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About the Author
Vinay Kumar (VKR) graduated from IIT Delhi
in Mechanical Engineering.
Presently, he is Director of VKR Classes,
Kota, Rajasthan.
Third Edition
Vinay Kumar
B.Tech., IIT Delhi
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McGraw Hill Education (India) Private Limited
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Differential Calculus for JEE Main & Advanced, 3/e
Copyright © 2020, by the McGraw Hill Education (India) Private Limited.
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PREFACE
T his book is meant for students who aspire to join the Indian Institute of Technologies (IITs) and various other engi-
neering institutes through the JEE Main and Advanced examinations. The content has been devised to cover the syllabi
of JEE and other engineering entrance examinations on the topic Differential Calculus. The book will serve as a text book
as well as practice problem book for these competitive examinations.
As a tutor with more than eighteen years of teaching this topic in the coaching institutes of Kota, I have realised
the need for a comprehensive textbook in this subject.
I am grateful to McGraw-Hill Education for providing me an opportunity to translate my years of teaching experience
into a comprehensive textbook on this subject.
This book will help to develop a deep understanding of Differential Calculus through graphs and problem solving.
The detailed table of contents will enable teachers and students to easily access their topics of interest.
Each chapter is divided into several segments. Each segment contains theory with illustrative examples. It is followed
by Concept Problems and Practice Problems, which will help students assess the basic concepts. At the end of the theory
portion, a collection of Target Problems have been given to develop mastery over the chapter.
The problems for JEE Advanced have been clearly indicated in each chapter.
The collection of objective type questions will help in a thorough revision of the chapter. The Review Exercises
contain problems of a moderate level while the Target Exercises will assess the students’ ability to solve tougher problems.
For teachers, this book could be quite helpful as it provides numerous problems graded by difficulty level which can be
given to students as assignments.
I am thankful to all teachers who have motivated me and have given their valuable recommendations. I thank my
family for their whole-hearted support in writing this book. I specially thank Mr. Devendra Kumar and Mr. S. Suman for
their co-operation in bringing this book.
Suggestions for improvement are always welcomed and shall be gratefully acknowledged.
Vinay Kumar
CONTENT
About the Author ii
Preface v
CHAPTER 1 LIMITS 1.1 – 1.178

1.1 Introduction 1.1
1.2 Concept of Infinity 1.7
1.3 Theorems on Limits 1.11
1.4 One-sided limits 1.14
1.5 Determinate and Indeterminate Forms 1.20
1.6 Factorisation and Cancellation of Common Factors 1.23
1.7 Rationalization 1.27
1.8 Limit Using Expansion Series of Functions 1.29
1.9 Standard Limits 1.33
1.10 Algebra of Limits 1.45
1.11 Limits when x → ∞ 1.48
1.12 Asymptotes 1.56
1.13 Limit of a Sequence 1.61
1.14 Limits of Forms (0 x ∞) and (∞ – ∞) 1.65
1.15 Limits of Forms 0 and ∞
0 0
1.71
∞
1.16 Limits of Form 1 1.73
1.17 Sandwich Theorem / Squeeze Play Theorem 1.77
1.18 L’ Hospital’s Rule 1.82
1.19 Geometrical Limits 1.96
1.20 Miscellaneous Limits 1.99
Target Problems for JEE Advanced 1.104

Things to Remember 1.114

Objective Exercises 1.116

Review Exercises for JEE Advanced 1.126

Target Exercises for JEE Advanced 1.127

Previous Year’s Questions (JEE Advanced) 1.129

Previous Year’s Questions (JEE Main Papers) 1.131

Answers 1.133

Hints & Solutions 1.140

viii | Content
CHAPTER 2 CONTINUITY OF FUNCTIONS 2.1 – 2.98

2.1 Definition of Continuity 2.1
2.2 Continuity in an Interval 2.10
2.3 Classification of Discontinuity 2.20
2.4 Algebra of Continuous Functions 2.27
2.5 Properties of Functions Continuous on a Closed Interval 2.33
2.6 Intermediate Value Theorem (I.V.T.) 2.37







Answers 2.70


CHAPTER 3 DIFFERENTIABILITY 3.1 – 3.116
3.2 Differentiability 3.6
3.3 Reasons of Non-differentiability 3.11
3.4 Relation between Continuity and Differentiability 3.13
3.5 Derivability at Endpoints 3.19
3.6 Differentiability over an interval 3.20
3.7 Alternative limit form of the Derivative 3.26
3.8 Derivatives of Higher Order 3.33
3.9 Algebra of Differentiable Functions 3.36
3.10 Functional Equations 3.40







Answers 3.74


CHAPTER 4 METHODS OF DIFFERENTIATION 4.1 – 4.120
4.2 Derivative using First Principles (ab initio) Method 4.1
Content | ix
4.3 Derivative of Standard Functions 4.3

4.4 Rules of Differentiation 4.4
4.5 The Chain Rule 4.9
4.6 Logarithmic Differentiation 4.15
4.7 Derivative of Inverse Functions 4.19
4.8 Parametric Differentiation 4.24
4.9 Differentiation of Implicit Functions 4.25
4.10 Differentiation by Trigonometric Substitution 4.33
4.11 Derivatives of Higher Order 4.37
4.12 Successive Differentiation 4.46
4.13 Derivative of a Determinant 4.48
4.14 Properties of Derivative 4.51
4.15 L’Hospital’s Rule 4.56







Answers 4.80


CHAPTER 5 TANGENT AND NORMAL 5.1 – 5.94
5.2 Rate Measurement 5.1
5.3 Approximation 5.7
5.4 Error 5.9
5.5 Tangent and Normal 5.11
5.6 Tangent to Parametric curves 5.20
5.7 Angle of Intersection 5.26
5.8 Common Tangents 5.30
5.9 Length of Tangent 5.35






Answers 5.55


x | Content
CHAPTER 6 MONOTONICITY 6.1 – 6.100

6.1 Definitions 6.1
6.2 Monotonicity over an Interval 6.4
6.3 Critical Point 6.15
6.4 Intervals of Monotonicity 6.17
6.5 Monotonicity in Parametric Functions 6.24
6.6 Algebra of Monotonous Functions 6.24
6.7 Proving Inequalities 6.27
6.8 Concavity and Point of Inflection 6.35







