsong. When the music returns to Earth again, the resolution is beautiful, and one realizes one has just heard something a little amazing.”
— David Salvage, Sequenza21, 27-APR-2005, on String Quartet No. 3.

Friedman’s writing is full of non-standard things. ‘Non-standard’ language may be used by an author/composer for other reasons than simply to make character speak in a more realistic way. Non-standard language is incorrect not only from a grammatical point of view, but also from an ethical stance. This sets non-standard language in stark contrast with standard language, which can be seen as representing the Establishment. Great move for a Young Turk composer like Friedman!

‘Non-standard’ language can be a sort of symbolic protest against the prevailing culture and society. For example, it can describe an underprivileged/overprivileged social context from the inside, through the language it uses. Non-standard language may in fact constitute ‘profanity’ against standard forms/norms even if it isn’t inherently profane. As a result, the use of non-standard language may help to make a musical, novelistic, or cinematic work more accessible to a target audience, in a provocative way. [And this Friedman Quartet No. 2 is positively cinematic, by the way.] Translating non-standard expressive language is therefore a hard task—harder than translating ordinary texts. Even when a skilled translator has understood the author’s original motives, the cultural background, the social level(s) referenced, and the intended effect, the problem remains of how to emulate the peculiar flavor and intent in another language.

There’s no easy solution. In theory the reader/hearer of the translated version should be able to intuit the same information the reader/hearer of the native text acquired. But this is tough. Shades of meaning do get lost in translation. So a really good translation is, and must be, a balance between what gets ‘lost’ and what can be ‘found’. The translation of non-standard language, even if it’s a difficult task, can be extremely fascinating and rewarding. Here’s where the Chiaras excel. They muster a hefty dose of creativity, and find ways of making sure that as little as possible is lost and as much as possible is found in their ‘translation’ or ‘arrangement’. Friedman wins; the Chiaras win; we win!

The No. 3 Quartet’s brief movements (first and third) enclose a longer central movement entitled ‘Act’. Both the first and third movements open with long, insistent, crescendo phrases. But while the first movement is “in your face” with aggressive ostinatos, the third movement is quiet, eventually settling on a major triad.

T he content of the middle movement is more varied. Ranging from close Ligeti-like chromatic counterpoint to spacious Copland-esque chorales, ‘Act’ doesn’t quite reconcile its contrasting materials satisfactorily. Particularly disappointing is the easy major resolution that concludes the movement.”
— David Salvage, [Sequenza21, 27-APR-2005]

T his No. 3 Quartet is uneven. The first movement never quite emerges. There are passages of ostinato that feel like un-melodied accompaniments. There are too many broad crescendos that terminate in sudden pianos.”
— David Salvage, [Sequenza21, 27-APR-2005]

T his young wine may have a lot of tannins now, but in five or 10 years it is going to be spectacular. You know this is how it is supposed to taste at this stage of development.”
— Itzhak Perlman.

Is Friedman’s C major resolution in this movement of the No. 3 quartet a ‘mistake’? Why does Salvage think it is ‘too easy’? Does Friedman regret the decision to resolve in this way? Should we accept Salvage’s assessment and feel embarrassment at preferring the C major choice that has been deprecated? Is Salvage a ‘pump-and-dump’ day-trader in Friedman? I, for one, do not think it is ‘easy’ or a ‘mistake’ any more than I think the major-key resolutions in much baroque music were ‘easy’ or ‘mistakes’. Think of Bach’s Concerto in D minor (BWV 974) –the nuances of Glenn Gould’s rendering of it, for example. There’s a poignancy in the major-key resolution that coheres with every minor-key thing that has gone before. There’s a restraint, there’s a backing-off of key attack velocity—many cues in the composition that add depth and complexity to an ‘easy’ major triad.

The Chiaras’ performance of parts of the No. 2 quartet at The Brick tonight was also illuminating—thoughtful without being self-conscious, erudite-but-never-scholastic. Mr. Friedman composed his String Quartet No. 2 for the Chiara String Quartet in 1999 while under the guidance of John Corigliano at Juilliard. The first movement opens with strident rhythms that deliberately shift in and out of sync. The lyrical second movement is a déjà vu view of someone’s secret reveries—either Friedman’s, or your own. In the dance-like third movement, rippling trills lead to a passage of muted longing and a revivified finale.

