Chase, Chance, and Creativity

by James H Austin

  Pickering observes, for example, that a neurosis may play no real role (as in the case of Elizabeth Barrett), or it may provide both the novel idea and the necessary drive that helps see the idea through to completion (as in Joan of Arc, Mary Baker Eddy, Sigmund Freud, and Proust)."' Moreover, the creative work of Eddy, Freud, and Proust was useful in that it served as the mental catharsis that aided their cure. Finally, a psychological illness-like any other illness-may shield the invalid for truly creative work, relieving him of the everyday chores that would otherwise waste his time and energy and defeat his purpose.''

  We now have, I hope, a truer, more charitable vision of the creative artist-no longer does he fit the popular image of one who exorcises his private demons, wielding a brush in one trembling hand, while fingering the bandage over his ear with the other.

  One private demon will not go away; indeed, it draws ever closer. Infinitely more than other animals, man confronts one inescapable fact. He knows his life span is finite. Death is out there, sooner or later. Like other biomedical investigators, I live daily with a sharpened perception of this naked fact. But to me, creative activity provides not so much a way to postpone or avoid thinking about death as a way to anticipate it and make a deliberate adjustment to it. Rollo May summarizes one prevailing attitude when he says, "Creativity is not merely the innocent spontaneity of our youth and childhood; it must also be married to the passion of the adult human being, which is a passion to live beyond one's death."" The key point is to get the right things done so that something useful continues to live beyond one's death. For me, this does not mean a flattering "time capsule" or a granite headstone. I have always been too awed by the infinite reach of astronomical time to believe that either is valid. For me, rather, death has become a fact of life, useful because it lends a motivating sense of urgency to my creative efforts. My time is running out, but time in general is not, and never will.

  The inevitable will come, soon enough. To comfort the biologist in me, I arranged long ago for my ashes to enter a swiftly running stream, thence to return to the sea from which the evolutionary climb started eons ago. I hope that some speckled trout or silver salmon will benefit in the process, in return for all the nourishment and hours of enjoyment these lively creatures have given me over the years. I need this idea of leaving something behind-something that reenters into life in an organic vital way.

  This, too, is not enough. Though the naturalist in me may find solace in finally contributing to the nitrogen or mineral cycle, the approach gives me no positive lasting inspiration as a philosophical base. My humanistic goals incline me toward creative work that will make life a little better for future generations. John Masefield expressed this thought in the following way:

  Not really altruistic, this attitude. I sense that I need to live in this style as much for my own present self-esteem as for the welfare of future generations.

  Different writers evaluate at different levels other motivations leading people into science. Some would include curiosity; the delights of ambiguity and uncertainty; the contest with nature; escape from the boredom and crassness of everyday experiences; aesthetic pleasure; and the sheer joy that comes from exercising the intellect." In contrast, if we adopted the critical view of Hardy, the mathematician, we would conclude that the three motives foremost in leading men to research are intellectual curiosity, professional pride, and ambition."

  Power, if sought consciously, is sought not for its own sake, but more for the shield it may offer against circumstance or against the exercise of power by other persons in ways that might block one's own best creative efforts. However, creativity soon falls prey to the net of responsibilities that cling, inevitably, to positions of power.

  We find, therefore, that creative expression is ultimately a highly personal matter, that it is nourished by many roots, both superficial and deep. If it is to flower as a perennial for an entire lifetime, its taproot must plumb the deepest, most personal human satisfactions, whatever and wherever they are.

  Good role models are absolutely essential. Because we are motivated in many ways to live up to our models, no one is ever a "self-made" man. Examples of how to do something and-fully as important-how not to do something, exert their pervasive influence during one's formative years. The key figures in my own early years were my father, my physician uncle, Gibby, and later on Drs. Raymond Adams, Derek Denny-Brown, and Roy Swank. As personalities, they are as different as men can be, but they each held something in common: a practical grasp of the present, an orientation toward the big new concepts of the future, and a bedrock respect for ideas that had stood the test of time. For these men, time extended in all directions. So did geography. From my father (who fortunately emerged from the trenches of France during the first World War), and from Uncle Gibby (who as a young surgeon observed the latest surgical techniques on the Continent), I learned to respect the best that European culture might have to offer. Growing up, it seemed only natural to seek out new ideas abroad.

