Brain Pickings

The Well of Being: An Extraordinary Children’s Book for Grownups about the Art of Living with Openhearted Immediacy

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A lyrical invitation to awaken from the trance of the limiting stories we tell ourselves and just live.

“This is the greatest damn thing about the universe,” Henry Miller wrote in his magnificent meditation on the meaning of existence, “that we can know so much, recognize so much, dissect, do everything, and we can’t grasp it.” Paradoxically enough, the fragment of the universe we seem least equipped to grasp is the truth of who we ourselves are. Who are we, really, when we silence the ego’s shrill commands about who we should be, and simply listen to the song of life as it sings itself through us?

That’s what French-born, Baltimore-based artist Jean-Pierre Weill explores in The Well of Being (public library) — an extraordinary “children’s book for adults,” three years in the making, that peers into the depths of the human experience and the meaning of our existence, tracing how the stories we tell ourselves to construct our personae obscure the truth of our personhood, and how we can untell them in order to just be.

Succumbing neither to religiosity nor to scientism, neither to myth nor to materialism, Weill dances across the Big Bang, the teachings of the 18th-century Italian philosopher and mystic Ramchal, evolution, 9/11, and life’s most poetic and philosophical dimensions. He tells the lyrical story of a man — an androgynous being who “represents Everyman and also Everywoman,” as Weill explains in the endnotes — moving from the origin of the universe to the perplexities of growing up to the mystery of being alive. At the center of it is the unity of life and the connectedness of the universe, “our encounter with One, well-being.”

What emerges from Weill’s ethereal watercolors and enchanting words is a secular scripture, at once grounding and elevating — a gentle prod to awaken from the trance of our daily circumstances and live with openhearted immediacy, a message partway between Seneca’s exhortation to stop living in expectancy and Mary Oliver’s invitation to begin belonging to this world.

I see that you’re reading.

As the train is late let me take you on an excursion to the place we long for.

I ask of you one thing: bring attention to your thoughts, those that take you from this book, quiet them… and value this listening as if it were a mysterious gift yours for the taking.

Let us string a bead of thought, an article of faith.

Our existence is not an accident but a mystery… We can entrust ourselves to this mystery, for we are part of it. Indeed we are it.

I don’t say there isn’t much work to do, for there is.

And some tracks lead to excruciating darkness, where a person can tumble from the sky on a clear September morning.

Yet is the world not whole? Is it not beautiful?

For now, let’s consider well-being a choice, something you can try on and wear. When we put on the hat and coat of well-being we incline towards joy without special occasion.

At the heart of the lyrical story is the somewhat discomfiting yet necessary reminder that although our self-delusions are an adaptive crutch and the masks we wear are a protective survival mechanism, unless we learn to revise our inner storytelling and let ourselves be seen, we will continue to keep ourselves small with the stories we tell ourselves.

Weill writes:

We organize our circumstances into stories, stories we pick up along the way and carry with us.

Stories that declare, I’m lacking.

Why me? stories.

I’m alone, stories.

What will I amount to? stories.

Stories about who we should be.

Or think we are.

They are interior maps whose familiar roads we travel. Over and over. Yet when we apprehend these maps, these stories, these patterns … we awaken and rise, as it were, to a new perspective, to new possibilities.

Complement the immeasurably wonderful The Well of Being with Seth Godin’s very different and yet similar-in-spirit “children’s book for grownups” about creative courage and living with vulnerability, then revisit Dostoyevsky’s existential epiphany and drink from Anne Lamott’s well of being with her soul-stretching inquiry into how we find meaning in a crazy world.

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This Idea Must Die: Some of the World’s Greatest Thinkers Each Select a Major Misconception Holding Us Back

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From the self to left brain vs. right brain to romantic love, a catalog of broken theories that hold us back from the conquest of Truth.