Answers 6.64


CHAPTER 7 MAXIMA AND MINIMA 7.1 – 7.200
7.2 Concept of Local Maxima and Local Minima 7.1
7.3 Fermat Theorem 7.4
7.4 The First Derivative Test 7.7
7.5 The First Derivative Procedure for Sketching the Graph of a Continuous Function 7.15
7.6 Second Derivative Test 7.18
7.7 Higher Order Derivative Test 7.23
7.8 Extrema of Parametric Functions 7.25
7.9 Operations on Functions having points of Extrema 7.26
7.10 Global Maximum and Minimum 7.28
7.11 Boundedness 7.40
7.12 Algebra of Global Extrema 7.42
7.13 Miscellaneous Methods 7.44
7.14 Optimisation Problems 7.49
7.15 Asymptotes 7.70
7.16 Points of Inflection 7.75
7.17 Curve Sketching 7.77
7.18 Isolation of Roots 7.85
7.19 Rolle’s Theorem 7.89
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Content | xi
7.20 Deductions of Rolle’s Theorem 7.95

7.21 Lagrange’s Mean Value Theorem 7.98
7.22 Corollaries of LMVT 7.104
7.23 Related Inequalities 7.106
7.24 Cauchy’s Mean Value Theorem 7.112







Answers 7.144


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1
CHAPTER
Limits
We denote neighbourhoods by N(a), N1(a), N2(a), etc.

1.1 Introduction
Since a neighbourhood N(a) is an open interval symmetric
Let us introduce the notion of limit of a function which plays about a, it consists of all real x satisfying a – δ < x < a + δ for
an important role in mathematical analysis and the study some δ > 0. The positive number δ is called the radius of the
of calculus. The concept of limit of a function is one of the neighbourhood.
fundamental ideas that distinguishes calculus from algebra
We designate N(a) by N(a, δ) if we wish to specify its radius.
and trigonometry. The inequalities a – δ < x < a + δ are equivalent to –δ < x – a
We use limits to describe the way a function f varies. Some < δ, and to |x – a| < δ. Thus, N(a, δ) consists of all points x
functions vary continuously i.e. small changes in x produce whose distance from a is less than δ.
only small changes in f(x). Other functions can have values
that jump or vary erratically. Meaning of x → a
Sometimes we face with problems whose solutions involve the The symbol x → a is called as 'x tends to a' or 'x approaches a'.
use of limits. According to a formula of geometry, the area of It implies that x takes values closer and closer to 'a' but not 'a'.
a circle of radius r is πr2. How is such a formula derived? The
usual way is to inscribe regular polygons in the circle, find
the areas of these polygons, and then determine the “limiting
value” of these areas as the number of sides of the polygons Sometimes we need to consider values of x approaching 'a'
increase without bound. Thus, even such seemingly simple from only one side of 'a'.
formula as that for the area of a circle depends on the concept If x approaches 'a' from the left of 'a' then we use the symbol:
of limit for its derivation. x → a– or x → a – 0.
We also use limits to define tangent to graphs of functions. Similarly, if x approaches 'a' from the right of 'a' then we use
This geometrical application leads to the important concept of the symbol : x → a+ or x → a + 0.
derivative of a function, which quantifies the way a function's
value changes.
The need for evaluating the limit of a function arises in science
and engineering when we come across situations where a Limit of a Function
function (denoting a physical quantity) is not defined at x = a, Let us consider a function y = f(x) of a continuous variable x.
however the value of the function as x takes values very very Suppose that the independent variable x approaches a number
close to ‘a’ symbolize a useful physical quantity, for example 'a'. This means that x is made to assume values which become
instantaneous velocity, acceleration etc. arbitrarily close to 'a' but are not equal to 'a'. To describe such a
situation we say that x tends to 'a' or x approaches 'a' and write
Neighbourhood of a Point x → a. If there is a number  such that as x approaches 'a',
Any open interval containing a point a as its midpoint is called either from the right or from the left, f(x) approaches , then
a neighbourhood of a.  is called the limit of f(x) as x approaches 'a'.
1.2 Differential Calculus for JEE Main and Advanced
Informal Definition of Limit differing by little from zero. It is not a statement about the value
Let f(x) be defined on an open interval about 'a', except possibly of f(x) when x = 0. When we make the statements we assert
at 'a' itself. If f(x) gets arbitrarily close to  for all x sufficiently that, when x is nearly equal to zero, f(x) is nearly equal to . We
close to 'a', we say that f approaches the limit  as x approaches assert nothing about what happens when x actually equal to 0.
'a', and we write
lim f ( x ) . Caution
x a
(the abbreviation "lim" means "limit")

A wrong statement about limits :
It is evident that if a function has a limit for x → a, this limit is The number  is the limit of f(x) as x approaches a if f(x) gets
unique, since the values of the function corresponding to the closer to  as x approaches a.
values of x approaching 'a' must become arbitrarily close to Consider f(x) = x + [x] +1 at x = 0.
a constant and hence cannot be simultaneously close to more As x approaches 0, the function f(x) gets closer to
than one constant number. 1/2, from both sides but 1/2 is not the limit because f(x) does
An alternative notation for lim f ( x )  is f(x) →  as x → a not get arbitrarily close to 1/2. For example the function cannot
x a
attain 0.4995 or 0.5002 by using x sufficiently close to 0.
which is usually read as "f(x) approaches  as x approaches a".
Suppose we are asked to sketch the graph of the function f
Study Tip x3 − 1
given by f(x) = , x ≠ 1.
x −1
1. A number  is said to be a limiting value only if it is finite
and real, otherwise we say that the limit does not exist or For all values other than x = 1, we can use standard curve-
dne (for brevity). sketching techniques. However, at x = 1, it is not clear what
to do. To get an idea of the behaviour of the graph of f near
2. Note that 'a' need not be in the domain of f.
x = 1, we can use two sets of x-values – one set that approaches
Even if 'a' happens to be in the domain of f, the 1 from the left and one set that approaches 1 from the right, as
value f(a) plays no role in determining whether shown in table.
lim f ( x ) . It is only the behaviour of f(x) for x
x a
near a that concerns us.
3. We also note that the three statements,
lim f(x) = , lim (f(x) – ) = 0, lim | f(x) –  | = 0, are all
x →a x →a x →a
equivalent.
x
Let us consider the function f(x) = .
x
This function is equal to 1 for all values of x except x = 0.
It is not equal to 1 when x = 0; it is in fact not defined at x = 0. When we plot these points, it appears that the graph of f is a
parabola that has a hole at point (1, 3), as shown in the figure.
For when we say that f(x) is defined for x = 0 we mean that we
Although x cannot equal 1, we can move sufficiently close to
can calculate its value for x = 0 by putting x = 0 in the formula
1, and as a result f(x) moves arbitrarily close to 3.
which defines f(x). In this case we cannot. When we put x = 0
in f(x) we get 0/0, which is meaningless. Using limit notation, we write lim f(x) = 3.
x→1
x
Thus f(x) = is a function which differs from y = 1 solely in It is read as "the limit of f(x) as x approaches 1 is 3."
x
that it is not defined for x = 0.
x
We have lim
x→0
= 1, since x/x is equal to 1 so long as x differs
x
from zero, however small the difference may be.
On the other hand there is of course nothing to prevent the
limit of f(x) as x tends to zero from being equal to f(0), the
value of f(x) for x = 0.
Thus if f(x) = x, then f(0) = 0 and lim
x →0
f ( x ) = 0.
Note: That the statement lim f ( x ) =  is a statement