Quartet No. 2 does not have the first violin or any other part predominating unduly. No part merely ‘fills in’. The string writing deals far less in outlines than in harmonic blocks. The effect is exhilarating and gripping.

Friedman’s writing is contrapuntal and closely-packed—there’s far more texture in it than many ‘new music’ compositions. The excellent sound engineering at TheBrick did justice to the Chiaras’ rendering of this.

Born in 1974, Jefferson Friedman is American, the winner of the 2004 Rome Prize Fellowship in Musical Composition from the American Academy in Rome. His commissions include two orchestral pieces for Leonard Slatkin and the National Symphony Orchestra, works for the Yesaroun’ Duo, two string quartets for the Chiaras, and a chamber piece for the Utah Arts Festival. His music has been performed at the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts, Lincoln Center’s Alice Tully Hall and Avery Fisher Hall, Carnegie Hall’s Weill Recital Hall, and the American Academy in Rome. Mr. Friedman received his M.M. degree in music composition from The Juilliard School where he studied with John Corigliano. He lives and composes in Long Island City, NY.

W e know it’s great music. We also know that people who have never heard it before have very strong, visceral feelings and connections with the music. But barriers (have to be) broken down for them. I think a lot of our generation is working to take down those barriers that say classical music is elitist, or only for old people or only for rich people. We play all over the place - in schools, in nursing homes, in urban settings, in rural settings. We’ve really played for any audience that you can imagine. That really has to be an m.o. for any group starting out now.”
— Jonah Sirota, Chiara String Quartet, 2006.

S uits and tuxedos are designed explicitly to prevent blood from reaching the brain and to prevent audience members from feeling comfortable. We’ve done our best within the conventions of the concert hall to relax this feeling, but in the concert hall there is no easy way to duplicate the freedom of just being yourself you have when playing in a club.”
— Greg Beaver, Chiara String Quartet, 2007.

Saturday, October 20, 2007

Groh’s Liszt: How ‘Originalist’ Is Originalism Anyway?

At alternate turns, it’s implausible and then incontrovertible that Groh is an ‘originalist’ in his interpretations (that is, his playing aspires to faithfully render the original intent of the composer). His superb performance in the Friends of Chamber Music’s Master Pianists’ Series last night provided an excellent opportunity to assess this. He played Brahms’ Op. 1 and Op. 119, followed by Liszt’s Sonata in B minor. First, listen to his playing. Then, if you get a chance, by all means speak with him about it.

Groh’s performance of the Liszt Sonata last night was thrilling, rich with meaning and implication but never descending into sentimentalism or over-the-top theatricality. In this, Groh was the epitome of a dry ‘Romantic’s Romantic’ for the appreciative Kansas City audience attending the concert at the Folly Theater.

In 1844, Heinrich Heine heard Liszt play in Paris, as did Henri Blanchard. They wondered at the ‘frenetic enthusiasm stemming from disturbances pressed on the nervous systems’ of the audience and the performer and wrote that such enthusiasm must owe more to pathology than to aesthetics (Gooley, p. 208). Yes, Groh’s playing is fervent—at times, frenetic, even. But by contrast to variable public reception of Liszt’s playing, the listeners’ response to Groh’s reserved, controlled interpretation is empathetic and fully invested. The aesthetic pendulum swings. If, say, Liszt’s was a frenetic reaction to the dryness of Czerny’s playing, a renunciation of the style of his teacher—then Groh’s account of Liszt may be a renunciation of self-indulgence, extravagance, and narscissism—of whatever qualities Liszt displayed in the performances that earned him the bad marks.

The appropriate fusion of sadness and tranquility is there. And the vehemence and fervor are there when they should be. But Groh’s playing is not self-referential. His account of the Sonata is, essentially, an extroverted one: one conveying complete immediacy—touching his audience, inviting us to enter into the music, not withdrawing from the world or carping about unrequited attentions and alienation.