“To kill an error is as good a service as, and sometimes even better than, the establishing of a new truth or fact,” asserted Charles Darwin in one of the eleven rules for critical thinking known as Prospero’s Precepts. If science and human knowledge progress in leaps and bounds of ignorance, then the recognition of error and the transcendence of falsehood are the springboard for the leaps of progress. That’s the premise behind This Idea Must Die: Scientific Theories That Are Blocking Progress (public library) — a compendium of answers Edge founder John Brockman collected by posing his annual question“What scientific idea is ready for retirement?” — to 175 of the world’s greatest scientists, philosophers, and writers. Among them are Nobel laureates, MacArthur geniuses, and celebrated minds like theoretical physicist and mathematician Freeman Dyson, biological anthropologist Helen Fisher, cognitive scientist and linguist Steven Pinker, media theorist Douglas Rushkoff, philosopher Rebecca Newberger Goldstein, psychologist Howard Gardner, social scientist and technology scholar Sherry Turkle, actor and author Alan Alda, futurist and Wired founding editor Kevin Kelly, and novelist, essayist, and screenwriter Ian McEwan.

Brockman paints the backdrop for the inquiry:

Science advances by discovering new things and developing new ideas. Few truly new ideas are developed without abandoning old ones first. As theoretical physicist Max Planck (1858–1947) noted, “A new scientific truth does not triumph by convincing its opponents and making them see the light, but rather because its opponents eventually die, and a new generation grows up that is familiar with it.” In other words, science advances by a series of funerals.

Many of the answers are redundant — but this is a glorious feature rather than a bug of Brockman’s series, for its chief reward is precisely this cumulative effect of discerning the zeitgeist of ideas with which some of our era’s greatest minds are tussling in synchronicity. They point to such retirement-ready ideas as IQ, the self, race, the left brain vs. right brain divide, human nature and essentialism, free will, and even science itself. What emerges is the very thing Carl Sagan deemed vital to truth in his Baloney Detection Kit — a “substantive debate on the evidence by knowledgeable proponents of all points of view.”

Illustration by Lizi Boyd from 'Flashlight.' Click image for more.

One of the most profound undercurrents across the answers has to do with our relationship with knowledge, certainty, and science itself. And one of the most profound contributions in that regard comes from MacArthur fellow Rebecca Newberger Goldstein, a philosopher who thinks deeply and dimensionally about some of the most complex questions of existence. Assailing the idea that science makes philosophy obsolete — that science is the transformation of “philosophy’s vagaries into empirically testable theories” and philosophy merely the “cold-storage room in which questions are shelved until the sciences get around to handling them” — Goldstein writes:

The obsolescence of philosophy is often taken to be a consequence of science. After all, science has a history of repeatedly inheriting — and definitively answering — questions over which philosophers have futilely hemmed and hawed for unconscionable amounts of time.

The gravest problem with this theory, Goldstein notes, is its internal incoherence:

You can’t argue for science making philosophy obsolete without indulging in philosophical arguments… When pressed for an answer to the so-called demarcation problem, scientists almost automatically reach for the notion of “falsifiability” first proposed by Karl Popper. His profession? Philosophy. But whatever criterion you offer, its defense is going to implicate you in philosophy.

This is something that Dorion Sagan, Carl Sagan’s son, has previously addressed, but Goldstein brings to it unparalleled elegance of thought and eloquence of expression:

A triumphalist scientism needs philosophy to support itself. And the lesson here should be generalized. Philosophy is joined to science in reason’s project. Its mandate is to render our views and our attitudes maximally coherent.

In doing so, she argues, philosophy provides “the reasoning that science requires in order to claim its image as descriptive.” As a proponent of the vital difference between information and wisdom — the former being the material of science, the latter the product of philosophy, and knowledge the change agent that transmutes one into the other — I find the provocative genius of Goldstein’s conclusion enormously invigorating:

What idea should science retire? The idea of “science” itself. Let’s retire it in favor of the more inclusive “knowledge.”

Neuroscientist Sam Harris, author of the indispensable Spirituality Without Religion, echoes this by choosing our narrow definition of “science” as the idea to be put to rest:

Search your mind, or pay attention to the conversations you have with other people, and you’ll discover that there are no real boundaries between science and philosophy — or between those disciplines and any other that attempts to make valid claims about the world on the basis of evidence and logic. When such claims and their methods of verification admit of experiment and/or mathematical description, we tend to say our concerns are “scientific”; when they relate to matters more abstract, or to the consistency of our thinking itself, we often say we’re being “philosophical”; when we merely want to know how people behaved in the past, we dub our interests “historical” or “journalistic”; and when a person’s commitment to evidence and logic grows dangerously thin or simply snaps under the burden of fear, wishful thinking, tribalism, or ecstasy, we recognize that he’s being “religious.”

