No Comment — December 3, 2007, 9:29 pm

The Sorcerer’s Apprentice

A reader writes: “You’re turning everything into a subject for political commentary. Jane Austen? Even Mickey Mouse in his greatest starring role, as the Sorcerer’s Apprentice? Gimme a break.”

So what is that tale of the absentee sorcerer and his young intern all about? Just fun and games? Material for a few gratuitous flights of fantasy? That may reflect Disney, but certainly not Goethe. The “Sorcerer’s Apprentice” – “Der Zauberlehrling” – is a beautiful ballad, one of a great number that Goethe wrote in a productive storm in 1797.Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Sämtliche Werke, vol. 4/1, p. 874-77 (1797)(Münchener Ausg. 1988). It can be read and appreciated on many levels, certainly. It’s exciting, provocative, entertaining. And true, almost from its first printing it was seen as something suitable for children.

But the story is not just about magic. It’s an admonition. And the subject—the theme for which those spells and charms stand as tokens—is the notion of telling falsehoods in public discourse. You may start this process with good intentions, the narrator tells us, but they will quickly overtake you. The lies have a habit of taking on a life of their own, like those dancing brooms. They will in the end work mischief. They may set the household in an uproar. Or they may bring a nation to war.

goethe_outside

Perhaps you see the image already. But there is no doubt that this is the image that Goethe had in mind. Indeed, where did Goethe get this tale? In 1788, his friend Christoph Martin Wieland, a great writer and philosopher and also an accomplished translator from classical Greek, whom Goethe had invited to Weimar and set to work reforming the duchy’s school system, published a translation of the stories of Lucian of Samosata.Christoph Martin Wieland, Lukians wahre Geschichten (1788) in: Werke, vol. 5, p. 629 (H.W. Seiffert ed. 1968). Lucian was a second century Assyrian, from a town on the headwaters of the Euphrates (today deep under the waters behind the Atatürk Dam in Turkey, near the Iraqi border), who wrote a series of brilliant satires in classical Greek. Deep in that collection was a work called Philopseudes (the “Lover of Lies”). Midway through the story, a narrator named Arignotus weighs in and tells of a magician and his apprentice.Lucian of Samosata, “The Lover of Lies” in: Works, vol. 3, p. 319 in the Loeb Library vol. 130. One day the magician leaves and his apprentice invokes the spells he heard his master use. A door opens and closes, and brooms begin to dance… You know the rest of the story. Goethe has worked this material into a ballad, but he is very faithful to it, and there is no doubt that he has followed Lucian’s meaning very carefully.

Goethe picked up from the middle of the story, where the tale of the sorcerer’s apprentice appears. It’s a story-within-a-story. But how does the whole narration begin? As is his style, Lucian tells us both at beginning and at the end what the object of his story is.

Can you tell me… what in the world it is that makes many people so fond of lying?…

And our narrator then proceeds to catalogue the reasons why people lie. He gives us the well intended, good natured lie—to avoid hurting the feelings of one who would be harmed by an honest judgment, for instance. The socially expedient lie of the “madam is not at home” variety. The lie borne of patriotism and a desire to advance the interests of one’s country, he says. And even the lie borne of necessity, as clever Odysseus’s lies on his perilous journey home to Ithaca.

But most dangerous, says Lucian, are the public men in whom “this passion for lying is ingrained.”

The balance of the satire is a demonstration of this point. And in the end, after a variety of tales, including that of the sorcerer’s apprentice, Lucian comes to ask some questions. He casts them ironically, of course, but they really couldn’t be more serious.

When the people have heard these lies, have been bewitched and stirred up by them, what is the consequence? Lucian says it is useful to think of the lies as a disease, and their recounting as a rabid dog biting the uninfected. He, too, then risks the infection. Is there is no shield to use against this scourge? And Goethe puts this thought very elegantly, in two of the most quoted lines in the German language: “Die ich rief, die Geister,/Werd ich nun nicht los.” (“The spirits which I have summoned/I now cannot banish.”)

Today the National Intelligence Estimate on Iran was published in summary, laying bare another year’s worth of lies from the Bush Administration. Lies which, as usual, were spun with the object of avoiding diplomacy and making war. The same Administration furiously spun lies about the Iraq, leading to a tragic waste of blood and treasure in an invasion and occupation of that country. These are the foreseeable consequences of calculating public lies.

