[Updated: Sept 14 2023]
One could say—all action, no filler. For the longest time, in lieu of a review, I had listed here a quote of Archimboldi's, from Bolano's 2666—that one ought to read Faust ten or fifteen times before the age of sixteen, if one wants any chance at having a reputable literary opinion. I have read it six times now, and hope this review serves to elucidate that which I've discovered in & about it over the years, but it should remain clear that Faust is a book greatly without form and possibly inexhaustible; Goethe himself, by even scientific accounts the man with the highest IQ we can measure, said that he didn't understand why people would come to ask him its meaning, as if he himself somehow knew ...
PART ONE
The first part of the play is the more beloved, and was indeed a very popular work even from its initial fragmentary publications in the late 18th century; every person worth their salt read it, and in cafes full of others reading it. In many ways this first part features, in a more condensed and opaque form, all the cosmological arguments and wide-ranging poetries of the second; much of this is to do with the organic structure, which follows a boundless and impulsive path from the 'Scholar's Tragedy' into the 'Gretchen Tragedy', but neither of which are complete tragedies in any conventional sense nor tonally isolated—the former has room for the wonderfully casual Easter morning flaneur, while the latter has room both for the deliriously cosmological Walpurgisnacht and its dirge of a finale.
What's consistent throughout the first part is the dialogue between scholar and nature (or between rationalist and occult), Faust's suicidal anxieties deriving as much from the Phaedrus as from the various schools of German philosophy attributed him ... and around him is a world in vibrancy, culminating in the Walpurgisnacht and its overflowing catalogue of natural and preternatural expressions: human, animal and esoteric alike. Indeed, across the various genre pastiches (folk adventures, religious dramas, intellectual epochs, and subterranean masques) Goethe seems to be creating an entire world by the Spinozist strata of modalities, whereby everything is understood on its own terms as organic parts of an ineluctable total structure.
What's the point of concerning ourselves with the form? For one, this play stands in sharp counterpoint to Goethe's beloved antecdants in Schiller and Racine, and against his contemporaries with arcane philosophical theories guiding their hands, such as Hegel or Hoelderlin. Goethe's profoundly wayward departure is analogous to the intellectual content of his drama. While Goethe routinely mocked the idealist philosophers and constructed his drama to mock such simple readings, we can read Faust's dilemma as a scholastic running up against the limits of a, say, Spinozist reality, learning to truly comprehend by his orgiastically naturalist journey into Walpurgisnacht. But the profundity of the play is its preoccupation with the world, such that we can read the doctor as a Platonist, escaping the sophistry of books by aporetic dialectic with Mephisto and riding on the wings of Eros to the sun's eternal feminine; or we can infer an early existentialist argument, Faust being led into a Nietzschean revolt against abstract intellectualism, or on an Heideggerian route to a more direct understanding of the ontological subaltern; or we can read it metahistorically, the ultimate summation of Western Culutre to that point, containing a prophecy for its finale. Philosophers are as a rule always wrong, and any merit they derive comes from their agon with the world around them.
Any real guiding form or model to Faust, then, is that of many pre-existing structures running up against reality (and later on, superreality). The first, and to Goethe the most poignant, is the 'Gretchen Tragedy', an essentially simple fabl, as much like a lighter Shakespearean comedy as a German folk tale in all respects. The irregular rhyme-verses and songs (one taken from Hamlet, others from local songs) produce a very vivid pastoral that sustains so much comedy by contrast to Faust's melodramatics in the cave and Mephisto's urbane comments, as well as the latter's own degradation by flirtation with the older lady. Anyone familiar with the stream of Germanic intellectualism will understand the distinctly compelling nature of medieval pastoral, especially when contrasted with visceral philosophical anxieties; Murnau's 1926 Faust film does a very striking job depicting this a few years before this aesthetic became the leading imagery of Nazi propaganda. Goethe, more or less inventor of this intellectual move, does this of course without any of the compulsive psychopathologies that people like Heidegger have on this subject.
What does it all mean, if all the sources juggle lightly in the air and Goethe play the role of literary demiurge rather than self-insert? We can neither say that Faust's feelings about the weight of ideas or the mysterious power of nature are to be discarded, nor that the solution is a return to peasant romance—the Gretchen tragedy is as much a masturbatory fantasy for Faust as it is a cruel and fleeting parody of life. A helpful analogy (indeed, maybe one of the few that are helpful) is a moment early on into Plato's Republic, where Socrates has been hypothetically outlining with Adeimantus the structure of an ideal city. Glaucon, Adeimantus (and Plato's) brother intrudes these logical processions to ask, can't the heroes kiss pretty girls in this city? In effect, he has asked Socrates to exit pure reason and its neglect of the erotic, and provide a real & wordly explanation about the ideal of justice. This involves a long and extremely complex demonstration, occupying most of the rest of the dialogue, which mostly consists in profounder but even more abstract metaphysics. Much is in play here. A blind erotic impulse has shattered pure rationality, but at the same time brought on a deeper, more complex, and all the more useless array of logical precipices; different human drives are competing, each causing a perpeual fogging of the other, and a tendency for things to become wider and less attainable as they proceed further and further towards the truth. One thinks of the Weimar Expressionist cinematography and its occasional tendency to use blurry or nonsensical shots to great effect; but this same impulse really is everywhere in writing and elsewhere, perhaps one of the more fundamental of all possible moments. This is the basic motion of Faust Part 1, and is repeated in Faust Part 2, concluding in either case only with the ineffable voice of God crying, “Saved!”.
