Although scientists may, like Archimedes, exclaim “Eureka!” when inspiration suggests a solution to a problem, they generally describe their experience in more prosaic terms than do musicians and poets. Newton, on being asked how he made his discoveries, replied, “I keep the subject constantly before me, and wait till the first dawnings open slowly by little and little into the full and clear light.”26 Gauss, describing the solution of a problem which had plagued him for years, wrote:
Finally, two days ago I succeeded, not on account of my painful efforts, but by the Grace of God. Like a sudden flash of lightning, the riddle happened to be solved. I myself cannot say what was the conducting thread which connected what I previously knew with what made my success possible.27
So, although inspiration is clearly exciting and rewarding, whether or not it is accompanied by passionate emotion and excitable behavior depends upon the temperament of the person experiencing it, the circumstances in which he finds himself, and what he thinks is expected of him. It is quite unjustified to link inspiration with instability or mental illness. Indeed, I believe that so-called “inspiration” is no more than an extreme example of a process which constantly goes on in the minds of all of us.
It is clear that inspiration is a different phenomenon from the kind of rational thinking which we employ when planning a journey or deciding between alternative courses of action. In Chapter 7, I criticized Freud’s view that there are two types of sharply contrasted mental functioning, the one being rational thought directed toward external reality, the other being fantasy unconnected with the real world and governed by wish fulfillment. Although Freud was certainly right in contrasting rational, directed thinking with day-dreaming, he did not admit the possibility that unconscious processes and fantasy also play an important part in the type of creative thinking which is concerned with reality rather than with wish fulfillment. Freud drew too sharp a distinction between rational and irrational. He linked together play, fantasy, and the dream as being unrealistic, childish forms of mental activity which were essentially escapist and governed by the unconscious, while supposing that thinking was a rational activity which was mainly controlled by the ego. These are the two principles of mental functioning which he named “primary process” and “secondary process.” Freud believed primary process to be directed by the pleasure principle, while secondary process was controlled by the reality principle.
Such a view can be criticized on two counts. First, Freud does not take into account the fact that even scientific thinking contains an element of play; what Einstein called “a free play with concepts.”28 Second, Freud fails to give an explanation for the way in which solutions to problems may suddenly appear without conscious deliberation. An example described by Gauss is quoted above. Because Freud regarded the unconscious as essentially chaotic, a boiling cauldron of primitive desires and impulses, he did not postulate any kind of ordering process as taking place unconsciously. Yet, from Gauss’s description and many similar reports, we know that there must be some kind of problem-solving, pattern-making process which goes on in the mind automatically, and which is certainly not directed consciously.
Graham Wallas has described a series of stages in the creative process which he calls preparation, incubation, illumination, and verification.29
Preparation is the stage in which a problem is investigated in all directions as thoroughly as possible. This investigation is consciously controlled and under the direction of the subject’s will.
Incubation is a stage in which the problem is laid aside, often for a considerable period. We do not know exactly what takes place during this stage, but we may assume that some kind of scanning, sorting process is going on rather like that which modern theory supposes is taking place in dreams. Whether the problem under consideration is aesthetic or scientific, incubation seems to be an inescapable part of the creative process. Brahms, for example, described the germ of musical inspiration as a “gift” which must at first be left alone:
At the time I must disregard this “gift” as completely as possible but ultimately I have to make it my own inalienable property by incessant labour. And that will not be quickly accomplished. The idea is like the seed-corn; it grows imperceptibly in secret. When I have invented or discovered the beginning of a song … I shut up the book and go for a walk or take up something else; I think no more of it for perhaps half a year. Nothing is lost, though. When I come back to it again it has unconsciously taken a new shape, and is ready for me to begin working at it.30
The creative person must, at some point, cease conscious striving and passively allow these mysterious processes to take place. To be able to do this requires confidence; some degree of faith that, out of doing nothing, something new will emerge.