So is there no solution? No master magician to return and set things right? No innoculation to issue? Lucian is very clear on this point. No, there is no sorcerer who will come and make it all better. It is up to us to do so. And in the end it’s about accountability for those who lie, and placing a proper value on the truth. Here is how Lucian finishes the tale:

We have a powerful antidote to such poisons. It is truth… As long as we have zealous use of it, the malicious and foolish lies will not disturb us. We shall have peace.

This is the message at the core of the “Sorcerer’s Apprentice.” It’s a good one for all of us to contemplate today.

Share
Single Page

More from Scott Horton:

Conversation August 5, 2016, 12:08 pm

Lincoln’s Party

Sidney Blumenthal on the origins of the Republican Party, the fallout from Clinton’s emails, and his new biography of Abraham Lincoln

Conversation March 30, 2016, 3:44 pm

Burn Pits

Joseph Hickman discusses his new book, The Burn Pits, which tells the story of thousands of U.S. soldiers who, after returning from Iraq and Afghanistan, have developed rare cancers and respiratory diseases.

Context, No Comment August 28, 2015, 12:16 pm

Beltway Secrecy

In five easy lessons

Get access to 169 years of
Harper’s for only $23.99

United States Canada

CATEGORIES

THE CURRENT ISSUE

February 2020

“My Gang Is Jesus”

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

The Cancer Chair

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

The Birds

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

The Skinning Tree

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

The Interpretation of Dreams

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

Dearest Lizzie

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

Trumpism After Trump

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

view Table Content

FEATURED ON HARPERS.ORG

Article
Trumpism After Trump·

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

The city was not beautiful; no one made that claim for it. At the height of summer, people in suits, shellacked by the sun, moved like harassed insects to avoid the concentrated light. There was a civil war–like fracture in America—the president had said so—but little of it showed in the capital. Everyone was polite and smooth in their exchanges. The corridor between Dupont Circle and Georgetown was like the dream of Yugoslav planners: long blocks of uniform earth-toned buildings that made the classical edifices of the Hill seem the residue of ancestors straining for pedigree. Bunting, starched and perfectly ruffled in red-white-and-blue fans, hung everywhere—from air conditioners, from gutters, from statues of dead revolutionaries. Coming from Berlin, where the manual laborers are white, I felt as though I was entering the heart of a caste civilization. Untouchables in hard hats drilled into sidewalks, carried pylons, and ate lunch from metal boxes, while waiters in restaurants complimented old respectable bobbing heads on how well they were progressing with their rib eyes and iceberg wedges.

I had come to Washington to witness either the birth of an ideology or what may turn out to be the passing of a kidney stone through the Republican Party. There was a new movement afoot: National Conservatives, they called themselves, and they were gathering here, at the Ritz-Carlton, at 22nd Street and M. Disparate tribes had posted up for the potlatch: reformacons, blood-and-soilers, curious liberal nationalists, “Austrians,” repentant neocons, evangelical Christians, corporate raiders, cattle ranchers, Silicon Valley dissidents, Buckleyites, Straussians, Orthodox Jews, Catholics, Mormons, Tories, dark-web spiders, tradcons, Lone Conservatives, Fed-Socs, Young Republicans, Reaganites in amber. Most straddled more than one category.

Article
The Cancer Chair·

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

The second-worst thing about cancer chairs is that they are attached to televisions. Someone somewhere is always at war with silence. It’s impossible to read, so I answer email, or watch some cop drama on my computer, or, if it seems unavoidable, explore the lives of my nurses. A trip to Cozumel with old girlfriends, a costume party with political overtones, an advanced degree on the internet: they’re all the same, these lives, which is to say that the nurses tell me nothing, perhaps because amid the din and pain it’s impossible to say anything of substance, or perhaps because they know that nothing is precisely what we both expect. It’s the very currency of the place. Perhaps they are being excruciatingly candid.

There is a cancer camaraderie I’ve never felt. That I find inimical, in fact. Along with the official optimism that percolates out of pamphlets, the milestone celebrations that seem aimed at children, the lemonade people squeeze out of their tumors. My stoniness has not always served me well. Among the cancer staff, there is special affection for the jocular sufferer, the one who makes light of lousy bowel movements and extols the spiritual tonic of neuropathy. And why not? Spend your waking life in hell, and you too might cherish the soul who’d learned to praise the flames. I can’t do it. I’m not chipper by nature, and just hearing the word cancer makes me feel like I’m wearing a welder’s mask.