‘Originalism’ in the law takes each construction to mean what it would have been understood to mean by any intelligent but ordinary person who was a contemporary of the author/composer—any ordinary person familiar with then-current legal issues and the background of common law. That doesn’t mean taking everything hyper-literally, though, because such over-strict constructions will not turn out to match how the ordinary person would have understood it. As in the law, so it is in music with Groh’s rendering of Liszt. His scholarship regarding the biography and psychology of Liszt is impressive, but he doesn’t wear it on his sleeve. Despite his burgeoning career and critical acclaim, Groh modestly presents his views on what the passages mean to him. He argues from evidence, cogently and patiently—this despite a long day’s travel, an ambitious and exhausting performance, and the diplomatic demands of an after-concert dinner.

L iszt’s reception in Paris requires an occasional turn to the narrative historical mode. His relationship to the French capital extends from 1824, when he arrived as a prodigy, to at least 1845, when he tried to make an impact with his Beethoven Cantata. His struggle to maintain a reputation in Paris over this long period is a tormented narrative, filled with upswings and downswings, ill-willed plotters, heated confrontations, and an outcome with a nearly tragic protagonist. This narrative is valuable for challenging the myth of Liszt’s easy victory over contemporary audiences and critics. The Parisian story reveals just how self-consciously he was managing his public identity. He tailored his repertory and ticketing practices to particular audiences... The Liszt that emerges from the Parisian narrative is a strategist, working within the constraints of a skeptical public to maximize his impact as a virtuoso.”
— Dana Gooley, p. 12.

Liszt, Groh says, undoubtedly had his different moods. He surely must’ve changed his mind from time to time. “Everyone has this right. The crossed-out bars in the original ending of the Sonata, for example. When were these crossed-out and replaced with the subdued ending as we know it today? Who now can really be certain whether this change was [a result of interior thoughts or whether, instead, a response to audience reaction to early performances]? I am more conscious of the latter possibility since my association with Michal Schmidt in New York. The importance of careful calibration of public image and communication with one’s audience cannot be over-emphasized.”

[50-sec clip, Markus Groh, Liszt Sonata in B minor,
Lento Assai, last 11 mm, 1MB MP3]

T he interpreter is really an executant, carrying out the composer’s intentions to the letter. He oughtn’t add anything that isn’t already in the work. If he’s talented, he allows us to glimpse the truth of the work that is in itself a thing of genius and that is reflected in him. He shouldnt dominate the music, but should dissolve into it. I don’t think that my way of playing has ever changed. Or if it has, I didn’t notice, Perhaps I simply started to play with greater freedom as I threw off the shackles of existence and rejected the superfluous and all that distracts us from the essential. It is by shutting myself away that I’ve found freedom. I might have had doubts about the extent to which I managed to play what I intended, but from the beginning I was always certain that, for each work, it was in this way, and no other, that it had to be played. Why? It’s very simple: because I looked closely at the score. That’s all that's required to reflect what it contains. Kurt Sanderling once said of me: ‘Not only can he play well, he can also read music.’ That wasn’t such a bad way of putting it.”
— Sviatoslav Richter.

Textualism is a formalist theory of statutory interpretation which holds that a statute's ordinary meaning should govern its interpretation, as opposed to inquiries into non-textual sources such as the intention of the legislature in passing the law, the problem it was intended to remedy, or substantive questions of the justice and rectitude of the law. Likewise in music.

T he other work he gave me to practice during my first year was Liszt’s Sonata. The essential point about this piece, he taught me, was the silences—the sound of the silences... What does the beginning consist of, in fact? A single note; that’s all: a G. What can you do to ensure that this miserable G sounds somehow special? Here's what I do: I come out onto the stage. I sit down and I don’t move a muscle. I create a sense of emptiness within myself. In my head, I count up to thirty, very slowly. This causes panic in the audience. What is happening? Is he ill? Then, and only then, I play the G. In this way, the note sounds totally unexpected, but in an intentional way. Clearly, there's a sort of theatricality about all this, but the theatrical element seems to me very important. It’s essential if you want to create a feeling of unexpectedness. I know lots of pianists who play splendidly, who serve everything up on a plate. You know in advance what's on the menu. It’s good, but...”
— Sviatoslav Richter.

