Is there no field in which Daniel Barenboim does not excel? As a pianist he's been dazzling the world for five decades, and his genius seems undimmed. His recent Beethoven sonata cycle in London was, for many, the most profound musical event of the season.

As a conductor he has held some of the world's top orchestral and operatic jobs. And as “one of our greatest living internation-alists” - as he is curiously described by his publishers - he has made more significant marks on the “roadmap” to Middle East peace than many of the diplomats and politicians engaged full-time on that task.

His decision, as a Jew, to perform in Ramallah, to hold a Palestinian passport in tandem with his Israeli one, and, most of all, to form (with his close friend, the late Edward Said) an orchestra in which young Jews and Arabs could make music together - all this has been inspirational to many, abhorrent to some, and the stuff of headlines around the world.

And now, with this cogent and provocative book, Barenboim shows us that he's a subtle writer too. For what he offers here is not only the philosophical leitmotiv of his own life - the theme that connects all his diverse activities - but a heartfelt plea for the rest of us to notice what music can teach us about living in harmony with others. At its best, he believes, music-making gives us an “alternative social model where Utopia and practicality join forces”.

It's a risky thesis to sustain for 200 pages, especially coming from someone whose vision of musical Utopia (as a conductor) depends on 100 subordinates doing exactly what he commands. But full marks to Barenboim for ingenuity - and for avoiding the technical jargon that would put his argument beyond the comprehension of non-musicians.

Individuals in society, he contends, are like musical notes:expressive in themselves, but so much more powerful when bound together by a single purpose (as in a violinist's legato phrase). He also maintains that just as the content of a composition dictates the speed at which the music must be played, so political processes need to be unfolded at the right time and in the right tempo. “I am convinced,” he writes, “that the Israel-Palestine Oslo peace process was fated to fail precisely because the relationship between content and time was erroneous.”

And just as musicians are constantly seeking new truths in old masterpieces, so politicians and electorates should be constantly probing, revaluating and revising the principles and ideals underpinning their nations. Not to do so, he asserts, leads to what we now have: democracy ossified into “the exploitation and manipulation of the uneducated population”.

But the most important of Barenboim's “as in music so in life” metaphors concerns contrapuntal masterpieces such as Bach's fugues or Mozart's operatic finales. He contends that they teach us vital lessons about the importance of listening and responding to contrary opinions, and of welcoming the contributions of dissenting minorities. “Music accepts comments from one voice to the other at all times and tolerates subversive accompaniments as a necessary antipode to leading voices,” Barenboim writes.

The relevance of this to Israel is obvious. Barenboim believes that the Palestinians have been denied a proper voice in the “counterpoint” of that turbulent region, and that this, in the end, will be at catastrophe for everyone. “The destinies of our two peoples - the Palestinians and the Israelis - are inextricably linked,” he writes. “Therefore the welfare, the dignity and the happiness of one must inevitably be that of the other.”

Nine years ago Barenboim and Said, a Jew and a Palestinian, attempted to show how this miraculous rapport might be possible - at least in microcosm - when they set up their extraordinary West-Eastern Divan Orchestra (which will be tumultuously welcomed back to the Proms next Thursday). And the most passionate part of this book is the chapter in which Barenboim lovingly chronicles its progress so far, and particularly his extraordinary achievement in persuading his young musicians to risk being attacked by enemies and ostracised by friends and families for playing a historic concert in Ramallah in 2005.

As far as possible, Jew sits next to Arab in the orchestra's ranks: sharing the same music stand, attempting to play the same note with the same expression. “The fundamental principle was quite simple,” he notes. “Once the young musicians agreed on how to play just one note together they would not be able to look at each other in the same way again.”

Barenboim is no naive idealist. He knows that an orchestra can't change the world. Indeed, in a touching essay called “I have a dream” (originally published as a newspaper article, as about half this book's chapters were) he pokes gentle fun at himself for imagining that he can create with music “a treaty celebrating the harmonious co-existence of Israel and Palestine”. But as this book's title suggests, Barenboim believes that everything in life and art is connected - and that if every decent person took steps in his or her own field to heal old wounds and befriend old enemies, then peace would surge up from the grass roots, rather than being imposed (usually unsuccessfully) from above. In our own era we have already seen that happen in Northern Ireland and at the Berlin Wall. Let's hope that Barenboim lives to see his dream turn into reality in the country he has served so brilliantly and bravely.

Extract

One way of preparing silence is to create a tremendous amount of tension preceding it, so that the silence arrives only after the absolute height of intensity and volume has been reached. Another way of approaching silence entails a gradual diminution of sound, letting the music become so soft that the next possible step can only be silence. Silence, in other words, can be louder than the maximum and softer than the minimum. Total silence exists, of course, also within a composition. It is temporary death, followed by the ability to revive, to begin life anew. In this way music is more than a mirror of life; it is enriched by the metaphysical dimension of sound, which gives it the possibility to transcend physical, human limitations. In the world of sound, even death is not necessarily final.

It is obvious that if a sound has a beginning and a duration, it also has an end, whether it dies or gives way to the next note. Notes that follow each other operate clearly within the inevitable passage of time. Expressiveness in music comes from the linkage of notes, what we call in Italian legato, which means nothing other than bound. This dictates that the notes cannot be allowed to develop their natural egos, becoming so dominant that they overshadow the preceding one. Each note must be aware of itself but also of its own boundaries; the same rules that apply to individuals in society apply to notes in music as well. When one plays five legato notes, each fights against the power of silence that wants to take its life, and therefore stands in relation to the notes that precede and follow it. Each note cannot be self-assertive, wanting to be louder than the notes preceding it; if it did, it would defy the nature of the phrase to which it belongs. A musician must possess the capacity to group notes. This very simple fact has taught me the relationship between an individual and a group. It is necessary for the human being to contribute to society in a very individual way; this makes the whole much larger than the sum of its parts. Individuality and collectivism need not be mutually exclusive; in fact, together they are capable of enhancing human existence.

Everything is Connected: The Power of Music by Daniel Barenboim
Weidenfield & Nicolson, £16.99 Buy the book here

Daniel Barenboim conducts the West-Eastern Divan Orchestra on Thursday, August 14, at 7pm (Prom 38); and members of the Orchestra at 10.15pm (Prom 39), at the Royal Albert Hall

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