I've always admired Jean Sibelius. Gorgeous and melodic as his early music is (Karelia;Tapiola; Finlandia; Luonnotar; etc.), there's an austere beauty in his later works, notably the Fourth Symphony, that reminds me of Samuel Beckett's prose. In fact, the famous (amicable) disagreement Sibelius had with Gustav Mahler–in which Mahler challenged Sibelius' contention that a symphony should be precise and severe in its intentions by saying "No, no, a symphony must be like the world. It must embrace everything"–prefigures a similar difference of approach between Beckett and Joyce. "Joyce is a putter-inner," as Sam said, "and I'm a taker-outer." Sibelius, too, was a taker-outer, and took things out until there was nothing left to take out. Then, in his 50s, he stopped composing completely, with his Eighth Symphony three-quarters finished. Having lost his brother and his best friend, who were his most ardent admirers, he felt there was nobody left to compose for. So for the last thirty years of his life (and he lived to be 91) he devoted himself to his sylvan residence at Ainola, outside Helsinki, where he watched the swans (of Tuonela?) fly overhead; to his family; to reading; and to booze. "Alcohol," he said, "is the only friend who has never let me down."  
He wasn't kidding. Here's a list, compiled by devoted Sibelians, of his favorite drinks in the 1930s, and the quantities in which he consumed them: www.sibelius.fi/english/erikoisaiheet/nautinta-aineet/valintoja-30l.htm. And here's an updated list for 1945-47, when new post-war drinks were available: www.sibelius.fi/english/erikoisaiheet/nautinta-aineet/valintoja-40l.htm. Heavy on the Bordeaux, I notice, but the old boy shifted a fair amount of whisky, too.    
   It's something else he had in common with Beckett. I wonder what Sam, who loved music, thought of Sibelius. Like the Finn, he was an artistic pioneer with conservative tastes. But Beckett was lionized by the avant-garde and Sibelius was despised by them. (He reciprocated, con gusto.) But both in the end, saw their art as lonely outcroppings of life in the barren cosmos. Read Ill Seen, Ill Said; listen to the Fourth Symphony. Two hearts beating as one.