The original form of ‘originalism’ was known as intentionalism, or ‘original intent,’ and entailed applying laws based on the subjective intention of the text’s authors. The intentionalist methodology involves studying the writings of the author/composer for clues as to their intent. Groh works from the evidence in Liszt’s score, in a copy of the original manuscript, and in Liszt’s writings. He wouldn’t give much weight to the whining of Eduard Hanslick, who hated this Sonata. Nor would he countenance the bashing by the Nationalzeitung reviewer who in Liszt’s day referred to it as “eine Herausforderung zum Zischen und Pochen” (an invitation to hissing and stomping).

N ot every composer produces this sort of performer-in-the-notation. It is certainly most evident in the case of composers who were themselves superlative performers: Josquin, Couperin, Handel, Bach, Mozart, Schumann, Chopin, Liszt. Their notation works as both a record of past performances and a mnemonic for the future... Recognition of a performing persona in the notation greatly informs our own interpretative role as external spectators or music critics, but the same persona may also enliven our musical experiences as performers and listeners.”
— John Butt, p. 94.

In constitutional law here are two kinds of ‘intent analysis,’ reflecting two meanings of the word ‘intent’ and these have, I think, direct correlates in music performances and aesthetics. The first, a rule of common law construction in the epoch when a text was composed, is ‘functional intent.’ The second is ‘motivational intent.’ To understand the difference, consider the metaphor of an architect who designs a Gothic church with flying buttresses. The functional intent of flying buttresses is to prevent the weight of the roof from spreading the walls and causing a collapse of the building, which can be inferred from examining the design as a whole. The motivational intent might be to create work for your brother-in-law who is a flying buttress subcontractor. Groh discusses the Liszt Sonata and reveals his deep understanding of both types of intent. Coherent resolution of the ‘good-and-evil’ meme is, he thinks, the functional basis for Liszt’s replacement of the original ending with the quieter, contemplative one.

I believe it is important to appreciate the latent intentionality in music as an art to be performed, something that can be distinguished from the more local concept of ‘the composer’s intentions.’ Just as our interest in art per se rests on our understanding that is intentionally created as art, our interest in pieces of music should be directed toward the human subjectivity involved in their creation and, particularly, in the intentionality occasioned by performance. The value of a composer’s intentions for performance cannot be legislated...”
— John Butt, p. 94.

H is high-intensity, often frantic bravura manner provoked involuntary physical reactions—shaking, shuddering, weeping. Applause for Liszt, indeed, was less a gesture of appreciation, wonder, or joy, than a sheer corporal reflex—an outlet for great physical excitement. The effect of his playing passed over into the physical realm by virtue of its excess: an excess of vibration, of musical information, of visual data—too many stimuli. Yet Liszt's playing reached into the body of his listener by a still more direct route: their identification with his performing self. At the keyboard he appeared possessed by a St. Vitus spirit.”
— Dana Gooley, p. 206.

‘Strict constructionism’—requiring a judge to apply the text as it is written and no further—is used in American political discourse as an umbrella term for conservative legal philosophies such as originalism and textualism, which emphasize judicial restraint and fidelity to the original meaning (or originally intended meaning) of constitutions and laws. It could as well be used to describe any conservative musician or musicologist.

F reud writes in his 1914 essay ‘On Narcissism’ that a power of this kind, watching, discovering and criticizing all our intentions does really exist; indeed, it exists within every one of us in normal life. The delusion of being watched presents it in a regressive form... Conscience is the internalization of surveillance, just as in the broader cultural and historical context Protestant interiority is the internalization of baroque spectacle and visual control. The inner voice remains the voice of external authority. The task of emancipation is to free subjectivity, to free the voice from the bonds of those forms of external authority that are politically and psychologically harmful.”
— Michael Steinberg, p. 77.

The notion of a Living Constitution—a Living Score—can be defended, as Posner and others have done. The text is not static or univocal. It doesn’t need successive generations to bestow on it ‘flexibility’ in order to work: it won’t become brittle and break. So talking about strict constructionism from the perspective of the ‘insider’ performer-jurist is a political move that back-handedly seeks to arrogate authority to the critic and away from the performer. ‘Strict constructionist’ is a ‘politician-outsider-looking-in’ term—a critic’s term, not a performer’s term.

