Hermann Paulus Müller’s contributions to several fields have received, very likely, every bit as much recognition as they deserve. In fact, I would not be composing this account of one of his more bizarre activities were it not for the present controversy in what is, so to speak, the wrong field, and for which, though no one but myself knows it, Müller bears the responsibility. Even so, I think I would be content to remain silently amused if it were not for a niggling professional scruple about authenticity. My stint as a museum curator in the early 1950s—short and sweet as it was—has left me with a heightened sensitivity to every kind of swindle, intentional or otherwise. And a swindle is what this forthcoming German edition of Epictetus’ Encheiridion is, only the confidence-artist responsible for it has been dead nearly forty years.
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