x →0
about the values of f(x) when x has any value distinct from but
Limits 1.3
x 2 − 3x + 2 x3 − 1 ( x 2 + x + 1)( x − 1) x2 + x + 1
Example 1: Evaluate lim = = .
x→2 x−2 x2 −1 ( x + 1)( x − 1) x +1
Solution: Consider the function f defined by So the behaviour of (x3–1)/(x2–1) for x near 1, but not equal to
x 2 3x 2 x2 + x + 1
f(x) = ,x≠2 1, is the same as the behaviour of .
x +1
x2
The domain of f is the set of all real numbers except 2, which x3 − 1 x2 + x + 1 .
lim = lim
has been excluded because substitution of x = 2 in the expression x →1 x 2 −1 x →1 x +1
0
for f(x) yields the undefined term .
0 Now, as x approaches 1, x2 + x + 1 approaches 3 and x + 1
On the other hand, x 2 – 3x + 2 = (x – 1) (x – 2) and
( x − 1)( x − 2) x2 + x + 1 3
f(x) = = x – 1, provided x ≠ 2
approaches 2. Thus, lim = , from which it
x−2
x →1 x +1 2
....(1) x3 − 1 3
The graph of the function y = x – 1 is a straight line L; so the follows that lim = .
x →1 x 2 − 1 2
graph of f(x) is the line L with a hole at the point (2, 1).
We can also express this as follows:
x3 − 1 3
As x → 1, 2 → .
x −1 2
Example 3: Find the limit of the function
x + 1 , x < 0
f (x) =  as x→ 0.
2 − x , x ≥ 0
Solution: Using the graph of y = f(x), we see that the
function approaches 1 as x approaches 0 from the left of 0. Also
the function approaches 2 as x approaches 0 from the right of 0.
Although the function f is not defined at x = 2, we know its