  It is usually difficult to find factual data on the subject of role models, because one's retrospective view of them changes over the years. However, an exception can be made in my case, for I have preserved an unabridged glimpse of how one model looked to me when I wrote about him six decades ago. Perhaps in the following chapter you will be able to perceive some outlines of the real father through the fanciful tongue-in-cheek hyperbole of his teenage son. And you will also find an early explicit interest in the curious workings of chance.

  25

  Flashback: Life with Father, 1941

  The following essay was written at age 16, shortly after seeing the play of the same name by Lindsay and Crouse. It appeared in Proem, a high school literary publication.

  I am a modern Clarence Day. I am one of those rare individuals who have a Superman for a father.

  Not that I belittle the home I have, the fine principles instilled in me these past sixteen years, or the future foresightedly prepared for me. I hope never to become such a thankless child that all these gifts go unappreciated. It just is hard for a grown-up of sixteen to find his natural childish search for affection and his flair for the spectacular continually subordinated to a parental "tout-puissant " whose varied life combines all the attributes of Tarzan, Einstein, Clark Gable, and John Kieran, with a dash of Clarence Day, Sr., for explosiveness and disciplinary good measure.

  Yes. Father lacks nothing and is certainly not undeserving of praise. He is a perfect example of a well-rounded individual.

  In the mind's eye of youth, a focal point in the evolution of an individual's character is athletics. First and undoubtedly foremost, Father at forty-eight is an athlete's athlete. Admittedly he is a Jesse Owens at track, Babe Ruth at baseball, Joe Norris at bowling, Sammy Snead at golfthe list is endless. Father is the answer to a coach's prayer, one to make any mentor go into veritable paroxysms of joy. Unfortunately (and very conveniently), however, Father's stiff knee, sprained little finger, sciatica, and lumbago prevent his all-out indulgence in these sports, such as he used to enjoy back in the earlier days; though as proof that his physical prowess of yore is not all confined to reminiscing in the depths of his favorite (and private) armchair, he still ventures occasionally forth to bludgeon as beautiful a booming brassie as ever furrowed a fairway.

  Invariably my drive stops in back of Father's. I have given up hoping for more. Not far back, you understand, but back just enough to create a mental hazard on the next shot. Consequently, after this happens eighteen times in as many holes, I usually trail Father by ten strokes when the eighteenth pin is behind us forever. A contributing factor to Father's success is his uncanny luck. He makes the ball do things-things no selfrespecting ball ever created should do. When a ball that's heading for a water hazard and a two-stroke penalty, suddenly decides to hit a lily pad, skid out, hit a tree, and ricochet off to stop eight feet from the pin, it makes it rather tough for a beginner at the game to end up anywhere near a hundred. The casual "that's-the-way-l-p
lanned-it" look on Father's face is also very demoralizing.

  Truly, Father has relegated luck to the status of mathematical science. Dame Chance certainly regards him as her favorite pupil. I repeat: Father is both gifted and lucky. With natural ability and luck taken into consideration, his amazing versatility in sports is beyond comprehension. There is no use evading the fact that in athletics, Father is well nigh invincible.

  Father is also a mental giant. I base my conclusions first on the "A" that he gleaned for me single-handed out of sixth grade arithmetic, on his record in college (which bears scrutiny well), and on the occasional flashes of genius that come from his storehouse of knowledge to throw light on some of the most varied subjects. Crossword puzzles are no longer a pastime-they are a visit; give him a physics problem, and like as not he will stumble across the right answers; ask him who the "brain" of the Italian Revolution was, and he will reply "Cavour." It's astounding-and very perplexing.

  Coupled with his mental abilities, Father has a natural aesthetic sense and a real talent in the Fine Arts. Music? He worked his way through college writing songs, musical comedies, and playing the piano. Art? Several of his oil paintings have been on exhibition at the Alger House.