The term “inspiration” can be applied both to the sudden appearance of what Brahms calls a “gift” and to the later appearance of the “new shape” which manifests itself after a period of incubation. But it might be clearer if we reserved “inspiration” to describe the first phenomenon, and used Graham Wallas’s term “illumination” for the second. Both phenomena are described by the mathematician Poincaré:
For fifteen days I strove to prove that there could not be any functions like those I have since called Fuchsian functions. I was then very ignorant; every day I seated myself at my work table, stayed an hour or two, tried a. great number of combinations and reached no results. One evening, contrary to my custom, I drank black coffee and could not sleep. Ideas rose in crowds; I felt them collide until pairs interlocked, so to speak, making a stable combination. By the next morning I had established the existence of a class of Fuchsian functions, those which come from the hypergeometric series; I had only to write out the results, which took but a few hours.
Later, Poincaré describes going on a journey which made him forget his mathematical work:
Having reached Coutances, we entered an omnibus to go some place or other. At the moment when I put my foot on the step the idea came to me, without anything in my former thoughts seeming to have paved the way for it, that the transformations I had used to define the Fuchsian functions were identical with those of non-Euclidean geometry. I did not verify the idea; I should not have had time, as, upon taking my seat in the omnibus, I went on with a conversation already commenced, but I felt a perfect certainty. On my return to Caen, for conscience’ sake I verified the result at my leisure.31
Inspiration, incubation, and illumination are all dependent upon mental processes which are not under the control of the will and which are far removed from Freud’s notion of directed, “secondary process” thinking controlled by the reality principle. But this does not mean that such processes are escapist, childish, or unrealistic. Still less does it imply that these processes are in any way connected with mental instability. Although the “normal” person may not be capable of the creative achievements of a Brahms or a Poincaré, he is actually quite familiar with the processes of incubation and illumination at a humbler level. Most people know what it is to be tormented with anxiety about some problem or choice to which there appears to be no clear-cut answer. Often, after a night’s rest, the solution appears obvious. “Sleeping on it” clearly gives time for some unconscious sorting process to take place which could be called short-term incubation.
Inspiration and illumination have, as we saw earlier, been associated with insanity because of the confusion between insanity and “divine madness.” The link with insanity may also have been made because these phenomena are dependent upon unconscious processes which we do not fully understand and which therefore appear mysterious; as incomprehensible as delusions or hallucinations. Having disposed of the notion that there is any connection between insanity and inspiration, let us return to the original problem of whether or not there is any other possible link between genius and mental illness.
We have stated that creative people, when they do suffer from mental illness, usually cease production or at least show a decline in the qua
lity of what they produce. On the other hand, we have also noted that what appears to be a rather large proportion of creative writers are either manic-depressives, or else subject to recurrent attacks of depression without mania or hypomania. In trying to reconcile these opposites, we may be able to throw some light upon the two opposing views of genius which were outlined at the beginning of this chapter.
One feature of the highly creative is the zeal with which they pursue their chosen avocation. Creative ability is not simply a question of being endowed by Nature with superior gifts. It is not rare to encounter people of extremely high intelligence who, nevertheless, are not creative. They seem to lack the driving force, the compulsive urge to discovery, which characterizes men and women of genius. Although some geniuses achieve immediate recognition, innovators are often reviled. Many creative people labor for years in obscurity, or are only recognized posthumously. Although the desire for fame and prosperity is certainly one motive impelling most creative endeavors, it is not the only motive, nor, I believe, the most important. The act of creation, whether in the arts or in the sciences, is self-rewarding, quite apart from any worldly success which it may bring.
