The Myth of the Red Thread: Unraveling the Ariadne Connection

In my writings since 2007, I have consistently used the terms red thread and Ariadne thread interchangeably. Thus, I was quite surprised when a colleague pointed out earlier this year that the original Ariadne thread was not red at all.

Literary experiments can dismantle familiar structures. For instance, a notable example is George Perec's novel La Disparition, where the author omits the letter E, the most frequently used vowel in both French and German. While surprising, such feats are achievable in German as well. The long-out-of-print German translation by Eugen Helmé has been available again since 1989: Anton Voyls Fortgang.

Another intriguing approach is to narrate a novel solely through a series of dialogues. This technique, common in plays or screenplays, becomes nearly impossible in a continuous narrative without additional stage directions or speaker identifiers, as the reader may struggle to discern who is speaking after just a few pages. One exception is William Gaddis's JR, which brilliantly manages this over a staggering 1,039 pages, though it can be quite laborious to read, especially when frequent interruptions occur.

The simplest and most popular experiment among the so-called “young wild ones” is to ignore the concept of the hero's journey, which typically leads to boredom without its inclusion. Alternatively, one might forgo the central organizational and developmental principle of any text longer than a page: the now proverbial red thread.

No Text Can Exist Without a Red Thread Years ago, as the effects of Parkinson's disease became more apparent in cabaret artist Otfried Fischer, he concluded his public appearances by stating in an interview that he had “lost the red thread,” which makes meaningful intellectual work impossible.

This thread can be likened to DNA, which determines through numerous small steps how a collection of fundamental molecules gradually organizes into a living entity, such as an embryo. Therefore, these building blocks are referred to as the letters of inheritance. Evolution, in a sense, also writes.

When crafting a short story or a lengthy novel, an author must organize numerous text components (which I call thought modules) into a coherent narrative. This structure is comprehensible not only to the author as the primary reader but also to any other reader. Such components include details about characters, settings (local color), temporal elements, atmosphere, suspense, and various other storytelling elements. On average, one can expect about five such elements per manuscript page of roughly 2,000 characters, resulting in approximately 1,500 thought modules in a 300-page novel. This represents an overwhelming amount of material. Nevertheless, even very young readers can grasp and enjoy a vast work like Harry Potter, which spans nearly 5,000 pages.

How is this possible?

It is possible because our brains are inherently designed to synthesize the information bombarding these initially inexperienced biological computers into increasingly complex structured units, forming super-information that connects higher levels of cognitive hierarchy into intricate chains of meaning. Symbols and metaphors play a crucial role in this process.

In a novel, which serves as a highly compressed, abstracted, and artificial representation of real life, the most significant of these chains of meaning is the hero's journey: the protagonist undergoes a transformation from an initial situation (A) to a final situation (Z). This fundamental pattern is one that every individual recognizes in some form, reflecting their own mental and emotional development.

Maze or Labyrinth? A fitting metaphor for the initial state of a novel is the maze. At first, an author possesses a multitude of ideas that can be quite confusing—barring autobiographical cases where the chronology of a life provides some clarity. When an author revisits this maze through multiple revisions, the path through this mental construct becomes clearer, allowing readers to follow along.

From the myth of the labyrinth, we know how the hero Theseus navigates the convoluted corridors and dead ends: he is aided by Princess Ariadne, who provides him with a tool that can be likened to an ancient navigation device: the thread named after her. This thread should more accurately be called the Daedalus thread, as Daedalus conceived and constructed the labyrinth and also devised that helpful spool of thread, which essentially serves as the blueprint for this dreadful prison.

There are two types of labyrinths: the true labyrinths and those that are essentially mazes. The distinction between them is as follows: ° In a “true” labyrinth (also known as the “Cretan labyrinth”), one cannot get lost because it consists of a single, albeit confusingly winding, path with one entrance that logically serves as the only exit. ° In a maze, with its multiple pathways, branches, dead ends, and various entrances/exits, one can easily become lost. The latter—essentially a maze—is what is typically referred to when discussing a “labyrinth.” Since these are often not actual “gardens,” but metaphorically represent “the labyrinth of life” or “the labyrinth of the city” or “the labyrinth of silence” (in which one can easily become disoriented), I have coined the term Yrrinthos to encompass all these “maze-labyrinths” that are not actually gardens, nor are they straightforward “Cretan labyrinths.”

