Sphinx

There’s a lovely moment at the end of Goodbye Lenin!, after Alex has finished his elaborate attempt at persuading his mother, through fake news footage, that Germany has reunited because of the desperation of westerners to flee to the east. “Wahnsinn,” she says, and the first time I saw the film I took it in the sense that Alex takes it: that’s incredible, that’s crazy, wow! Later viewings – and this is a film that bears repeated viewing; watching it last night for perhaps the twentieth time, I saw some things I hadn’t noticed before – make it clear how far there are substantial gaps between how Alex interprets his world (and tries to control it and the people in it), and the reality.

Indeed, since Alex ends up playing the role of the oppressive, intrusive DDR state, this is inevitable. By the end, his mother knows exactly what is going on, that he’s been lying to her and manipulating her – but in contrast to the historical reality that this family drama recapitulates, she accepts it as a sign of his genuine love and concern for her. So “Wahnsinn” allows her to let him carry on believing that he’s in control, while being true to the truth: this is ridiculous nonsense.

This is a direct reflection of how language operates in an authoritarian society: words are used in multiple senses, playing with ambiguity, to describe true things and feelings in a way that is nevertheless acceptable to the authorities, conforming – at least apparently, to those who don’t enquire too deeply – to the fake world they are trying to impose. And the more those in power commit themselves to believing that their fake world is real, or at least accepted by the people because it’s all being done for their benefit, the more susceptible they are to accepting at face value the apparent acquiescence of the people, and the meanings that fit their expectations.

Coincidentally, I was recording a lecture on Greek Tyranny this week that exactly echoes the theme. Diodorus Siculus (15.6) records how Dionysius I of Syracuse fancied himself as a poet – and here we have the origin of the Vogon captain forcing his captives to listen to his poetry in the original Hitch-hikers Guide to the Galaxy; can our heroes escape without completely compromising their honour and artistic judgement..? A poet called Philoxenus listened to Dionysius’ poems and offered a frank opinion; Dionysius screamed that he was just jealous, and had him sent to the quarries for hard labour. Philoxenus’ friends petitioned on his behalf, and the tyrant relented. Another dinner party, another poetry reading, and this time Philoxenus didn’t respond to the request for his opinion but simply presented himself to the guards to be carried off to the quarries again.

In the arbitrary manner of tyrants, Dionysius found this funny, and let him off. (Another echo of modern authoritarian regimes: it’s the randomness, the unpredictability of punishment, that keeps everyone subdued and passive; cf. George’s Perec’s W, ou le Souvenir d’Enfance). Inevitably there came a third occasion, after Philoxenus had been begged by his friends to stop inviting execution. What did you think? asked the tyrant. Philoxenus replied: οἰκτρά. “Pitiful,” as the standard translation has it, though the problem with that is the modern English usage virtually excludes the possibility that this could be a sincere compliment. Better, perhaps: “I was moved to tears.” Dionysius can accept this at face value; Philoxenus escapes without completely compromising his artistic judgement.

Are tyrants stupid? Is Dionysius so convinced of his poetic genius that he genuinely believes he has won Philoxenus over? Or is this all a kind of game – if you pretend to like my poem, I’ll pretend to believe you – because the system wouldn’t work otherwise? Xenophon’s Hieron suggests that the tyrant knows everyone will be lying to him. But what matters, as in the real DDR and as in Goodbye Lenin!, is the acquiescence and acceptance of authority, however secretly resentful or mocking; the ruling power is allowed to delude itself if it wishes…