Reflections on the Sorcerer's Apprentice and the Villainy of Things

 

Mickey Mouse as the Sorcerer's Apprentice

Fantasia (Walt Disney, 1940)

 

 

I. 

 

Goethe's Der Zauberlehrling (1797) is a ballad composed of fourteen stanzas with an unusual rhyme scheme. It tells the tale of an occult master and his young disciple who discovers that objects are not always there simply to serve us and may in fact be invested with a malevolent spirit; that an enchanted realm is not necessarily a safe space to inhabit.   

Whilst the poem remains popular in the German-speaking world, I suspect most people know the story of 'The Sorcerer's Apprentice' thanks to its adaptation by Walt Disney in the animated film Fantasia (1940), starring Mickey Mouse - a character about whom the philosopher Byung-Chul Han writes in his fascinating short work Undinge: Umbrüche der Lebenswelt (2021) [a] ...        

 

 

II. 

 

According to Han, the representation of material reality in the Disney universe and Mickey's relationship with things radically changes over time. 

 

In his earliest adventures, inanimate objects of all kinds have their independence and behave in an unpredictable - somewhat treacherous - even dangerous manner. Mickey is constantly obliged to grapple with these objects and they remain a permanent source of frustration for an anthropomorphic mouse attempting to impose his will upon the world, as well as providing comedy gold. 

 

For as Han rightly notes: "The cartoons are entertaining to a large extent because of the villainy of things." [46]

Sadly, however, times have changed and one of the depressing aspects of life today is that things have lost their mischievous character. In transforming material reality into a safe space that offers no resistance or dangers, we have succeeded in subordinating objects to our control. 

 

In other words, objects are obliged to behave themselves and even though we manipulate and exploit them, they no longer have the right to rebel or extract their revenge: 

 

"The villainy of things is now probably a thing of the past. We are no longer maltreated by things. They are not destructive; they do not offer any resistance. [...] Things are submissive. They are submitted to our needs." [46-47]

 

Han continues:

 

"Today, even Mickey Mouse leads a digital, smart and immaterial life. His world is digitalized and informationalized [...] the representation of material reality is markedly different [...] Things no longer have an independent life; they are obedient tools for solving problems." [47]

 

Is this a good thing? Is it right for a cartoon mouse to teach children that there is a quick solution - an app - for everything? 

 

I don't think so. 

 

And, personally, I would prefer life to be problematic; that physical reality remain something we constantly bump up against. I rather like being at the mercy of objects which not only want to harm or make fools of us, but also support, sustain, and comfort us.  

 

Ultimately, I agree with the young witch who recently informed me: 'When non-things beckon us to enter a virtual abyss, it will be the saving power of actual objects that will summon us back into the nearness of the nearest.' [b]

 

 

Notes

 

[a] This work was translated into English as Non-things: Upheaval in the Lifeworld, by Daniel Steur, (Polity Press, 2022). Page numbers given in the above post refer to this edition.

     

[b] I'm paraphrasing here from a paper due to be presented at Treadwell's Bookshop, on 8 February 2024, entitled Bells, Books, and Candles: On the Continuing Allure of Actual Objects in an Age of Virtual Reality. For more information - and an abstract - see the most recent entry on the TTA Events page: click here.   

From Too Many Notes to Silence

Figure 1: Joseph II / Figure 2: Mozart / Figure 3: John Cage 

                           

 

I.

 

Following the premier of Entführung aus dem Serail [1] in the summer of 1782, at the Burgtheater (Vienna), Mozart famously had an exchange with the man who had commissioned the work, Emperor Joseph II. 

 

Whilst the latter lavishy praised the three-act comic opera, he suggested that there were times when the music became too convoluted and contained, as it were, too many notes ... [2]

To be fair to Joseph - who was by no means musically illiterate or some kind of Bildungsphilister - the complexity of Mozart's work had been noted by others - including Goethe - and what he actually said was: Zu schön für unsere Ohren, und gewaltig viel Noten, lieber Mozart!

This might more accurately be translated into English as: 'Too beautiful for our ears, and a great many notes, dear Mozart!' 

 

Such a translation doesn't unfairly portray the Emperor in a foolish light - although it does, of course, rob the story of its humorous aspect.     

II.

I thought of this the other day when trying to read what was, in my view, a long and overly wordy poem, written by someone (about a pet parrot of all things) who has argued in the past in favour of pleonasm (i.e., an excess of language). 

 

Rightly or wrongly, however, like the Holy Roman Emperor of anecdote and cinematic fiction, I do think that a poem can have too many words and that often it's what is not said that matters most; i.e., the space between words is the true space of poetry. 

