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800 pages, Mass Market Paperback
First published January 1, 1795
Ben Jonson, observing that certain actors credited his rival, Shakespeare, with never blotting out a word of his writing, retorted "Would he had blotted out a thousand!" Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship, from a modern perspective,would benefit from easily ten times that many deletions.
Clearly this is not a novel for current tastes, and prolixity is only one of its barriers to contemporary readership. Another is its somnambulistic pacing. Scenes run on interminably, fleshed out in more detail than even a patient reader could want. In most of those scenes, there is a single event and paragraphs of exposition on some character's—usually Wilhelm's—emotional reaction to it.
In the midst of the story there is a novella-length digression entitled Confessions of a Fair Saint. It completely derails the flow of the story in order to allow an irritating, sanctimonius female character to natter on ad nauseum about her relgiosity. The significant content of the Fair Saint to the main story could have been mercifully condensed to a single page, since, thereafter, she is only mentioned once, and that in passing, perhaps a hundred pages later!
The main story is written from a third person limited perspective, so that we generally see no more deeply into the book's other characters than the none-too-discerning Wilhelm sees. The other characters—and there are more than 20 of them—are reduced to one-dimensional ciphers.
Wilhelm himself is the arch adolescent—a randy dilettante, falling in and out of love with every character in a skirt while launching, then abandoning, one career after another.
Though the novel is certainly no comedy, the plot borders on farce. Wilhelm, mid-story, suddenly finds that he is being recruited into a small coterie of minor-league Übermenschen who have been secretly following his stumbling progress through the world—why and how never being adequately explained. Characters appear, disappear and reappear with a frequency that would only be plausible if Germany were the size of Key West. To crown the absurdity, every character in the novel who hasn’t conveniently died by the last chapter is lumped into an all’s-well-that-ends-well conclusion that beggars belief.
That conclusion leaves Wilhelm wealthy, betrothed to the girl of his dreams, and blessed with the sort of social connections that make self-definition a real possibility, at once underscoring and undermining what would seem to have been Goethe’s central thesis—that the key distinction between the 18th Century aristocrat and the burgher—the commoner of attainments—was neither wealth nor power, but the nobleman’s freedom to define himself without hindrance: "he is entitled to press forward, whereas nothing more beseems the burgher than the quiet feeling of the limits that are drawn around him. The burgher may not ask himself ‘What art thou?’ He can only ask ‘What hast thou? What discernment, knowledge, talent, wealth?”
The burgher can only enjoy an approximation of that self-creation by going on the stage, where he may play a king or noble and thereby acquire, at least for the moment, the privilege of defining himself as they do. ”On the boards a polished man appears in his splendor with personal accomplishments … and there I shall have it in my power to be and seem as well as anywhere.” This thought-provoking foreshadowing of the celebrity intoxication of our own age would have been a perfect climax for the story, but appears—alas!—at just about its midpoint.
Given all the exasperations Wilhelm Meister poses for the modern reader, why do I rate it at four stars? Because it is a major work by one of the Western world’s greatest minds, filled with brilliant aphorisms about the human condition. Its style, so quaint and formal to modern readers, its plotting, so implausible by today’s standard, befit its era, which is long gone. So, too, are the world-altering events of that era, among them the French and American Revolutions and the ideas that spawned them. A world was coming of age, and this first Bildungsroman, this prototype coming-of-age novel, was perhaps the most important literary evocation of that new world.
Wilhelm Meister is not for the reader seeking only entertainment, and Goethe never intended it to be, even for the readers of his far more intellectual age. As Wilhelm muses at one point, “The rude man is content if he sees but something going on; the man of more refinement must be made to feel; the man entirely refined, desires to reflect.”