The two opposing views about the nature of genius which have formed the main subject of this chapter can be reconciled if we assume that men and women who are creatively gifted are characterized by a susceptibility to mental illness which is greater than average, but which does not necessarily lead to actual breakdown because creative powers are to some extent protective against mental illness. Experimental psychology lends some support to this hypothesis. It has been demonstrated that creative people exhibit more neurotic traits than the average person, but are also better equipped than most people to deal with their neurotic problems. It has also been shown that some of the psychological characteristics which are inherited as part of the predisposition to schizophrenia are divergent, loosely associative styles of thinking which, when normal, are “creative,” but which, when out of control, are transformed into the “thought disorder” typical of schizophrenia.
If it is true that creative work is protective against breakdown, we can understand why some talented people are motivated to employ their talents in creative endeavor, while others are not. Those who have inherited a predisposition to mental disorder will be internally driven by forces which do not operate in the well balanced. In the case of the creative writers who are subject to severe attacks of depression, it is not difficult to understand how creative work can stave off descent into the abyss. One of the main characteristics of persons who are particularly liable to depression is the fragility of their self-esteem. We all become temporarily depressed as a consequence of loss, failure, or bereavement. But most of us, because of a fortunate genetic endowment or a felicitous early childhood, possess inner sources of self-esteem which are sufficient to sustain us in the face of the normal hazards of existence. When fate assails us, we reel, but we recover. We know that, come what may, we shall live to fight another day. But those prone to severe depression have no such conviction. They seem to lack any inner sources of self-esteem. When faced with even a minor setback, a marital quarrel, a rejection slip, or a bad review, they are plunged into a state of melancholia from which they can envisage no escape. For such people, avoidance of this state becomes the major endeavor of their lives. Some, like Balzac, keep the devil at bay by manic overwork. Success and public recognition can, in some degree, compensate for inner emptiness by providing recurrent injections of self-esteem from external sources. Depressives are as dependent upon frequent “fixes” of recognition and success as are addicts on their drug. It is not difficult to understand that liability to depression is a powerful spur to creative achievement in those who are gifted enough to use this way of coping with their temperamental vulnerability.
But liability to depression is not the only variety of mental disability. There are also those whom psychiatrists call schizoid; people who, if they become mentally ill, are likely to develop some variety of schizophrenic illness. Kafka, who is the subject of Chapter 2, is an example of this type of personality, and a writer whose talent almost certainly protected him from becoming overtly mentally ill. Schizoid people have great difficulty in forming close relationships. They want intimacy, but also fear it. By keeping aloof, they are protecting what they feel to be a fragile ego from being damaged or submerged by close involvement. Newton, who is discussed in Chapter 3, is an extreme example. A particularly strong need for autonomy is characteristic of some philosophers. It is an odd and interesting fact that most of the world’s greatest thinkers since the time of the Greeks have not married or formed close personal ties. The higher reaches of abstract thought require long periods of solitary concentration which are incompatible with married life. But those who are attracted to such intellectual pursuits are generally those who shun close involvement as threatening rather than treating it as life-enhancing. Independence of thought and emotional independence march hand in hand.
Leibniz attributed his autonomy as a thinker to the fact that he taught himself and did not cumber his brain with teachings accepted on authority. Spinoza believed that his own power of logical reasoning was the only instrument necessary to create a comprehensive philosophy. Kant stated that the autonomy of the will was the sole principle of all moral laws. Wittgenstein proclaimed that he was glad that he had not let himself be influenced. Nietzsche insisted on what he called independence of soul. None of these philosophers married. Most lived alone for the greater part of their lives.
Complete personal isolation is not a possibility for human beings who wish to retain their sanity. Those who are temperamentally incapable of close relationships and who are also gifted may use writing as an indirect way of communication. But there is another, more important function which creative endeavor performs which is particularly significant both in people who fear insanity, and in those who fear being overwhelmed or destroyed by intimate relationships. The creative act is essentially integrative. Opposites are united; disparate elements are reconciled. At least some of those who create their own, autonomous Weltanschauung are driven to do so by a need to prevent their own disintegration.