behaviour from values of x near 2. The graph makes it clear
that if x is close to 2, then f(x) is close to 1. In fact, the values of
f(x) can be brought arbitrarily close to 1 by taking x sufficiently
close to 2.
x 2 − 3x + 2
We express this fact by writing lim = 1, which
x→2 x−2
Since the function does not approach the same level from both
x 2 3x 2
means that the limit of is 1 as x approaches 2. sides of x = 0, lim f ( x ) does not exist.
x2 x →0
x3 −1
Example 2: Let f(x) = 2
x −1
. How does f(x) behave
Formal Definition of Limit
when x is near 1 but is not 1 itself ? The conceptual problems in trying to give an exact meaning
Solution: There are two influences acting on the fraction to the expression lim f(x) = b revolve around phrases such as
x →a
(x3 – 1)/(x2 – 1) when x is near 1. On the one hand, the numerator “arbitrarily close,” “sufficiently near,” and “arbitrarily small.”
x3 –1 approaches 0; thus there is an influence pushing the After all, there is a no such thing in any absolute sense as a small
fraction towards 0. On the other hand the denominator x2 –1 positive real number. The number 0.000001 is small in most
also approaches 0; division by a small number tends to make a contexts, but in comparison with 0.000000000001 it is huge.
fraction large. How do these two opposing influences balance However, we can assert that one number is smaller than another.
out?
Moreover, the actual closeness of one number x to another number
We rewrite the quotient (x3 – 1)/(x2 – 1) as follows: When x ≠ 1, a is just the distance between them : it is |x – a|. One way to say that
we have a function f takes on values arbitrarily close to a number  is to
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
to check the growth of the spirit and to shatter the confidence of the
individual in himself. Considered with reference to its higher
manifestations, life itself has been thus far, in modern America, a
failure. Of this the failure of our literature is merely emblematic.
Mr. Mencken, who shares this belief, urges that the only hope of
a change for the better lies in the development of a native
aristocracy that will stand between the writer and the public,
supporting him, appreciating him, forming as it were a cordon
sanitaire between the individual and the mob. That no change can
come without the development of an aristocracy of some sort, some
nucleus of the more gifted, energetic and determined, one can hardly
doubt. But how can one expect the emergence of an aristocracy
outside of the creative class, and devoted to its welfare, unless and
until the creative class itself reveals the sort of pride that can alone
attract its ministrations? “The notion that a people can run itself and
its affairs anonymously is now well known to be the silliest of
absurdities.” Thus William James, in defence of the aristocratic
principle; and what he says is as applicable to literature as to every
other department of social life. But he continues: “Mankind does
nothing save through initiatives on the part of inventors, great and
small, and imitation by the rest of us—these are the sole factors alive
in human progress. Individuals of genius show the way, and set the
patterns, which common people then adopt and follow.” In other
words, as I understand it, and so far as literature is concerned, the
burden of proof lies on the writer himself—which brings one back to
a truism: it is not for the public or any aristocratic minority within the
public to understand the writer, it is for the writer to create the taste
by which he is understood. Is it not by this indeed (in a measure, at
least) that we recognize the creator?
Certainly if our contemporary literature is not respected, if it has
not been able to rally to its support the sensitive public that already
exists in this country, it is partly because this literature has not
respected itself. That there has been every reason for it makes no
difference; that it has begun to respect itself again makes no
difference either, for when a people has lost confidence in its
literature, and has had grounds for losing confidence in it, one
cannot be surprised if it insists a little cynically upon being “shown.”
The public supported Mark Twain and Howells and the men of their
generation, it admired them for what was admirable in them, but it
was aware, if only unconsciously, that there was a difference
between them and the men of the generation before them; and in
consequence of this the whole stock of American literature fell. But
those who insist in our day that America prefers European writers to
its own, because America is still a colony of Europe, cannot ignore
the significant fact that at a time when America was still more truly
colonial than it is now American writers had all the prestige in this
country that European writers have at present; and it is not entirely
because at that time the country was more homogeneous. Poe and
Thoreau found little support in the generation of which I speak, as
Whitman found little support in the generation that followed it. On the
other hand, there were no European writers (and it was an age of
great writers in Europe) who were held in higher esteem in this
country than Hawthorne, Emerson, Motley, and one or two others
almost equally distinguished, as well from a European as from an
American point of view; there were few, if any, European writers, in
fact, who were esteemed in this country as highly as they. How can
one explain it? How can one explain why, at a time when America, in
every other department of life, was more distinctly colonial than it is
now, American literature commanded the full respect of Americans,
while to-day, when the colonial tradition is vanishing all about us, it
so little commands their respect that they go after any strange god
from England? The problem is not a simple one, but among the
many explanations of it one can hardly deny that there were in that
period a number of writers of unusual power, who made the most
(who were able to make the most) of their power, who followed their
artistic conscience (who were able to follow it) and who by this fact
built up a public confidence in themselves and in the literature they
represented. Does it matter at all whether to-day we enjoy these
writers or not? They were men of spiritual force, three or four of
them: that is the important point. If the emerging writers of our epoch
find themselves handicapped by the scepticism of the public, which
has ceased to believe that any good thing can come out of Nazareth,
let them remember not only that they are themselves for the most
part in the formative stage, but that they have to live down the recent
past of their profession.
Meanwhile, what constitutes a literature is the spiritual force of
the individuals who compose it. If our literature is ever to be
regenerated, therefore, it can only be through the development of a
sense of “free will” (and of the responsibility that this entails) on the
part of our writers themselves. To be, to feel oneself, a “victim” is in
itself not to be an artist, for it is the nature of the artist to live, not in
the world of which he is an effect, but in the world of which he is the
cause, the world of his own creation. For this reason, the pessimistic
determinism of the present age is, from the point of view of literature,
of a piece with the optimistic determinism of the age that is passing.
What this pessimistic determinism reveals, however, is a
consciousness of the situation: to that extent it represents a gain,
and one may even say that to be conscious of the situation is half
the battle. If we owed nothing else to Mr. Dreiser, for instance, we
should owe him enough for the tragic sense of the waste and futility
of American life, as we know it, which his books communicate. It
remains true that in so far as we resent this life it is a sign of our own
weakness, of the harm not only that our civilization has done us but
that we have permitted it to do us, of our own imperfectly realized
freedom; for to the creative spirit in its free state the external world is
merely an impersonal point of departure. Thus it is certain that as
long as the American writer shares what James Bryce calls the
“mass fatalism” of the American people, our literature will remain the
sterile, supine, and inferior phenomenon which, on the whole, it is.
“What we want,” wrote Henry Adams in 1862 to his brother
Charles, “is a school. We want a national set of young men like
ourselves or better, to start new influences not only in politics, but in
literature, in law, in society, and throughout the whole social
organism of the country—a national school of our own generation.
And that is what America has no power to create.... It’s all random,
insulated work, for special and temporary and personal purposes.
And we have no means, power or hope of combined action for any
unselfish end.” That is what America has no power to create. But can
it be said that any nation has ever created a school? Here we have
the perfect illustration of that mass fatalism of which I have spoken,
and Henry Adams himself, in his passivity, is the type of it. Secure as
he was, uniquely secure, why did he refuse to accept the
responsibility of those novels in which he expressed the contempt of
a powerful and cultivated mind for the meanness, the baseness, the
vulgarity of the guiding element in American society? In the darkest