H ypocrisy is the beginning of virtue.”
— Antonin Scalia, UW Law School, 15-MAR-2001.

Are there sound arguments opposing originalism? Yes. For example, originalism can lead to unacceptable, morally or aesthetically indefensible results. For example, interpreting the 14th Amendment of the U.S. Constitution only to protect liberty recognized at the time it was ratified provides no protection to groups who were discriminated against at that time, particularly women and homosexuals. With originalism, the courts are extremely limited in their power to protect against discrimination. Originalism faces hermeneutic difficulties in understanding the functional and motivic intentions of the Founding Fathers, or of the Composer. Originalism allows the ‘dead hand’ of prior generations to control important contemporary issues down to an extraordinary and unnecessary level of detail. Historically-informed performance run amok. Groh, for all his remarks that suggest that he is an originalist at heart, does not go this far. It would be fair to call him instead a pragmatist. “Playing piano is a way of life. I cannot help but learn something new each day.”

Definitions

Textualist: An originalist who gives primary weight to the text and structure of the Composition. Textualists often are skeptical of the ability to determine "intent."
Intentionalist: An originalist who gives primary weight to the intentions of composers, members of commissioning bodies, ratifiers, and dedicatees.
Pragmatist: A non-originalist who gives substantial weight to judicial precedent or the consequences of alternative interpretations, so as to sometimes favor a decision ‘wrong’ on originalist terms because it promotes stability or in some other way promotes the public good.
Natural Law Theorist: A person who believes that higher moral law ought to trump inconsistent positive law.

L iszt’s transcendent technique, which depended as much on the variety of sound he was able to elicit from the instrument as from sheer virtuosity, was directly inspired by Paganini’s violin playing.”
— Clive Brown, p. 222.

D uring the 19th Century a number of important composers strove to produce music in which accentuation was liberated from what they saw as the restrictions of metre. In such music, structural and expressive accentuation occurred with increasing frequency on beats that were metrically weak... Symptomatic of this attitude is Liszt’s comment, in the preface to the collected edition of his symphonic poems, that he wished to ‘see an end to the mechanical, fragmented up-and-down playing tied to the bar-line, which is still the rule in many places.’ ... a conscious reaction to the conventional rhythm that underlay much early Romantic music.”
— Clive Brown, p. 27.

T he Constitution does not say, ‘Read me broadly,’ or, ‘Read me narrowly.’ The decision to do one or the other must be made as a matter of political theory and will depend on such things as one’s view of the springs of judicial legitimacy and the relative competence of courts and legislatures in dealing with particular types of issue.”
— Richard Posner, in ‘What am I? A Potted Plant?’

T he idea of the Constitution as a binding contract is an incomplete theory of political legitimacy, not an erroneous one. A contract induces, reliance that can make a strong claim for protection; it also frees people from having continually to reexamine and revise the terms of the relationship. These values are independent of whether the original contracting parties are still alive. But a long-term contract is bound eventually to require, if not formal modification (which in the case of the Constitution can be accomplished only through the amendment, process), then flexible interpretation, to cope effectively with altered, circumstances. Modification and interpretation are reciprocal; the more difficult it is to modify the instrument formally, the more exigent is flexible interpretation. Bork is aware of the practical impediments to amending the Constitution but is unwilling to draw the inference that flexible interpretation is therefore necessary to prevent constitutional obsolescence.”
— Richard Posner, in ‘Bork and Beethoven’.

A fter Justice Holmes and Judge Learned Hand had lunched together one afternoon and Holmes began to leave to resume work, Hand called out, ‘Do justice, sir. Do justice.’ Holmes reproached him: ‘That is not my job. It is my job to apply the law.’ Holmes did not intend to say that a judge ought to be unjust. But laws are sometimes unjust, and without being unconstitutional. When a judge is faced with one of those laws, as a servant of the law he has to swallow hard and apply it. Perhaps that implicates him in injustice. Holmes probably thought so, hence his reply to Hand. But Holmes believed that that is preferable to judges thinking of their duty as serving justice first and law second.”
— Richard Bostan, The Tempting of Richard Posner, 1997.