 

Thus, for me, the task of the poet is not to assemble words, but to take language apart and show its limitations; to erase meaning and return us to lovely silence, the great bride of all creation [3]. 

 

Perhaps the perfect poem is ultimately the one that remains unspoken, unwritten; just as the perfect piece of music is the one with no notes, performed by no instruments, à la John Cage's 4'33" [4].      

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Known in Engish as The Abduction from the Seraglio, the work is a German-language music drama, known as a Singspiel. 

 

[2] This exchange between composer and monarch was nicely dramatised in the 1984 film Amadeus (dir. Miloš Forman), with Tom Hulce as Mozart and Jeffrey Jones as Emperor Joseph II: click here.

 

[3] D. H. Lawrence, 'Silence', in The Poems, Vol. I, ed. Christopher Pollnitz, (Cambridge University Press, 2013), p. 612.

 

[4] 4′33″ is a three-movement work by American experimental composer John Cage. It was written in 1952, for any instrument or combination of instruments, and the score instructs performers to remain silent during the entire duration of the piece. One wonders what Emperor Joseph II would make of this ...? (Not enough notes, Mr. Cage!) My concern is that the composition only gives us a negative representation of silence; silence as a lack or absence of sound.

      To watch the BBC Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Lawrence Foster, give their interpretation of the work at the Barbican, London, in 2013, click here.

Life in Vein (With Reference to D. H. Lawrence's Undying Man)

Homunculus created by alchemy 

(from a 19th-century engraving for Goethe's Faust Pt. II)

 

 

I. 

 

Some readers may recall a post from May last year in which I reported on (what I believe to be) a vaccine induced blood clot in my lower right leg, but described on my medical record as superficial thromobophlebitis and said to be of unknown cause [1]. 

 

Sixteen months later, and my leg is still a mess and a consultant vascular surgeon has advised that due to long saphenous vein reflux and associated varicosities, I undergo either endovenous or open surgery to address the problem [2]. 

 

Funny enough, the first thing I thought of when told this was D. H. Lawrence's unfinished short story 'The Undying Man' [3] ...

 

 

II. 

 

Written in 1927, 'The Undying Man' is a reimagined version of a Jewish tale translated by his Russian friend S. S. Koteliansky [4]. In it, Lawrence toys with the idea of creating human life via a pre-scientific form of the technique we now term cloning. 

 

He opens his story thus:

 

"Long ago in Spain there were two very learned men, so clever and knowing so much that they were famous all over the world. One was called Rabbi Moses Maimonides, a Jew - blessed be his memory! - and the other was called Aristotle, a Christian who belonged to the Greeks.

      These two were great friends, because they had always studied together and found out many things together. At last after many years, they found out a thing they had been specially trying for. They discovered that if you took a tiny vein out of a man's body, and put it in a glass jar with certain leaves and plants, it would gradually begin to grow, and would grow and grow until it became a man [...] a fine man who would never die. He would be undying. Because he had never been born, he would never die, but live for ever and ever. Because the wisest men on earth had made him, and he didn't have to be born." [5]

 

Unfortunately, the donor of the tiny blood vessel will die as a result of the procedure. Nevertheless, Aristotle consents to the removal of a vein, having first made Maimonides promise that he will not obstruct or terminate the process once the vein has started to develop into a homunculus (i.e., a miniature but fully formed man) [6]:

 

"Aristotle asked Maimonides to take him by the hand and swear by their clasped hands that he would never interfere with the growth of the little vein, never at any time or in any way. Maimonides took him by the hand and swore. And then Aristotle had the little vein cut out of his body by Maimonides himself." [7]  

 

Maimonides places the little vein in the glass jar amongst the leaves and herbs. Having sealed the lid, he places the jar on a shelf in his room and waits:

"The days passed by, and he recited his prayers, pacing back and forth in his room among his books, and praying loudly as he paced, as the Jews do. Then he returned to his books and chemistry. But every day he looked at the jar, to see if the little vein had chaged." [8]

 

For a long time nothing happens. But then at last the vein begins to grow:

 

"Maimonides gazed at the jar transfixed, and forgot everything else in all the wide world; lost to all and everything he gazed into the jar. And at last he saw the tiniest, tiniest tremor in the little vein, and he knew it was a tremor of growth." [9] 

 

Soon, the little vein begins to glow red, "like the smallest ember of fire" [10]. Maimonides knew he was witnessing the spark of life itself, and he was afraid of what might be. For it seemed to him that this tiny red light glowed with an ungodly power - Fierce and strong! Fierce and strong! as he muttered to himself - rather than with divine goodness.   