Article
“My Gang Is Jesus”·

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

When Demétrio Martins was ready to preach, he pushed a joystick that angled the seat of his wheelchair forward, slowly lifting him to a standing position. Restraints held his body upright. His atrophied right arm lay on an armrest, and with his left hand, he put a microphone to his lips. “Proverbs, chapter fourteen, verse twelve,” he said. “ ‘There is a way which seems right to a man, but its end is . . .’ ”

The congregation finished: “ ‘Death.’ ”

The Assembly of God True Grapevine was little more than a fluorescent-lit room wedged between a bar and an empty lot in Jacaré, a poor neighborhood on Rio de Janeiro’s north side. A few dozen people sat in the rows of plastic lawn chairs that served as pews, while shuddering wall fans circulated hot air. The congregation was largely female; of the few men in attendance, most wore collared shirts and old leather shoes. Now and then, Martins veered from Portuguese into celestial tongues. People rose from their seats, thrust their hands into the air, and shouted, “Hallelujah!”

Article
The Birds·

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

On December 7, 2016, a drone departed from an Amazon warehouse in the United Kingdom, ascended to an altitude of four hundred feet, and flew to a nearby farm. There it glided down to the front lawn and released from its clutches a small box containing an Amazon streaming device and a bag of popcorn. This was the first successful flight of Prime Air, Amazon’s drone delivery program. If instituted as a regular service, it would slash the costs of “last-mile delivery,” the shortest and most expensive leg of a package’s journey from warehouse to doorstep. Drones don’t get into fender benders, don’t hit rush-hour traffic, and don’t need humans to accompany them, all of which, Amazon says, could enable it to offer thirty-minute delivery for up to 90 percent of domestic shipments while also reducing carbon emissions. After years of testing, Amazon wrote to the Federal Aviation Administration last summer to ask for permission to conduct limited commercial deliveries with its drones, attaching this diagram to show how the system would work. (Amazon insisted that we note that the diagram is not to scale.) Amazon is not the only company working toward such an automated future—­UPS, FedEx, Uber, and Google’s parent company, Alphabet, have similar programs—­but its plans offer the most detailed vision of what seems to be an impending reality, one in which parce­l-toting drones are a constant presence in the sky, doing much more than just delivering popcorn.

Article
The Skinning Tree·

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

Every year in Lusk, Wyoming, during the second week of July, locals gather to reenact a day in 1849 when members of a nearby band of Sioux are said to have skinned a white man alive. None of the actors are Native American. The white participants dress up like Indians and redden their skin with body paint made from iron ore.

The town prepares all year, and the performance, The Legend of Rawhide, has a cast and crew of hundreds, almost all local volunteers, including elementary school children. There are six generations of Rawhide actors in one family; three or four generations seems to be the average. The show is performed twice, on Friday and Saturday night.

The plot is based on an event that, as local legend has it, occurred fifteen miles south of Lusk, in Rawhide Buttes. It goes like this: Clyde Pickett is traveling with a wagon train to California. He tells the other Pioneers: “The only good Injun’s a dead Injun.” Clyde loves Kate Farley, and to impress her, he shoots the first Indian he sees, who happens to be an Indian Princess. The Indians approach the Pioneers and ask that the murderer give himself up. Clyde won’t admit he did it. The Indians attack the wagon train and, eventually, Clyde surrenders. The Indians tie Clyde to the Skinning Tree and flay him alive. Later, Kate retrieves her dead lover’s body and the wagon train continues west.

Cost of renting a giant panda from the Chinese government, per day:

$1,500

A recent earthquake in Chile was found to have shifted the city of Concepción ten feet to the west, shortened Earth’s days by 1.26 microseconds, and shifted the planet’s axis by nearly three inches.

The commissioner of CPB admitted that “leadership just got a little overzealous” when detaining hundreds of U.S. citizens of Iranian descent in the wake of Qassem Soleimani’s assassination.

Subscribe to the Weekly Review newsletter. Don’t worry, we won’t sell your email address!

HARPER’S FINEST

Jesus Plus Nothing

= Subscribers only.
Sign in here.
Subscribe here.

By

At Ivanwald, men learn to be leaders by loving their leaders. “They’re so busy loving us,” a brother once explained to me, “but who’s loving them?” We were. The brothers each paid $400 per month for room and board, but we were also the caretakers of The Cedars, cleaning its gutters, mowing its lawns, whacking weeds and blowing leaves and sanding. And we were called to serve on Tuesday mornings, when The Cedars hosted a regular prayer breakfast typically presided over by Ed Meese, the former attorney general. Each week the breakfast brought together a rotating group of ambassadors, businessmen, and American politicians. Three of Ivanwald’s brothers also attended, wearing crisp shirts starched just for the occasion; one would sit at the table while the other two poured coffee. 

Subscribe Today