  To the writer, who must fall back on "Chopsticks" for his salvation as a musician and whose only claim to being a Grant Wood are crude stick drawings, Father's artistic accomplishments come as quite a shock, though through the years I have learned to pass them off in a spirit of resignation.

  Father was, and still is, undoubtedly good looking for his age; even the older alumni who haven't seen him for years comment upon it, and though he occasionally waxes a bit Jack Bennyish in recognition of his handsomeness, the praise is noticeably apparent in his walk and general bearing the rest of the day.

  Most men between forty and fifty pass through a period in which they try to prove, if not to the world, at least to themselves, that they have lost none of their youthful tastes and charm, and that senility is merely a taunt of jealous youth. With Father it is the green suit. Words are non-existent that would describe this as a sartorial masterpiece. Every time Mother sends it to be pressed, she breathes a silent prayer that somehow, something will happen. To date, the cleaner's service has been unfortunately excellent and Father still wears it-blissfully.

  Father's exploits as a youth are multitudinous. They range from the grandiose scope of Halloween escapades of the old days to the unpleasant reminders that he mowed lawns, chopped cord after cord of wood, and had to walk through miles of snow and stormy weather to get to school. Another of Father's many confused talents is his ability as an all-around mechanic and handy man. He can repair anything. With Father, any household appliance not operating at full efficiency stands a fifty-fifty chance. Either it will be repaired permanently, or it will most certainly be unceremoniously tossed into the ash can, a hopeless wreck, and since Father's tools are likely to be scattered anywhere from attic to basement, the traditional "pre-repair" hunt for the hammer or screwdriver has assumed the status of an institution in our household.

  Father's occupation of the bath-room from seven in the morning to his emergence a half hour later is undisputed, and nothing more need to be said save that Mother, after twenty years of marriage, has finally given up hope that Father will ever pick up his bath mat.

  To preserve somehow the balance of power at 16834 Cranford Lane, a coalition has been set up to prevent any unreasonably dictatorial actions. Through this agreement it is possible for Father to be in the proverbial dog house. Father is usually adept at seeing the handwriting on the wall, however, and never goes so far that he arouses Mother's wrath, for if there is one thing in the world that Father fears above all, it is Mother's anger.

  With his many talents and interests, the remarkable thing about Father is that he has taken time out to become a genuine person-a fine parent and companion.

  When he borrows my ties and socks to appease his vanity, when lam soundly criticized for some breach of etiquette, I still can bear no grudge; for in spite of his exterior peculiarities, numerous and just as extensive as those of Father Day, my Father is different at heart. As in the play, it takes hurt or illness to change him, but it is there, inside.

  With the attainment of that manly, fuzzy-cheeked age when I can begin to assert my independence, it would seem that Father's position would be theoretically in jeopardy. Actually, Father stands as firm and rocklike as Gibraltar, undaunted and unchanged by the effects of age. It shall ever be so.

  For Paul W. Austin is an individualist in the very fullest sense of the word with a charm and personality all his own; and life with Father years from now will be very much as it is today-explosive, unparalleled, rather wonderful-a real and unforgettable experience.

  It continued to be stimulating for many more years until Dad finally passed away at the age of ninety. Speaking of models, it was interesting to find that when I was in my fifties, I could sometimes hear his exact inflections in my own voice, catch echoes of a borrowed phrase that ring back, decades back.

  In many formative ways, life with Father is still going on.

  26

  The Search for Novel Stimuli

  Whether our work is art or science or the daily work of society, it is only the form in which we explore our experience which is different; the need to explore remains the same. This is why, at bottom, the society of scientists is more important than their discoveries. What science has to teach us here is not its techniques but its spirit: the irresistible need to explore.

  Jacob Bronowski

  The need to explore is not confined to man and certainly not to scientists. It is a deeply rooted instinctual response found throughout the animal kingdom. It can be readily observed in the lowly ant, as anyone knows who has gone down on his hands and knees in the dirt to observe an ant hill. Living things do have their antennae out, so to speak, constantly asking questions of their environment. To search, to explore, is part of life.