PART TWO—ACT ONE
The analogies between one and two are very close, also, on a literal level: things shown are what they are, characters experience intellectual troubles within their own place and time, surreal masques take place, Faust strives blindly and Mephisto denigrates everything he sees. Perhaps the principle contrast is that Faust's intellectual problems are now bound up in the political, something Goethe associates almost exclusively with the influence of Mephisto. This conflict, too, is centered around another romantic tale, this time far abstracter affair yet similar in its pastiche nature.
Act One is a good demonstration: after from the naturalist prologue where Faust is healed, the focus of the play bounces between the erotic and the political in a way that would make even Plato blush—the invention of industry is followed by a magical masque, which is followed by the invention of paper currency, which is followed by a second magical display, the summoning of Paris and Helen. The main masque is a more structured sequel to the Walpurgisnacht, a series of mythopaeic demonstrations, by Faust, of human affairs centered around a charioteer who represents poetry (David Luke identifies him with Euphorion, which is interesting to consider). The difference between the Walpurgisnacht of Part One and this is that Faust attempts to be a sort of genuine Sophist, demonstrating truths to the crowds through his poetico-magical lens—and utterly fails to communicate anything to the crowd who then riot, as Plato in the Ion suggests (Goethe, by the way, wrote a very good short essay on the Ion, worth reading). That the political has an inherently corrupting quality, or that it is comprised of failed communication, is not a very profound thought, and the economic parable is played mostly as a hyperbolic joke (for example, the suddenly rich clown).
Rather, it is the clamorous but emaciating relation of society as such to poetry that is the central point of this part—the perversion of the masque, yes, and also the ridiculous spectacle arond Helen's appearance. This is the proper opening thrust of Part Two: the question of whether Faust isn't interested in politics because of the pull of Eros, or if it's because of his amateur expertese in romance that he isn't cut out for politics. A good point to consider may be that Faust is not much less of an onanist in this sequence than he was in Part One—here, now literaly, he is an illusionist in love with his own creation, and willing to pursue the semblance of Helen, perhaps all the way to the real Helen. This is, perhaps, the same scenario as the Iliad, itself a political drama of this kind.
ACT TWO
Act Two, which seems so distinct, essentially carries on the two themes, with the addition of a third: Faust continues his erotic striving and Mephisto surveys the mythos for a disguise to continue his political sophistry in Act Three, while we are borne witness to the birth and development of the bodiless Homunculus.
This game of illusion, sex and politics is continued into Act Two, with the important counterpoint of the Homunculus, another variation. Each character has their becoming—Faust wants to become an erotic being, Mephisto wants to become demonic in semblance for political purposes, and the Homunculus wants to figure out what to become and how. He is the obvious protagonist, and perhaps like Faust his conclusion is a Protean provenance given as all nature sings the praise of Eros ... but it should not be forgotten that Mephisto makes a few oblique comments explicitly admitting that he created the Homunculus, which occurs when he rings the giant bell towards the start of the act. Goethe himself said obliquely of this bell-ringing that it is meant to align with the earthquake that takes place in classical Walpurgisnacht, and that both are to be identified with the French Revolution—which somehow ties this theme of Eros and Humanity together with the political masses just lambasted in Act One. The surrealism of this chapter almost seems to suspend the reader's desire to think about it beyond the broad strokes of becoming; something about the spectacle of a floating test tube man with dolphins and pre-socratic philosophers is a little obscuring.
What makes this prism possible is the is its setting. Vastly moreso than the Walpurgisnacht of Part One or the masque of Act One, Goethe makes this profound menagerie both of metanatural scope and of his most fluid poetic expression; a series of mythopaeic beings and the recurrent string of choruses are centered around the singing of the infamous sirens, who survey the action of the three plots at first with the beauty of abstract horror and apocalypse ... yet their chorale, however, concludes on a looping around to a celebration of birth, Eros and life. To me, it seems very strongly that these are to be thought of as a subterranean version of Plato's Diotima, which can see beyond the limits of human existence into an overarching cyclical morphology (as schizo-botanist Goethe would say), presenting their ultimate explanans in a way as inhumanely bizarre as ultimately and profoundly true. The sirens are, then, one key to Faust, being the astral observers from whose perspective Goethe (as both God and demiurge of this depicted world) sees the events he's created, and the least ironic of the many commentaries on the play from within its pages. Mephisto is their competition in this, but note how even he is unnerved by the strange vigor of this classical fantasy, a hint of his final fate.