Although Lamb was right in affirming that the genius is not mad in that “he is not possessed by his subject, but has dominion over it,” he was wrong in asserting that “the greatness of wit, by which the poetic talent is here chiefly to be understood, manifests itself in the admirable balance of all the faculties.”
In the consideration of genius, imbalance, too, has its place. The motive force which impels a man or woman to embark upon the hazardous, often unrewarding task of endeavoring to make coherence out of the external world or out of their own inner selves often originates from alienation or despair. As Irvin Ehrenpreis once put it, “The power of the human mind to recompose painful ordeals as shapely and seductive music, as stories or poems—these resources are what keep us from going rigid with horror in the face of the grinding wretchedness that even the most placid existence must endure.”32
NOTES
1. Charles Lamb, Essays of Elia and Last Essays of Elia (London: Everyman’s Library, 1977), p. 219.
2. Jonathan Richardson, An Essay on the Theory of Painting (London: W. Bowyer for J. Churchill, 1715), pp. 34, 199, 201.
3. Giorgio Vasari, Le vite de’ piu eccelenti pittori scultori ed architetti, 9 vols., ed. Gaetano Milanesi (Florence: G. C. Sansoni, 1878–85), 4:315–16.
4. Thomas Carlyle, Frederick the Great, bk. 4, ch. 3.
5. Francis Galton, Hereditary Genius, 2d ed. (London: Macmillan, 1892), p. ix.
6. Ibid.
7. Havelock Ellis, A Study of British Genius (London: Hurst and Blackett, 1904), p. 191.
8. J. H. Plokker, Artistic Self-Expression in Mental Disease, trans. Ian Finlay (London and The Hague: Mouton, 1964), p. 70.
9. Eliot Slater and Alfred Meyer, “Contributions to a Pathography of the Musicians: Robert Schumann,” Confinia Psychiatrica 2 (1959):65–94.
10. Ric
hard Osborne, Rossini (London: Dent, 1986).
11. Seneca, “De tranquillitate animi,” in Moral Essays, ed. and trans. John W. Basore (London: Heinemann, 1932), 17.10–12.
12. John Dryden, Absalom and Achitophel, part 1, line 150.
13. Franz G. Alexander and Sheldon T. Selesnick, The History of Psychiatry (London: Allen and Unwin, 1967), p. 140.
14. Ibid., p. 174.
15. Wilhelm Lange-Eichbaum, Genie, Irrsinn und Ruhm (Munich and Basel, 1956).
16. The Maxims of Marcel Proust, ed. Justin O’Brien (New York: Columbia University Press, 1948).
17. Kay R. Jamison, “Mood Disorders and Seasonal Patterns in Top British Writers and Artists,” unpublished data.
18. N.J. C. Andreasen and A. Canter, “The Creative Writer,” Comprehensive Psychiatry 15 (1974): 123–31.
19. James Boswell, The Life of Samuel Johnson, LL.D., 3d ed., vol. 1, ed. G. Birkbeck Hill (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1887), pp. 63–64.
20. R. B. Onians, The Origins of European Thought (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1954), pp. 161–62.
21. Iris Murdoch, The Fire and the Sun: Why Plato Banished the Artists (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1977), p. 2.
22. J. W. Cross, ed., George Eliot’s Life as Related in Her Letters and Journals, vol. 3 (Edinburgh and London: W. Blackwood and Sons, 1885), pp. 421–25.
23. W. Jerrold, ed., Roundabout Papers: The Works of William Makepeace Thackeray with Biographical Introductions by His Daughter, Anne Ritchie, vol. 12 (London: Smith, Elder, 1903), pp. 374–75.
24. H. Treffry Dunn, Recollections of Dante Gabriel Rossetti and His Circle (London: E. Mathews, 1904), p. 64.
25. Quoted in Modeste Tchaikovsky, The Life and Letters of Peter Ilich Tchaikovsky, trans. Rosa Newmarch (London: J. Lane, 1906), pp. 274–75.
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