The boundaries between true intellectual disciplines are currently enforced by little more than university budgets and architecture… The real distinction we should care about — the observation of which is the sine qua non of the scientific attitude — is between demanding good reasons for what one believes and being satisfied with bad ones.

In a sentiment that calls to mind both Richard Feynman’s spectacular ode to a flower and Carl Sagan’s enduring wisdom on our search for meaning, Harris applies this model of knowledge to one of the great mysteries of science and philosophy — consciousness:

Even if one thinks the human mind is entirely the product of physics, the reality of consciousness becomes no less wondrous, and the difference between happiness and suffering no less important. Nor does such a view suggest that we’ll ever find the emergence of mind from matter fully intelligible; consciousness may always seem like a miracle. In philosophical circles, this is known as “the hard problem of consciousness” — some of us agree that this problem exists, some of us don’t. Should consciousness prove conceptually irreducible, remaining the mysterious ground for all we can conceivably experience or value, the rest of the scientific worldview would remain perfectly intact.

The remedy for all this confusion is simple: We must abandon the idea that science is distinct from the rest of human rationality. When you are adhering to the highest standards of logic and evidence, you are thinking scientifically. And when you’re not, you’re not.

Illustration from 'Once Upon an Alphabet' by Oliver Jeffers. Click image for more.

Psychologist Susan Blackmore, who studies this very problem — famously termed “the hard problem of consciousness” by philosopher David Chalmers in 1996 — benches the idea that there are neural correlates to consciousness. Tempting as it may be to interpret neural activity as the wellspring of that special something we call “consciousness” or “subjective experience,” as opposed to the “unconscious” rest of the brain, Blackmore admonishes that such dualism is past its cultural expiration date:

Dualist thinking comes naturally to us. We feel as though our conscious experiences were of a different order from the physical world. But this is the same intuition that leads to the hard problem seeming hard. It’s the same intuition that produces the philosopher’s zombie — a creature identical to me in every way except that it has no consciousness. It’s the same intuition that leads people to write, apparently unproblematically, about brain processes being either conscious or unconscious… Intuitively plausible as it is, this is a magic difference. Consciousness is not some weird and wonderful product of some brain processes but not others. Rather, it’s an illusion constructed by a clever brain and body in a complex social world. We can speak, think, refer to ourselves as agents, and so build up the false idea of a persisting self that has consciousness and free will.

Much of the allure of identifying such neural correlates of consciousness, Blackmore argues, lies in cultural mythologies rooted in fantasy rather than fact:

While people are awake they must always be conscious of something or other. And that leads along the slippery path to the idea that if we knew what to look for, we could peer inside someone’s brain and find out which processes were the conscious ones and which the unconscious ones. But this is all nonsense. All we’ll ever find are the neural correlates of thoughts, perceptions, memories, and the verbal and attentional processes that lead us to think we’re conscious.

When we finally have a better theory of consciousness to replace these popular delusions, we’ll see that there’s no hard problem, no magic difference, and no NCCs.

Illustration by Rob Hunter from 'A Graphic Cosmogony.' Click image for more.

In a related grievance, social psychologist Bruce Hood — author of the uncomfortable yet strangely comforting The Self Illusion — does away with the notion of the self. Half a century after Alan Watts enlisted Eastern philosophy in this mission, Hood presents a necessary integration of science and philosophy:

It seems almost redundant to call for the retirement of the free willing self, as the idea is neither scientific nor is this the first time the concept has been dismissed for lack of empirical support. The self did not have to be discovered; it’s the default assumption most of us experience, so it wasn’t really revealed by methods of scientific inquiry.

