THAT NEW BLACK MAGIC

WESTERNERS laugh at the benighted superstitions of their Asian and African brothers. How amusing it is to learn that Burmans refuse to wash their hair on Saturdays, that Zambians believe eggs cause sterility, that Chinese voyagers never turn over the fish on their plates for fear of capsizing their ships. In fact, Westerners themselves seem to becoming the most superstitious people the on earth. For all his faith in scientific reason, Western man is so baffled by complex social and economic problems that he is increasingly attracted to irrational solutions--to all kinds of new black magic.

Superstition is a natural human reaction to over whelming dangers or baffling situations. The word stems from the Latin superstitio, meaning "a standing still over," and connotes amazement or dread of supernatural forces beyond one's control. Rationalists scorn superstition as a hangover of primitive man's obsolete interpretations of the world. Indeed, nothing seems sillier nowadays than rituals like knocking on wood or chanting "God bless you!" (to prevent the sneezer's soul from flying away). Even so, modern behavioral scientists respect superstition as an enduring expression of the human need to master the inexplicable. "One man's superstition is another's religion," contends Anthropologist Sol Tax.

Says Margaret Mead: "Superstitions reflect the keenness of our wish to have something come true or to prevent something bad from happening. The half acceptance and half denial accorded superstitions give us the best of both worlds."

In tne second half of the 20th century, the gap be tween wish and denial has often been widened by the very institutions that should provide certainty. Science has bared the mysteries of subatomic particles, and in the process has almost turned into a new metaphysics groping for evidence of things unseen. As organized religion loses its appeal through stuffiness or sterility, people seeking faith increasingly turn to mystical religions, such as Zen and Zoroastrianism.

Susceptible Scientists

To be sure, modern life is already rife with ancient superstitions that will probably never go out of style. But the new phenomenon is the upsurge in new superstitions--the faith in flying saucers, the theory that H-bomb tests caused rain and that the test ban has since caused droughts. Even scientists are highly susceptible to superstitious beliefs. One California physicist who flies to Washington once a month eases his fear of a crash by carrying a special amulet: a copy of TIME, a magazine he otherwise dislikes.

Nothing so demonstrates modern man's need for myth as the superstitions created by "rational" technology itself. Hardly anyone is more superstitious these days than the supposedly no-nonsense men who fly huge jetliners at multimile altitudes. Aviators frequently cross unused seat belts prior to takeoff, or spit on a wheel after their preflight inspection--thus indulging the old belief that saliva is an offering of the spirit to the gods. Some auto racers don't like peanuts or women in their pits. In keeping with the belief that new machines cause sterility, U.S. servicemen blithely took sexual advantage of British girl radar operators in World War II. A similar male myth has it that airline hostesses are incapable of conception because their cross-country flights confuse their menstrual cycles. (Not so.)

Computer technology is bewitched with superstition. For one thing, today's young cyberneticists tend to anthropomorphize their tools. Tom Allison, 25, a Coca-Cola executive in Atlanta, is convinced that his computer is feminine. "She keeps cutting me off at the most inopportune times," he complains. A programmer in Los Angeles will not feed blue cards into his computer--he feels she deserves pink. Seymour Greenfield, a research manager for the military DRC-44 computer program at Dynamics Research Corp. near Boston, complicates the matter further, " I hired everyone building the computer by the zodiac signs under which they were born," he says. As a Leo, he has prejudices. "I hired two Cancer men and they both ended up with ulcers."

Apollo Flight Director Gene Kranz disclaims any superstition, yet regularly dons a white vest during launches, a red vest during long flights, and a flashy gold-brocaded vest immediately after a safe splashdown. At California's Hughes Aircraft Co., any unmanned space probe, like Surveyor, is accompanied in the control room by more crossed fingers, arms and legs than a contortionists' convention. Most space scientists believe in Murphy's Law: "If something can go wrong, it will go wrong, and at the worst possible time." Is there really a Professor Murphy? Answers one California scientist: "Sure, just like there's a Santa Claus."

Mystical Renaissance

All sorts of old superstitions have re-emerged in a new era, sometimes in new guises. One Chicago dealer in magical objects reports that "crystal balls are selling like popcorn" for as much as $23 apiece. New York's TBS Computer Centers Corp. now cranks out 20-page personal horoscopes for a mere $15, the electronic brain taking only a minute to compute a life history that flesh-and-blood astrologers need a week to prepare. Necromancy, the art of communication with the dead, has undergone a rebirth, abetted by California's Episcopal Bishop James Pike, who engaged in a seance at which he claims to have talked with his suicide son.

A mystical renaissance is evident everywhere, from television to department stores. This year three TV series will deal with witches and ghosts. The movie Rosemary's Baby is both demonological and boxoffice. Miniskirted suburban matrons cast the I Ching or shuffle tarot cards before setting dates for dinner parties. Hippies, with their drug-sensitized yen for magic, are perhaps the prime movers behind the phenomenon. Not only do they sport beads and amulets that have supposed magical powers; they also believe firmly and frighteningly in witchcraft. Some of the hippie mysticism is a calculated put-on--as when Abbie Hoffman and his crew attempted to levitate the Pentagon last October--but much of the new concern with the arcane is a genuine attempt to find enrichment for arid lives.

The danger of overindulgence in superstition is that it breeds a kind of shortcut thinking. Already, TV commercials verge on magic: how does a deodorant differ from a love potion? Already, the incantations of New Left and New Right extremists echo the irrational chants of sinister shamans. No one has ever been hurt by tossing salt over his left shoulder; many have felt a vibration of personal peace by crying "Om!" The trouble is that superstitions, like Occam's razor, cut both ways. Before Western man gets any more mystical, perhaps he should distinguish between superstitions that destroy tranquillity and those that enhance it. If he succeeds, the rest of the world will not have to keep its fingers crossed.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.