ACT THREE
This was the earliest section of Part Two to be finished, and was published on its own as 'Helen: A Faust Intermezzo' fifteen years prior. This is a pretty good title for what it is. The symbology is pretty easy: everyone knows that Euphorion is Byron, and everyone also knows that it is essentially a pastiche of a Euripides play, tempered with the Faust's Germanic intrusion and Mephisto's twisted feminine version of Tiresias as Phorkyas. Its colinearity with the rest of the running themes of Faust are also pretty easy—Mephisto and Faust as political racketeers contrasted with Menelaus, their failure, the tragic adventures of Eros, the Icarian character of poetry, etc. I can't remember if people have commented on the specially sympathetic presentation of Helen in the first scene or if those were just my own impressions from the past, but it is interesting to compare Goethe's Helen with comparably strong female protagonists in the Greek tragedians, as well as with the couple of scenes featuring Helen in Homer himself—Goethe undersatnds the specially distinct character of the tragic greek woman, with the clarity of expression through passivity, and impressive degree of sensitivity in ascribing her thoughts, all rendered in the most dignified tone possible.
This act, too, features with its chorus (this time, of the escaped Spartan women), which sticks to the tragedian parody until the very end, where Helen absconds to the clouds and the chorus scatters to spread the earth, becoming nymphs and instantiated forms of beauty to make a dulcet haunt of the earth for the rest of time. It begs multiple questions, particularly of the abruptly farcical nature of this act in distinction to the rest of Part Two, which follows a zany but otherwise very coherent & stable narrative. Faust achieved Helen, but did this 'really happen'? (often an odious question, but begged to an extent by the running theme of semblance that culminates here). Faust achieved every man's dream in marrying and impregnating Helen of Troy, but it happen so quickly and so melodiously that one cannot shake the feeling of a dream sequence. These sorts of things happen; I can tell you that the most common result is a psychotic break or something close to it—Mephisto, revealing himself at the finale and confronting the audience, stands perhaps in accord.
ACT FOUR
On my first couple of reads, I was always bored by the relatively banal parody of politics and war in Act Four, but eventually the deeper meaning of the section reveals itself. The opening monologue, with its classic Goethe naturalism regarding clouds, is one of the finest in the entire play, as well as the subsequent dialogue with Mephisto regarding the demonic overtones of tectonic plates. These can be connected, first of all, to Goethe's running scientific theories about the organic structures of natural beings, and this 'dialectic' between tectonic plates and clouds was something that always excited him; it is with this trend of Faust's increasing sensitivity to naturalism (which began with his ascent to Walpurgisnacht back in Part One) that all of the themes begin to run together.
Indeed, it is with this deepening apprehension of natural morphologies that Faust makes the connection he conspicuously didn't in Act One, namely, connecting his understanding of nature to his Eros, and quickly thereafter to his political (and then industrial) ambitions. Faust's delusion that the sight of his victory is another such natural 'dialectic' is a moment where all the partitions break down and he becomes the ultimate symbol of the West—his sexual, political and natural perceptions all begin to blend together and he himself becomes a sort of hyper-inspired machine. It is extremely reminiscent of Plato's suggestion in the Republic that the ascendant tyrant inevitably views himself (and is seen by his supporters) as a force of nature, despite really being all-too-human. His temporary triumphs over the nuissances of political man appear a supernatural feat, a delusion that forms the basis of tragedy. One thinks (to strike a platitude) of Napoleon.
It's also good to thinka about the fact that this act was the final thing Goethe composed for Faust Part Two months before his death, meaning that the relatively generic scene where the Emperor is, a little dubiously, admonished by the Arch-Bishop for his alliance with Satan is the last major work of Goethe's; Walter Kaufmann claims that Goethe would surely have edited this substantially had he lived five more years, but this cagey scene invokes an uncertainty about the religious symbology that serves throughout as the far limit of the play's world, from the Easter Bells interrupting suicide to the final chorale in the heavens. Here, though, we are given maybe a little hint as to why Goethe spent his life in naturalist reverie and not protestant priesthood.
ACT FIVE
The coherent grounding of the plot falls apart here, with the inexpicable appearance of Baucis and Philemon in modern Germany and the apparitions of embodied affects outside the castle gates. The more expressionist, shifty tone is appropriate, given that the final evolution of Faust as a metaphysical tyrant is clear already by the end of the previous act; what remains is the abstract finale. The string of apocalyptic visions of the construction are striking, particularly as they gradually shift into demonic fanasies, but more subtle is Faust's encounter with the Eliotic hallucinations—visions come up to haunt the german spirit at the moment before its suicide, as perhaps Spengler or Mann might have seen it.We can leave it to Heidegger or any of his ilk to make a mountain out of Care being the one that finally gets Faust to savor a moment; that the phenomenology of positive care is something often missing from philosophies centered around will and mechanism is no secret. It seems to me reductive to think of Faust's weakness as rejecting meaning, and his finale as embracing it, but that's generally what seems to be the implication here ...
[review concluded in comments]