Everyone knows the first movement, the slow one, the one that plays in films when someone stands by a window in the rain. Almost no one remembers the third. And the third movement is where Beethoven actually lives: furious, relentless, a man going deaf writing music he would never fully hear, and refusing, with every hammered note, to be pitied for it. Für Elise is the gentlest thing he ever wrote, and it's unfinished, like all tenderness. The Ninth Symphony is what happens when rage finds a reason to become joy. It shouldn't work. It works.