 

Unable to sleep, Maimonides lies in bed "thinking of that little red light which alone of all light was not the light of God" [11] and fearful of what will happen when the undying man is fully grown ...

 

 

III. 

 

Unfortunately, Lawrence's manuscript ends here and so we don't find out what Maimonides decides to do; whether he keeps his word to Aristotle not to interfere with the development of the undying man, or whether he acts decisively to ensure the latter never leaves his jar.  

 

Fortunately, however, we do have the complete version of the story translated by Kot, and here we discover that, tormented by the thought that an immortal human being will be worshipped by the people as a living god, Maimonides allows his chickens to enter the room where the jar is stored, ensuring they knock it over by deliberately spooking the birds:

 

"Once the jar has crashed to the floor, however, the tiny creature points an accusatory finger at Maimonides for breaking his oath [...] and he spends the rest of his days praying for forgiveness." [12] 

 

That's a terrific ending, I think; one that is frightening, humorous, and realistic. Although Lawrence would doubtless have altered (and probably extended) it in his own unique manner, I'm confident he would have kept the accusatory finger (as I certainly would have).     

 

Finally, to return to where we began this post, I really rather hope that if I do have a vein removed from my leg it too is placed into a little glass container where it might grow into a new type of (transhuman) human being; one not born of a womb, and so soulless, sexless, and immortal ... For is this not the tragic destiny of mankind? [13]  

 

 

Notes

 

[1] This post can be read by clicking here.  

[2] Apparently, there is very little difference between the two types of surgery in terms of complications or risks. Whether a scalpel or laser is used, there's likely to be post-operative pain and discomfort as well as aesthetically displeasing lumps, bumps and bruises. And let's not mention the possibility of sensory nerve numbness in the leg and a 1-in-200 chance of a deep vein thrombosis. 

       So it's a big thank you to those who - whether with sincerity or cynicism - assured us all that the Covid-19 vaccines were extremely safe and effective, when, as we now know, they're neither. 

 

[3] D. H. Lawrence's 'The Undying Man' can be found as Appendix III to The Virgin and the Gipsy and Other Stories, ed. Michael Herbert, Bethan Jones and Lindeth Vasey, (Cambridge University Press, 2005), pp. 241-244.  

 

[4] Koteliansky published 'Maimonides and Aristotle' along with a second tale - 'The Salvation of a Soul' - in translation from the Yiddish as 'Two Jewish Stories' in London Mercury XXXVI (Feb 1937), pp. 362-70.

 

[5] D. H. Lawrence, 'The Undying Man', The Virgin and the Gipsy and Other Stories ... p. 241.

      This isn't as preposterous as it perhaps sounds; in 2013 it was announced that scientists in Japan had cloned a mouse from a single drop of blood collected from the tail of a donor subject. The cloned female mouse wasn't immortal, but she did live a normal lifespan and could sexually reproduce. And the donor mouse was also unharmed after the procedure (unlike poor Aristotle who dies).

 

[6] The Homunculus - a Latin term meaning 'little man' - was a popular idea in both 16th-century alchemy (Paracelsus is credited with the first use of the term) and 19th-century literature (see Mary Shelley's Frankenstein (1818) and Part Two of Goethe's Faust (1832), for example). 

      As a concept, it has its roots in folklore and the pre-scientific theory of preformationism which taught that organisms develop from tiny versions of themselves. For Jung, the homunculus is a symbol of the inner man or, indeed, inner Christ (i.e., the divine aspect of human being).   

 

[7-10] D. H. Lawrence, 'The Undying Man, The Virgin and the Gipsy and Other Stories ... p. 242.

 

[11] Ibid., p. 243.

 

[12]  Editors' Introduction to The Virgin and the Gipsy and Other Stories ... p. xxxi.

 

[13] I'm referring here to Baudrillard's thinking in his essay 'The Final Solution, or The Revenge of the Immortals', which can be found in Impossible Exchange, trans. Chris Turner, (Verso, 2001), pp. 27-8. Long time readers (with good memories) may recall that I discuss Baudrillard's thoughts on cloning in a post published back in April 2013: click here.

       

 

On Painting Ceilings

Kazimir Malevich 
Suprematist Composition: White on White (1918) 
Oil on canvas (79.5 x 79.5 cm)

I.

The Sistine Chapel ceiling, painted by Michelangelo between 1508 and 1512, is certainly an impressive piece of interior decorating and design, incorporating over 340 figures, both clothed and nude, allowing the artist to fully demonstrate his skill in creating a huge variety of poses for the human body (poses that have been much imitated ever since). 