and most chaotic hours of our spiritual history the individual has
possessed a measure of free will only to renounce it: if Henry Adams
had merely signed his work and accepted the consequences of it, he
might by that very fact have become the founder, the centre, of the
school that he desired. But it is true that in that generation the
impulses of youth were, with an extraordinary unanimity, focused
upon a single end, the exploitation of the continent; the material
opportunities that American life offered were too great and too all-
engrossing, and it is unlikely that any considerable minority could
have been rallied for any non-utilitarian cause. Sixty years later this
school remains, and quite particularly as regards our literature, the
one thing necessary; the reforestation of our spiritual territory
depends on it. And in more than one sense the times are favourable.
The closing of the frontier seems to promise for this country an
intenser life than it has known before; a large element of the younger
generation, estranged from the present order, exists in a state of
ferment that renders it highly susceptible to new ideas; the country
literally swarms with half-artists, as one may call them, men and
women, that is to say, who have ceased to conform to the law of the
tribe but who have not accepted the discipline of their own individual
spirits. “What I chiefly desire for you,” wrote Ibsen to Brandes at the
outset of his career, “is a genuine, full-blooded egoism, which shall
force you for a time to regard what concerns you yourself as the only
thing of any consequence, and everything else as non-existent....
There is no way in which you can benefit society more than by
coining the metal you have in yourself.” The second half of this
rather blunt counsel of perfection is implied in the first, and it
connotes a world of things merely to name which would be to throw
into relief the essential infantility of the American writer as we know
the type. By what prodigies of alert self-adaptation, of discriminating
self-scrutiny, of conscious effort does the creative will come into its
own! As for us, weak as too many of us are, ignorant, isolated, all too
easily satisfied, and scarcely as yet immune from the solicitations of
the mob, we still have this advantage, that an age of reaction is an
age that stirs the few into a consciousness of themselves.
Van Wyck Brooks
MUSIC
WE spend more money upon music than does any other nation
on earth; some of our orchestras, notably those of Boston, Chicago,
and Philadelphia, are worthy to rank among the world’s best; in the
Metropolitan Opera House we give performances of grand opera that
for consistent excellence of playing, singing, and mise-en-scène are
surpassed probably nowhere. Yet there has never been a successful
opera by an American offered at that opera house, and the number
of viable American orchestral works is small enough to be counted
almost upon one’s fingers. We squander millions every year upon an
art that we cannot produce.
There are apologists for the American composer who will say
that we do produce it, but that it is strangled at birth. According to
their stock argument, there are numberless greatly gifted native
composers whose works never get a hearing, (a) because
Americans are prejudiced against American music and in favour of
foreign music, and (b) because the foreigners who largely control the
musical situation in this country jealously refuse to allow American
works to be performed. This would be impressive if it were consistent
or true. As far as concerns the Jealous Foreigner myth—he does not
dominate the musical situation—I have never noticed that the
average European in this country is deficient either in self-interest or
tact. He is generally anxious, if only for diplomatic reasons, to find
American music that is worth singing or playing. Even when he fails
to find any that is worth performing, he often performs some that
isn’t, in order to satisfy local pride. Moreover, Americans are no more
prejudiced against American musicians than they are against other
kinds. As a matter of fact, if intensive boosting campaigns produced
creative artists, the American composer during the past decade
should have expanded like a hot-house strawberry. We have had
prize contests of all kinds, offering substantial sums for everything
from grand operas to string quartettes, we have had societies formed
to publish his chamber-music scores; publishers have rushed to print
his smaller works; we have had concerts of American compositions;
we have had all-American festivals. Meanwhile the American
composer has, with a few lonely exceptions, obstinately refused to
produce anything above the level of what it would be flattering to call
mediocrity.
No. If he is not heard oftener in concert halls and upon recital
platforms, it is because he is not good enough. There is, in the music
of even the second-rate Continental composers, a surety of touch, a
quality of evident confidence in their material and ease in its handling
that is rarely present in the work of Americans. Most American
symphonic and chamber music lacks structure and clarity. The
workmanship is faulty, the utterance stammers and halts. Listening
to an average American symphonic poem, you get the impression
that the composer was so amazed and delighted at being able to
write a symphonic poem at all that the fact that it might be a dull one
seemed of minor importance to him. When he isn’t being almost
entirely formless he is generally safely conventional, preferring to
stick to what a statesman would call the Ways of the Fathers rather
than risk some structural innovation what might or might not be
effective. Tschaikovsky’s variation of the traditional sequence of
movements in the Pathétique symphony, for example—ending with
the slow movement instead of the march—would scandalize and
terrify the average American.
This feebleness and uncertainty in the handling of material
makes American music sound more sterile and commonplace than it
really is. The American composer never seems certain just what, if
anything, he wants to say. His themes, his fundamental ideas, are
often of real significance, but he has no control over that very
essence of the language of music, mood. He lacks taste. The fact
that an American composition may begin in a genuinely impressive
mood is no guarantee at all that inside of twenty-four bars it may not
fall into the most appalling banalities. We start with lyric beauty and
finish in stickiness. The curse of bathos is upon us. We lack staying
power. Just as so many American dramatists can write two good
acts of a three-act play, so many American novelists can write
superb opening chapters, so do American composers devise
eloquent opening themes. But we all fail when it comes to
development. The train is laid, the match is applied, and the
spectators crowd back in delighted terror amid tremendous hissings
and sputterings. But when the awaited detonation comes, it is too
often only a pop.
Such failure to make adequate use of his ideas is partially
attributable to the American musician’s pathetically inadequate
technical equipment. Generally speaking, he doesn’t know his
business. He has been unable, or hasn’t bothered, to learn his trade.
Imagine if you can a successful dramatist who can neither read nor
write, but has to dictate his plays, or a painter who can only draw the
outlines of his pictures, hiring some one else to lay in the colours,
and you have something analogous to many an American
“composer” whose music is taken seriously by Americans, and who
cannot write out a playable piano part, arrange a song for choral
performance, or transcribe a hymn tune for a string quartette. Such
elementary work he has to have done for him, whenever it is
necessary, by some hack. This, to say nothing of the more advanced
branches of musical science, like counterpoint, fugue, orchestration.
Though it is risky to generalize, it is probably safe to say that among
Americans who write music, the man who can construct a
respectable fugue or canon or score a piece for full orchestra is
decidedly the exception. In Europe, of course, any man who did not
have these technical resources at his fingertips would have to be a
Moussorgsky to be taken seriously as a composer at all.
It is not entirely the American’s fault that he is so ill-equipped.
Much of his comparative musical illiteracy, true, is the result of his
own laziness and his traditional American contempt for theory and
passion for results. On the other hand, the young American who
honestly desires a good theoretical training in music must either
undertake the expensive adventure of journeying to one of the few
cities that contain a first-class conservatory, or the equally expensive
one of going to Europe. If he can do neither, he must to a great
extent educate himself. Some kinds of training it is nearly impossible
for him to obtain here at any price. Orchestration, for instance, a
tremendously complex and difficult science, can be mastered only by
the time-honoured trial and error method, i.e., by writing out scores
and hearing them played. How is our young American to manage
this? Granted that there is a symphony orchestra near him, how can
he get his scores played? The conductor cannot be blamed for
refusing. He is hired to play the works of masters, not to try out the
apprentice efforts of unskilled aspirants. What we need so badly