The Matter Becomes Even More Confusing ° because the oldest depiction of an “accessible labyrinth” was indeed discovered in Crete, ° and the story of Theseus and his battle with the Minotaur, along with the saving red thread from Princess Ariadne, undeniably takes place in a setting resembling a maze (which is why I prefer not to label this as a “labyrinth,” but rather use the term Yrrinthos).

Both types, the “true” and the “supposed” labyrinth, share a common element whenever any kind of labyrinth is discussed: the proverbial “red thread” (which I have previously equated with the Ariadne thread). This thread is what enables one to find their way through any labyrinth, establishing order amid confusion—an essential aspect of writing, as no text can be understood without a red thread.

In a metaphorical sense, Princess Ariadne’s magical thread is also beneficial: ° We should periodically take time to trace and continue this thread in our own lives. ° We ought to ask ourselves: What gives my life structure—and ultimately, meaning?

A Peculiar Incident from My Youth: For me, the Ariadne thread has always been synonymous with the proverbial red thread; I am unsure why. This connection seems natural, as both serve the same function: the Ariadne thread guides us through the labyrinthine structure, while the red thread leads us through a mental construct, such as a lecture or a short story or a lengthy novel.

My colleague Wolfgang Schmidbauer pointed out to me earlier this year that, according to mythological tradition, the Ariadne thread is not red at all. He referenced Goethe as one of the originators of the term “red thread” and mentioned a theft prevention system used by the British Navy. Wikipedia also notes:

_A red thread refers to a fundamental motif, a guiding thought, a path, or even a guideline. “Something runs through like a red thread” indicates that one can recognize a continuous structure or goal within it. The term has been used in a figurative sense since Goethe’s Elective Affinities. In the introductory remarks of an early excerpt from Ottilie’s diary, he describes the identifying thread of the British Navy: “All the rigging of the royal fleet is spun in such a way that a red thread runs through it, which cannot be unwound without unraveling everything, and by which even the smallest pieces are identifiable as belonging to the crown. Similarly, a thread runs through Ottilie’s diary…” The “red thread” also appears in the first book of the Bible as a distinguishing feature between twin brothers: “At birth, one extended his hand. The midwife reached out, tied a red thread around the hand, and said: He has come out first.” (Gen 38:28 EU)

In English, There is Also a “Golden Thread” Interestingly, what we refer to in German as the “red thread” is known in English as the “golden thread,” at least within the context of law (as noted by the British Wikipedia): “Throughout the web of the English criminal law, one golden thread is always to be seen—it is the duty of the prosecution to prove the prisoner’s guilt…”

However, when I search for “Red Thread” on Google, I surprisingly come across the following information:

The expression originates from Greek mythology where King Theseus found his way out of the Minotaur’s labyrinth by following a “red thread.”

Thus, the etymological derivation from Goethe is not as convincing as it seems. I could not determine the source for the mentioned quote. This website stackexchange.com identifies itself as a “question and answer site for linguists, etymologists, and serious English language enthusiasts.” Perhaps the unnamed author has found inspiration in my own blog—and this is the result of a circular reasoning?

I Will Continue to Equate the Ariadne Thread with the “Red Thread” Regardless, I will persist in equating the Ariadne thread with the “red thread.” Perhaps this will give rise to a new meme? My late colleague Hansruedi Gehring encouraged this notion in an email dated December 10, 2014:

_My first association as a sailor-author with your Red Thread was also the Navy! Mark Twain crossed my mind, as his name derives from “Two (twain) Threads,” and I thought I might be confusing something. Red in connection with Theseus also makes sense, as he had promised to marry the princess as a prize, which he ultimately did not fulfill, etc. I always imagined Ariadne’s thread to be red, even though Gustav Schwab does not specify the color of the “ball of yarn” she handed him. Moreover, such misunderstandings can indeed be creative! Also, the avalanche cord is red, as used by mountaineers and the Swiss army…