  Why? Why do we ask questions of the outside world? One consequence of exploration is that the organism encounters various new stimuli, and these continually vary the sensory input into its nervous system. The known is not nearly as attractive as the unknown, for new stimuli create a climate of change, bringing in new impulses that vary both in their kind and intensity and in the pattern of their relationships one to the other. In higher animals, no other rewards are necessary to keep the exploratory drive going, so long as exploration continues to furnish an adequate supply of fresh stimuli. For example, when rhesus monkeys are exposed to a simple mechanical puzzle, they persist in trying to solve it for the inherent satisfactions of problem solving per se, needing no food to sustain their strong exploratory behavior.' Even when the human infant is only three to nine months old it is already poised to seek out and fix on more complex, contoured visual patterns that give its visual receptors the most off-on stimuli=

  If you show a one-year-old infant a small object of a certain size and shape, he will look at it, reach out for it, and try to grasp it. Suppose you next show him, simultaneously, both the now familiar first object and a second, dissimilar object. He will reach out for the new object. His preference for novelty also crosses sensory modalities.' That is, he will still show his visual preference for the second of the two objects if he has previously experienced the first object only by the sense of its feel on his lips and in his mouth (the object has been shielded from his vision at this time).

  From such studies we can appreciate why babies will put literally anything handy into their mouths. More than that, we can also see that the preference for novelty is an innate phenomenon, hardwired into the wisdom of our young nervous system. Such studies also show us that even the infant can process information coming from two sensory-dimensions and then integrate it into a concept that serves novelty-directed behavior. This has long range creative implications.

  Children raised in a barren institutional setting clearly show that normal stimuli play a positive role in human well-
being.' Left largely to themselves, deprived of normal maternal attention, they first cry, later become profoundly dazed and depressed. If deprived of stimuli for more than five months, they never return to normal. Adults subjected to prolonged sensory deprivation also become disturbed, confused, and lose their sense of identity.' Behavior is deranged more when you reduce the patterning of the input than if you reduce the amount of the input." This observation emphasizes that, normally, we have a physiological need for complex stimuli, and not simply for stimuli per se.

  When you change the psychophysiological input into your nervous system, there are both anatomical and biochemical consequences. For example, if young rats are reared in a stimulus-rich environment, they develop more dendritic branches on their cortical nerve cells.' Moreover, rats and mice not only become less competent when they are raised in a stimulus-impoverished environment, but their brains also weigh less and contain lower levels of vital chemical compounds.' The ideal environment then, is enriched by contrast, variety, even dissonance, and it furthers the creative enterprise two ways. First, it quite literally activates the brain in general. Second, it brings in a spectrum of new facts that permits new options.

  It was reported in 1998 that the human hippocampus can regenerate some nerve cells (presumably from stem cells already there) even in late adult life." This process is termed "adult neurogenesis." It complements the separate finding that when mice are encouraged to be more vigorously active they also grow more neurons and retain them longer. Skeptical aging neurologists need to be reassured that such new cells won't have to go through childhood and adolescence all over again, but will soon be incorporated into functioning nerve circuits that serve mature adult ends.

  There are other ways to stimulate our brains toward alertness and arousal. One begins to appreciate how powerful is the human need for stimulation from our consumption of stimulants each year. For example, in this country alone, the average person consumed 35.6 gallons of coffee and 7.2 gallons of tea in 1972."' A cup of percolator coffee contains about 83 milligrams of caffeine, and a cup of bagged tea contains about 42 milligrams of caffeine." Worldwide, some 155 million drinks of Coca-Cola (each containing somewhere between 20 and 36 milligrams of caffeine) are consumed daily.'' In the United States the tea intake was 170 million pounds in 1973. The retail value of this-$456 millionrepresents about one-third of the entire budget for biomedical research of the National Institutes of Health in 1972. (Their total research budget was $1.47 billion.)'