here are not more first-class orchestras, but more second-rate ones,
small-town orchestras that could afford to give the tyro a chance.
Because of their lack of technical skill many composers in this
country never venture into the broader fields of composition at all. As
a class, we write short piano and violin pieces, or songs. We write
them because we do earnestly desire to write something and
because they do not demand the technical resourcefulness and
sustained inspiration that we lack. Parenthetically, I don’t for a
moment mean to imply that clumsy workmanship and sterility are
unknown in Europe, that we are all mediocrities and they are all
Uebermenschen. As a matter of fact, we have to-day probably much
more creative musical talent, if less brains, than Europe; but, talent
for talent, the European is infinitely better trained. This, at least in
part, because he respects theory and has a desire for technical
proficiency that we almost totally lack. Then too, the European has
some cultural background. There is a curious lack of inter-
communication among the arts in this country. The painter seems to
feel that literature has nothing direct to give him, the writer, that
music and painting are not in his line, and the musician—decidedly
the worst of the three in this respect—that his own art has no
connection with anything.
The American composer’s most complete failure is intellectual.
The fact that he writes music seldom warrants the assumption that
he has the artist’s point of view at all. He is likely to be a much less
interesting person than one’s iceman. Ten to one, he never visits a
picture gallery or a sculpture exhibition, his taste in the theatre is
probably that of the tired business man, and what little reading he
does is likely to be confined to trade papers, Snappy Stories, and
best-sellers. He takes no interest in politics, economics, or sociology,
either national or international (how could they possibly concern
him?), and probably cannot discuss even music with pleasure or
profit to anybody.
The natural inference that might be drawn from this diatribe—
that the composing of music in this country is confined exclusively to
the idiot classes—is not strictly true. Plenty of American musicians
are intelligent and cultured men as well; but that is not America’s
fault. She is just as cordial to the stupid ones. And the widespread
impotence and technical sloppiness of American music is the
inevitable result of the American attitude toward music and to the
anomalous position the art occupies in this country.
Let me be platitudinous in the interest of clarity and point out
what we so often forget: that our nation, unlike most of the others, is
not a race as well. We have common wellsprings of thought, but—
and this is significant and ominous—none of feeling. Sheer
environment may teach people to think alike within a generation; but
it takes centuries of common emotional experiences to make them
feel alike. Any average American, even of the National-Security-
League-one-hundred-per-centum variety, may have in his veins the
blood of English, French, Italian, and Russian ancestors, and there is
no saying that his emotional nature is going to find many heart-beats
in common with some equally average neighbour, whose ancestry
may be, say, Irish, Danish, and Hungarian. What national spirit we
have has been determined, first, by the fact that the ancestors of
every one of us, whether they came here twenty years ago or two
hundred, were pioneers. Every one of them left a civilization whose
cultural background had been established for centuries, to come to a
land where the problem of mere existence was of prime importance.
Again, many of them were religious fanatics. In the life of the pioneer
there was little room for art of any sort, and least for music. What he
demanded of music, when he had time to spare for it, was that
above all things it distract him from the fatigue and worry of everyday
life, either by amusing him or by furnishing a sentimental reminder of
old ways. To the Puritan, music, both for its own sake and as
entertainment, was anathema. As sensuous beauty it was popish,
and as entertainment it was worldly pleasure, and therefore wicked.
To be tolerated at all, it must be practical, i.e., perform some moral
service by being a hymn tune. And what the American pioneer and
the American Puritan asked a few generations back, the average
American asks to-day whenever he is confronted with any work of
art: Does it point a moral? If not, will it help me to kill time without
boring me?
Instruction, release, or amusement: that, in general, is all we
want of art. The American’s favourite picture is one that tells a story,
or shows the features of some famous person, or the topography of
some historic spot. Fantastic pictures he likes, because they show
him people and places far removed from his own rather tedious
environment, but they must be a gaudy, literal, solid sort of fantasy—
Maxfield Parrish rather than Aubrey Beardsley. If he can’t have
these, he wants pretty girls or comics. Purely decorative or frankly
meaningless pictures—Hokusai and Whistler (except, of course, the
portraits of Carlyle and his mother)—do not exist for him. Sculpture
—which he does not understand—is probably his favourite art-form,
for it is tangible, three-dimensionable, stable. He doesn’t mind
poetry, for it, too, gives him release. He likes novels, especially
“glad” ones or mystery stories. He even tolerates realism if, as in
“Main Street,” it gives him release by showing him a set of
consistently contemptible and uncultured characters to whom even
he must feel superior. His architecture he likes either ornate to
imbecility or utilitarian to hideousness.
In other words, the typical American goes to an art-work either
frankly to have his senses tickled or for the sake of a definite thing
that it says or a series of extraneous images or thoughts that it
evokes—never for the Ding an sich. Of pure æsthetic emotion he
exhibits very little. To him, beauty is emphatically not its own excuse
for being. He does not want it for its own sake, and distrusts and
fears it when it appears before him unclothed in moral lessons or
associated ideas. In such a civilization music can occupy but a very
unimportant place. For music is, morally or intellectually, the most
meaningless of arts: it teaches no lesson, it offers no definite escape
from life to the literal-minded, and aside from the primitive and
obvious associations of patriotic airs and “mother” songs, it evokes
no associated images or ideas. To love music you must be willing to
enjoy beauty pretty largely for its own sake, without asking it to mean
anything definite in words or pictures. This the American hates to do.
Since he cannot be edified, he refuses to be stirred. There is nothing
left for him, therefore, in music, except such enjoyment as he can get
out of a pretty tune or an infectious rhythm.
And that, despite our admirable symphony orchestras and our
two superb permanent opera companies (all run at a loss, by the
way), is about all that music means to the average American—
amusement. He simply does not see how an art that doesn’t teach
him anything, that is a shameless assault upon his emotions (he
makes no distinction between emotions and senses), can possibly
play any significant part in his life. So, as a nation, he does what he
generally does in other matters of art, delegates its serious
cultivation to women.
Women constitute ninety per cent. of those who support music in
this country. It is women who attend song and instrumental recitals; it
is women who force reluctant husbands and fathers to subscribe for
opera seats and symphony concerts; the National Federation of
Musical Clubs, which works throughout the country to foster the
appreciation of music, is composed entirely of women; at least two-
thirds of the choral organizations in the United States contain
women’s voices only. It is no disparagement of their activities to say
that such a state of affairs is unhealthy. This well-nigh complete
feminization of music is bad for it. After all, art, to be alive, must like
any other living thing be the result of collaboration. Women have
undertaken to be the moral guardians of the race, and no one can
deny that they guard, upon the whole, as well as men could; but their
guardianship is a bit too zealous at times, and their predominance in
our musical life aggravates our already exaggerated tendency to
demand that art be edifying. One of the conditions of the opera
contest conducted by the National Federation in 1914 was that the
libretto must contain nothing immoral or suggestive (I paraphrase).
Now music is, after all, an adult occupation, and it might be assumed
that a composer competent to write an opera score might have taste
and intelligence enough not to be vulgar—for, surely, vulgarity was
all they wanted to guard against. If the clause were to be interpreted
literally, it would bar the librettos of Tristan, Walküre, Carmen,
Pelléas et Mélisande, and L’Amore dei Tre Re—a supposition quite
too unthinkable. The feminine influence helps to increase the
insularity of our musicians. Women are more chauvinistic in art
matters—if possible—than men, and among the women’s clubs that
are trying to encourage the American composer there is a tendency
to insist rather that he be American than that he be a composer.