[…]

Yet the self, like a conceptual zombie, refuses to die. It crops up again and again in recent theories of decision making, as an entity with free will which can be depleted. It reappears as an interpreter in cognitive neuroscience, as able to integrate parallel streams of information arising from separable neural substrates. Even if these appearances of the self are understood to be convenient ways of discussing the emergent output of multiple parallel processes, students of the mind continue to implicitly endorse the idea that there’s a decision maker, an experiencer, a point of origin.

We know the self is constructed because it can be so easily deconstructed — through damage, disease, and drugs. It must be an emergent property of a parallel system processing input, output, and internal representations. It’s an illusion because it feels so real, but that experience is not what it seems. The same is true for free will. Although we can experience the mental anguish of making a decision… the choices and decisions we make are based on situations that impose on us. We don’t have the free will to choose the experiences that have shaped our decisions.

[…]

By abandoning the free willing self, we’re forced to reexamine the factors that are truly behind our thoughts and behavior and the way they interact, balance, override, and cancel out. Only then will we begin to make progress in understanding how we really operate.

Illustration by Ben Newman from 'A Graphic Cosmogony.' Click image for more.

Among the most provocative answers, in fact, is one examining the factors that underlie one of the most complex and seemingly human of our experiences: love. Biological anthropologist Helen Fisher, who studies the brain on love, points to romantic love and addiction as two concepts in need of serious reformulation and reframing — one best accomplished by understanding the intersection of the two. Fisher argues that we ought to broaden the definition of addiction and do away with science’s staunch notion that all addiction is harmful. Love, she argues with a wealth of neurobiological evidence in hand, is in fact a state that closely resembles that of addiction in terms of what happens in the brain during it — and yet love, anguishing as it may be at times, is universally recognized as the height of positive experience. In that respect, it presents a case of “positive addiction.” Fisher writes:

Love-besotted men and women show all the basic symptoms of addiction. Foremost, the lover is stiletto-focused on his/her drug of choice, the love object. The lover thinks obsessively about him or her (intrusive thinking), and often compulsively calls, writes, or stays in touch. Paramount in this experience is intense motivation to win one’s sweetheart, not unlike the substance abuser fixated on the drug. Impassioned lovers distort reality, change their priorities and daily habits to accommodate the beloved, experience personality changes (affect disturbance), and sometimes do inappropriate or risky things to impress this special other. Many are willing to sacrifice, even die for, “him” or “her.” The lover craves emotional and physical union with the beloved (dependence). And like addicts who suffer when they can’t get their drug, the lover suffers when apart from the beloved (separation anxiety). Adversity and social barriers even heighten this longing (frustration attraction).

In fact, besotted lovers express all four of the basic traits of addiction: craving, tolerance, withdrawal, and relapse. They feel a “rush” of exhilaration when they’re with their beloved (intoxication). As their tolerance builds, they seek to interact with the beloved more and more (intensification). If the love object breaks off the relationship, the lover experiences signs of drug withdrawal, including protest, crying spells, lethargy, anxiety, insomnia or hypersomnia, loss of appetite or binge eating, irritability, and loneliness. Lovers, like addicts, also often go to extremes, sometimes doing degrading or physically dangerous things to win back the beloved. And lovers relapse the way drug addicts do. Long after the relationship is over, events, people, places, songs, or other external cues associated with their abandoning sweetheart can trigger memories and renewed craving.

Fisher points to fMRI studies that have shown intense romantic love to trigger the brain’s reward system and the dopamine pathways responsible for “energy, focus, motivation, ecstasy, despair, and craving,” as well as the brain regions most closely associated with addiction and substance abuse. In shedding light on the neurochemical machinery of romantic love, Fisher argues, science reveals it to be a “profoundly powerful, natural, often positive addiction.”

Illustration by Christine Rösch from 'The Mathematics of Love.' Click image for more.

Astrophysicist Marcelo Gleiser, who has written beautifully about the necessary duality of knowledge and mystery, wants to do away with “the venerable notion of Unification.” He points out that smaller acts of unification and simplification are core to the scientific process — from the laws of thermodynamics to Newton’s law of universal gravity — but simplification as sweeping as reducing the world to a single Theory of Everything is misplaced:

The trouble starts when we take this idea too far and search for the Über-unification, the Theory of Everything, the arch-reductionist notion that all forces of nature are merely manifestations of a single force. This is the idea that needs to go.

