Copenhagen - Michael Frayn [33]
The actual words spoken by my characters are of course entirely their own. If this needs any justification then I can only appeal to Heisenberg himself. In his memoirs dialogue plays an important part, he says, because he hopes ‘to demonstrate that science is rooted in conversations.’ But, as he explains, conversations, even real conversations, cannot be reconstructed literally several decades later. So he freely reinvents them, and appeals in his turn to Thucydides. (Heisenberg’s father was a professor of classics, and he was an accomplished classicist himself, on top of all his other distinctions.) Thucydides explains in his preface to the History of the Peloponnesian War that, although he had avoided all ‘storytelling’, when it came to the speeches, ‘I have found it impossible to remember their exact wording. Hence I have made each orator speak as, in my opinion, he would have done in the circumstances, but keeping as close as I could to the train of thought that guided his actual speech.’ Thucydides was trying to give an account of speeches that had actually been made, many of which he had himself heard. Some of the dialogue in my play represents speeches that must have been made in one form or another; some of it speeches that were certainly never made at all. I hope, though, that in some sense it respects the Thucydidean principle, and that speeches (and indeed actions) follow in so far as possible the original protagonists’ train of thought.
But how far is it possible to know what their train of thought was? This is where I have departed from the established historical record—from any possible historical record. The great challenge facing the storyteller and the historian alike is to get inside people’s heads, to stand where they stood and see the world as they saw it, to make some informed estimate of their motives and intentions—and this is precisely where recorded and recordable history cannot reach. Even when all the external evidence has been mastered, the only way into the protagonists’ heads is through the imagination. This indeed is the substance of the play.
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I can’t claim to be the first person to notice the parallels between Heisenberg’s science and his life. They provide David Cassidy with the tide (Uncertainty) for his excellent biography (the standard work in English). ‘Especially difficult and controversial,’ says Cassidy in his introduction, ‘is a retrospective evaluation of Heisenberg’s activities during the Third Reich and particularly during World War II. Since the end of the war, an enormous range of views about this man and his behaviour have been expressed, views that have been fervently, even passionately, held by a variety of individuals. It is as if, for some, the intense emotions unleashed by the unspeakable horrors of that war and regime have combined with the many ambiguities, dualities, and compromises of Heisenberg’s life and actions to make Heisenberg himself subject to a type of uncertainty principle …’ Thomas Powers makes a similar point in his extraordinary and encyclopaedic book Heisenberg’s War, which first aroused my interest in the trip to Copenhagen; he says that Heisenberg’s later reticence on his role in the failure of the German bomb programme ‘introduces an element of irreducible uncertainty.’
Cassidy does not explore the parallel further. Powers even appends a footnote to his comment: ‘Forgive me.’ The apology seems to me unnecessary. It’s true that the concept of uncertainty is one of those scientific notions that has become common coinage, and generalised to the point of losing much of its original meaning. The idea as introduced by Heisenberg into quantum mechanics was precise and technical. It didn’t suggest that everything about the behaviour of particles was unknowable, or hazy. What it limited was the simultaneous measurement