Contrary to popular belief, Michelangelo painted in a standing position, not lying flat on his back, and endured great physical discomfort; eye strain, neck ache, muscle cramps, etc. Little wonder then that he bodged certain sections and that it was left unfinished. Nevertheless, according to Goethe, those who haven't seen this work for themselves can have no appreciable idea of what greatness a single man is capable.


II.

I was thinking of Michelangelo and his High Renaissance masterpiece whilst painting a ceiling in my mother's house over the weekend. Not that I drew inspiration from the Italian; that came rather from the avant-garde Russian artist Kazimir Malevich and his Suprematist composition of 1918 entitled White on White (shown above).  

For that's essentially what I was doing: painting white on white, inch after inch and one polystyrene foam tile after another, using Farrow and Ball's All White Estate emulsion; an expensive but soft and sympathetic paint which provides a chalky, very matt finish, with just a 2% sheen (which is more than enough lustre for any ceiling in my view).      

Whilst most people today probably prefer to use a roller and get the job done as quickly and as conveniently as possible, I like to take my time and prefer to use a small (12 mm) brush, ensuring that individual brush strokes and small imperfections remain evident; the thought of machine-perfect smoothness - or machine-smooth perfection - is anathema to my tastes. 

Having now completed the second coat, I have to confess that I prefer my ceiling in all its infinite and abstract whiteness to Michelangelo's, which - for me - is far too busy and show-offy. It's nice to dispense with illusions of depth and to also rid painting of representation and colour. The foam tiles - that were so popular at one time, but which are now deemed to be a fire hazard - provide a richly textured surface.      

Although I don't much care for his ideal fantasies of purity and spiritual transcendence, I share something of Malevich's exhilaration and know exactly what he means when he claims in his 1919 manifesto to have overcome the lining of the coloured sky and learnt how to swim in the freedom of the white abyss ...

The Ballerina is Not a Girl Dancing

In a late prose piece, Mallarmé makes the provocative claim that "the ballerina is not a girl dancing".

Indeed, according to Mallarmé, she's not even a girl, but a living metaphor; symbolising "some elemental aspect of earthly form", such as a flower or a swan.

And she doesn't dance so much as use her body - "with miraculous lunges and abbreviations" - to produce and perform a special kind of condensed writing whose ties to a metaphysically stable world of referents have been snapped: une écriture corporelle.

Thus, whilst not quite one and the same thing, ballet and poetry are semiotically entwined; they are both formalised and ritualised aesthetic sign systems, designating truth that is plural and uncertain.

And this is why Nietzsche loved both art forms and not only held great poets such as Goethe and Heinrich Heine in the highest regard, but blessed the feet and fair ankles of sweet girls who, in dancing, transcend their gender and humanity and bring meaning to a crisis.     


See: Stéphane Mallarmé, 'Ballets', in Divagations, trans. Barbara Johnson, (Harvard University Press, 2009). 

D. H. Lawrence and the Grand Perverts

Drawing of D. H. Lawrence by David Levine (1968)

According to D. H. Lawrence, in a letter written to Aldous Huxley, behind all of those whom he identifies as grand perverts, lies "ineffable conceit" and boundless ego.

Figures including St. Francis, Michelangelo, Goethe, Kant, Rousseau, Byron, Baudelaire, Wilde and Marcel Proust, are all guilty of the same thing; namely, "attempting to intellectualise and so utterly falsify the phallic consciousness", says Lawrence.

By this, he seems to mean they get their sex in their heads and barter away the sheer intensity of lived experience for mere representation. In other words, they fall into idealism, into narcissism and into solipsism; "the utter incapacity for any development of contact with any other human being".

But, in as much as phallic consciousness is also "the basic consciousness, and the thing we mean, in the best sense, by common sense", I suppose he's also taking a dig at all those who dare to think differently from those who subscribe to the morality of custom and popular prejudice, or what Lawrence mistakes for an instinctive-intuitive form of folk wisdom. 

 
And this, when you think about it, is not only surprising, but bitterly disappointing. That Lawrence - of all people - should end up defending doxa (that form of truth and goodness which goes without saying and from which we should never deviate) and condemning a host of other writers, artists, and thinkers as perverts (a term used in an admittedly idiosyncratic manner, but still in an essentially negative and pejorative sense), is, if nothing else, an outrageous example of the pot calling the kettle - and every other kitchen utensil - black.   


See: D. H. Lawrence, Letter 4358, to Aldous Huxley, 27 March 1928, in The Letters of D. H. Lawrence, Vol. VI, ed. James. T. Boulton and Margaret H. Boulton, with Gerald M. Lacy, (Cambridge University Press, 1991), p. 342.