Since it is women who support our recitals and concerts it is they
who must assume responsibility for our excessive cult of the
performer. This land is certainly the happy hunting-ground of the
virtuoso, be he singer, player, or conductor. What he chooses to
sing, play, or conduct is comparatively unimportant to us. Our
audiences seem to gather not so much to listen as to look; or if they
do listen, it is to the voice or the instrument rather than to the music.
The announcement, “Farrar in Carmen” will pack the Metropolitan to
the doors; but if the bill be changed, and Zaza be substituted at the
last moment, who cares? Indeed the ticket agencies, knowing what
people really attend opera for, frankly advertise “tickets for Farrar to-
night.” Rachmaninoff is a great pianist, and Rachmaninoff playing an
all-Chopin programme could fill Carnegie Hall at any time. But
Rachmaninoff playing a programme of Czerny’s “Exercises for the
Beginner” could fill it just as well. Announce an all-Chopin
programme without naming the pianist, and see how much of an
audience you draw. The people who go to hear Galli-Curci sing the
shadow-song from Dinora do not go to hear music at all. They go as
they would go to see Bird Millman walk a slack wire; they go to hear
a woman prove that, given a phenomenal development of the vocal
cords, she can, after years of practice, perform scales and trills in
altissimo very nearly as well as the union flute-player who furnishes
her obligato. All this is to a certain extent true elsewhere, of course. It
is natural that if one person can sing or play better than another,
audiences should prefer to hear him rather than another. But this
worship of the performance rather than the thing performed, this
blind adoration of skill for its own sake, is cultivated in America to a
degree that is quite unparalleled.
Many American cities and large towns hold annual musical
festivals, lasting from two days to a week or more, and these are
often mentioned as evidence of the existence of a genuine musical
culture among us. Are they? What happens at them? For one thing,
the local choral society performs a cantata or oratorio. This is more
than likely to be either The Messiah or Elijah, works which through
long association have taken on less the character of musical
compositions than of devotional exercises. Edification again. Soloists
are engaged, as expensive and famous as the local budget allows,
and these give recitals during the remaining sessions of the festival.
The audiences come largely to see these marvels rather than to hear
music, for after the annual spree of culture is over they return home
contentedly enough to another year void of any music whatever.
Hearing a little music is better than hearing none, but the test of
genuine culture is whether or not it is an integral part of life rather
than a vacation from it. By this test the annual festival would seem to
exert about as much permanent cultural influence as a clambake.
The total unconsciousness on the part of his fellow-countrymen
that art is related to life, a sense of futility and unreality, is what
makes the lot of the musician in America a hard one, and is
responsible for his failure as an artist. If people get the kind of
government they deserve, they most certainly get the kind of art they
demand; and if, comparatively speaking, there is no American
composer, it is because America doesn’t want him, doesn’t see
where he fits in.
Suppose most American music is trivial and superficial? How
many Americans would know the difference if it were profound? The
composer here lives in an atmosphere that is, at the worst, good-
natured contempt. Contempt, mind you, not for himself—that
wouldn’t matter—but for his very art. In the minds of many of his
compatriots it ranks only as an entertainment and a diversion,
slightly above embroidery and unthinkably below baseball. At best,
what he gets is unintelligent admiration, not as an artist, but as a
freak. Blind Tom, the negro pianist, is still a remembered and
admired figure in American musical history; and Blind Tom was an
idiot. To an American, the process of musical composition is a
mysterious and incomprehensible trick—like sword-swallowing or
levitation—and as such he admires it; but he does not respect it. He
cannot understand how any normal he-man can spend his life
thinking up tunes and putting them down on paper. Tunes are
pleasant things, of course, especially when they make your feet go
or take you back to the days when you went straw-riding; but as for
taking them seriously, and calling it work—man’s work—to think
them up ... any one who thinks that can be dismissed as a crank.
If the crank could make money, it might be different. The respect
accorded to artists in our country is pretty sharply graded in
accordance with their earning power. Novelists and playwrights
come first, since literature and the stage are known to furnish a
“good living.” Sculptors have a certain standing, on account of the
rumoured prices paid for statues and public memorials, though
scenario writers are beginning to rank higher. Painters are eyed with
a certain suspicion, though there is always the comfortable belief
that the painter probably pursues a prosperous career of advertising
art on the side. But poets and composers are decidedly men not to
be taken seriously. This system of evaluation is not quite as crass as
it sounds. America has so long been the land of opportunity, we have
so long gloried in her supremacy as the place to make a living, that
we have an instinctive conviction that if a man is really doing a good
job he must inevitably make money at it. Only, poetry and music
have the bad luck to be arts wherein a man may be both great and
successful and still be unable to look the landlord in the eye. Since
such trades are so unprofitable, we argue, those who pursue them
are presumably incompetent. The one class of composer whom the
American does take seriously is the writer of musical comedy and
popular songs, not only because he can make money, but because
he provides honest, understandable entertainment for man and
beast. That, perhaps, is why our light music is the best of its kind in
the world.
The self-styled music-lover in this country too often brings little
more genuine comprehension to music. He is likely to be a highbrow
(defined as a person educated beyond his intelligence), with all the
mental obtuseness and snobbishness of his class. He divides music
into “popular”—meaning light—and “classical”—meaning
pretentious. Now there is good music and bad, and the composer’s
pretensions have little to do with the case. Compare, for example,
the first-act finale of Victor Herbert’s Mlle. Modiste with such vulgar
rubbish as Donna è mobile. Yet because the latter is sung by tenors,
at the Metropolitan, the highbrow solemnly catalogues it as
“classical,” abolishing the work of Herbert, Berlin, and Kern, three
greatly gifted men, with the adjective “popular.” In general, he is the
faithful guardian of the Puritan tradition, always sniffing the air for a
definite “message” or moral, seeking sermons in tones, books in
running arpeggios. It never occurs to him that just as words are the
language of intellect, so is music the language of emotion, that its
whole excuse for existence is its perfection in saying what lies just
beyond and above words, and that if you can reduce a composer’s
message to words, you automatically render it meaningless.
Music criticism in America is amazingly good in the cities. The
system under which the critics must work, however, whereby they
are supposed to “cover” everything (in New York this theoretically
entails making some sort of critical comment upon every one of three
or four hundred events in a single season) is so impossible that
much of their work is inevitably scamped and perfunctory. Elsewhere
throughout the country criticism is handed over to reporters, who
generally avoid trouble by approving of everything. There is a
tendency toward the double standard—holding the stranger strictly to
account, especially the foreigner, and being “nice” to the native—that
produces demoralizing results.
Of real musical journalism we have none. There is The Musical
Quarterly, good of its kind, but rather ponderous and making no
pretence to timeliness. The monthlies are chiefly for the teacher. The
weeklies are in general frankly “shop” organs, devoted to the
activities of the performer and filled with his advertisements,
portraits, and press notices. There is no medium for the exchange of
contemporary thought, for the discussion of topics having a non-
professional cultural interest. Music publishing here is an industry,
conducted like any other industry. The Continental type of publisher,
who is a scholar and a musician, and a gentleman who is conscious
of a duty to music as well as to the stockholders, is almost unknown
here. To our publishers music is a commodity, to be bought cheap
and sold dear, and most of them will publish anything that looks
profitable, regardless of its quality. Their typographical standards are
higher than those anywhere in the world, except Germany.
So the American composer in America works more or less in a
vacuum. He is out of things, and he knows it. If he attempts to say
something, through his art, that will be intelligible to his countrymen,
he is baffled by the realization that his countrymen don’t understand
his language. This particular difficulty, this sense of inarticulateness,
probably weighed less heavily upon the last two generations of
American composers; for they were, most of them, virtually German
composers. In their time a thorough technical education in music
was so nearly unobtainable here that it was simpler to go abroad for
it. So, from Paine to MacDowell, they went to Germany. There they
learned their trade, and at least learned it thoroughly; but they
learned to write, not only music, but German music. To them,
German music was music. Their songs were Lieder; their
symphonies and overtures were little sinister sons of Beethoven,
Raff, and Brahms. So completely Teutonized did our musical speech
become that we still find it hard to believe that French music,
Spanish music, Russian music is anything but an imperfect
translation from the German. A few went to Paris and learned to
write with a French accent. MacDowell was, and remains, our best: a
first-rank composer, who died before his work was done. His earlier
music was all written, performed, and published in Germany, and it is
as echt Deutsch as that of Raff, his master. Not until he approached
middle life did he evolve a musical idiom that was wholly of
MacDowell, the American. Most of the rest came back to spend their
days fashioning good, honest, square-toed Kapellmeistermusik that
had about as much genuine relation to their America as the
Declaration of Independence has to ours. They might feel this lack of
contact, but at least they had the consolation of knowing that there
were people in the world to whom what they said was at least
intelligible.
The American of the present generation has no such
consolation. He has probably not been trained abroad. He wants to
write music, and being human, he wants it understood. But the
minute he tries to express himself he betrays the fact that he does
not know what he wants to express. Any significant work of art is
inevitably based on the artist’s relation and reaction to life. But the
American composer’s relation to the common life is unreal. His
activities strike his fellows as unimportant and slightly irrational. He
can’t lay his finger upon the great, throbbing, common pulse of
America because for him there is none. So he tries this, that, and the
other, hoping by luck to stumble upon the thing he wants to say. He
tries desperately to be American. Knowing that the great national
schools of music in other countries are based upon folksong, he tries
to find the American folksong, so as to base his music upon that. He
utilizes Negro tunes, and when they fail to strike the common chord
he devises themes based upon Indian melodies. What he fails to see
is that the folksongs of Europe express the common racial emotions
of a nation, not its geographical accidents. When a Frenchman hears
Malbrouck he is moved by what moved generations of long-dead
Frenchmen; when a Russian hears Dubinushka he is stirred by what
has stirred Russians for centuries. But even if some melody did stir
the pulse of Geronimo, the mere fact that he was a former resident
of my country is no proof that it is going to stir mine. If you insist that
Negro music is the proper basis for an American school of
composition, try telling a Southerner that when he hears Swing Low,
Sweet Chariot, he is hearkening to the voices of his ancestors!
A curious symptom of this feeling of disinheritance is the
tendency of so many Americans to write what might be called the
music of escape, music that far from attempting to affirm the
composer’s relation to his day and age is a deliberate attempt to
liberate himself by evoking alien and exotic moods and atmosphere.
The publishers’ catalogues are full of Arab meditations, Persian
dances, Hindu serenades, and countless similar attempts to get
“anywhere out of the world.” The best work of Charles Griffes, whose
untimely death last year robbed us of a true creative talent, was his
symphonic poem, “The Pleasure Dome of Kubla Khan,” and his
settings of Chinese and Japanese lyrics in Oriental rhythms and
timbres. Not that the mere choice of subject is important; it is the
actual mood and idiom of so much of this music that is significant
evidence of the impulse to give up and forget America, to create a
dream-world wherein one can find refuge from the land of chewing
gum and victrolas.
These same victrolas, by the way, with their cousin, the player-
piano, which so outrage the sensibilities of many a musician of the
elder day, are a very real force in helping to civilize this country
musically. The American is by no means as unmusical as he thinks
he is. His indifference to art is only the result of his purely industrial
civilization, and his tendency to mix morals with æsthetics is a habit
of thought engendered by his ancestry. The Puritan tradition makes
him fearful and suspicious of any sort of sensuous or emotional
response, but it has not rendered him incapable of it. Catch him off
his guard, get him away from the fear of being bored, and he is far
from insensitive to music. He buys victrola records because he is a
hero-worshipper, because he wants to hear the expensive Caruso
and Kreisler and McCormack; but inevitably he is bound to take
some notice of what they play and sing, and to recognize it when he
hears it again. In spite of himself he begins to acquire a rudimentary
sort of musical background. He begins by buying jazz rolls for his
player-piano, and is likely in the long run, if only out of curiosity, to
progress from “blues” to Chopin, via Moszkovski and Grainger.
But the greatest present-day force for good, musically, in this
country, is the large motion-picture house. Music has always been a
necessary accompaniment to motion pictures, in order to
compensate for the uncanny silence in which these photographic
wraiths unfold their dramas. Starting with a modest ensemble of
piano and glass crash, the motion-picture orchestra has gradually
increased in size and quality, the pipe organ has been introduced to
augment and alternate it, so that the larger houses to-day can boast
a musical equipment that is amazingly good. A few years ago S. L.
Rothafel devised a glorified type of entertainment that was a sort of
combination picture-show and “pop” concert. He built a theatre, the
Rialto, especially to house it, containing a stage that was little more
than a picture frame, a large pipe organ, and an orchestra platform
large enough to hold seventy or eighty players. He recruited a
permanent orchestra large enough to play symphonic works, and put
Hugo Riesenfeld, an excellent violinist and conductor, who had been
trained under Arthur Nikisch, in charge of the performances. These,
besides the usual film presentations, comprised vocal and
instrumental solos and detached numbers by the orchestra. All the
music played at these entertainments was good—in what is known in
this country as “classical.” Riesenfeld devised a running
accompaniment to the films, assembled from the best orchestral
music obtainable—a sort of synthetic symphonic poem that fitted the
mood and action of the film presented, and was, of course, much too
good for it.
This new entertainment form was instantly successful, and is
rapidly becoming the standard offering at all the larger picture
houses. It is a significant step in our musical life, for it is the first
entirely successful attempt in this country to adapt art to popular
wants. At last the average man is going of his own accord into a
public hall and hearing music—real music—and discovering that he
likes it. The picture house allows him to pretend that he is going
solely to see the films, and needn’t listen unless he wants to. He
finds that “classical” music is not nearly so boresome as many of its
admirers. Freed from the highbrow’s condescension, unconscious of
uplift, he listens and responds to music like the prelude to Tristan,
the Walkürenritt, the New World symphony, Tschaikovsky’s Fourth,
and the Eroica. Theodore Thomas rendered no more valuable
service to music in America than have Samuel Rothafel and Hugo
Riesenfeld.
We are still far from utopia, however. In one of his essays upon
communal art Henry Caro-Delvaille speaks of “the true
Mediterranean esprit, the viable art philosophy of the French race,
which is essentially plastic, accepting and delineating life, free alike
from dogmatism and mysticism.” Try to frame a sentence like that
about America. Try to make any generalization about the American
spirit without using “liberty,” “free institutions,” “resourcefulness,”
“opportunity,” or other politico-economic terms, if you would know
what confronts the American artist, above all the American musician,

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CHAPTER 1 LIMITS 1.1 – 1.178

CHAPTER 2 CONTINUITY OF FUNCTIONS 2.1 – 2.98

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4.3 Derivative of Standard Functions 4.3

CHAPTER 6 MONOTONICITY 6.1 – 6.100

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7.20 Deductions of Rolle’s Theorem 7.95

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We denote neighbourhoods by N(a), N1(a), N2(a), etc.

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(the abbreviation "lim" means "limit")

Note: That the statement lim f ( x ) =  is a statement

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Although the function f is not defined at x = 2, we know its

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