Noting that at some point along the way, “math became equated with beauty and beauty with truth,” Gleiser writes:

The impulse to unify it all runs deep in the souls of mathematicians and theoretical physicists, from the Langlands program to superstring theory. But here’s the rub: Pure mathematics isn’t physics. The power of mathematics comes precisely from its detachment from physical reality. A mathematician can create any universe she wants and play all sorts of games with it. A physicist can’t; his job is to describe nature as we perceive it. Nevertheless, the unification game has been an integral part of physics since Galileo and has produced what it should: approximate unifications.

And yet this unification game, as integral as it may be to science, is also antithetical to it in the long run:

The scientific impulse to unify is crypto-religious… There’s something deeply appealing in equating all of nature to a single creative principle: To decipher the “mind of God” is to be special, is to answer to a higher calling. Pure mathematicians who believe in the reality of mathematical truths are monks of a secret order, open only to the initiated. In the case of high energy physics, all unification theories rely on sophisticated mathematics related to pure geometric structures: The belief is that nature’s ultimate code exists in the ethereal world of mathematical truths and that we can decipher it.

Echoing Richard Feynman’s spectacular commencement address admonishing against “cargo cult science,” Gleiser adds:

Recent experimental data has been devastating to such belief — no trace of supersymmetric particles, of extra dimensions, or of dark matter of any sort, all long-awaited signatures of unification physics. Maybe something will come up; to find, we must search. The trouble with unification in high energy physics is that you can always push it beyond the experimental range. “The Large Hadron Collider got to 7 TeV and found nothing? No problem! Who said nature should opt for the simplest versions of unification? Maybe it’s all happening at much higher energies, well beyond our reach.”

There’s nothing wrong with this kind of position. You can believe it until you die, and die happy. Or you can conclude that what we do best is construct approximate models of how nature works and that the symmetries we find are only descriptions of what really goes on. Perfection is too hard a burden to impose on nature.

People often see this kind of argument as defeatist, as coming from someone who got frustrated and gave up. (As in “He lost his faith.”) Big mistake. To search for simplicity is essential to what scientists do. It’s what I do. There are essential organizing principles in nature, and the laws we find are excellent ways to describe them. But the laws are many, not one. We’re successful pattern-seeking rational mammals. That alone is cause for celebration. However, let’s not confuse our descriptions and models with reality. We may hold perfection in our mind’s eye as a sort of ethereal muse. Meanwhile nature is out there doing its thing. That we manage to catch a glimpse of its inner workings is nothing short of wonderful. And that should be good enough.

Ceramic tile by Debbie Millman courtesy of the artist

Science writer Amanda Gefter takes issue with one particular manifestation of our propensity for oversimplification — the notion of the universe. She writes:

Physics has a time-honored tradition of laughing in the face of our most basic intuitions. Einstein’s relativity forced us to retire our notions of absolute space and time, while quantum mechanics forced us to retire our notions of pretty much everything else. Still, one stubborn idea has stood steadfast through it all: the universe.

[…]

In recent years, however, the concept of a single shared spacetime has sent physics spiraling into paradox. The first sign that something was amiss came from Stephen Hawking’s landmark work in the 1970s showing that black holes radiate and evaporate, disappearing from the universe and purportedly taking some quantum information with them. Quantum mechanics, however, is predicated upon the principle that information can never be lost.

Gefter points to recent breakthroughs in physics that produced one particularly puzzling such paradox, known as the “firewall paradox,” solved by the idea that spacetime is divided not by horizons but by the reference frames of the observers, “as if each observer had his or her own universe.”

But the solution isn’t a multiverse theory:

Yes, there are multiple observers, and yes, any observer’s universe is as good as any other’s. But if you want to stay on the right side of the laws of physics, you can talk only about one at a time. Which means, really, that only one exists at a time. It’s cosmic solipsism.

Here, psychology, philosophy, and cosmology converge, for what such theories suggest is what we already know about the human psyche — as I’ve put it elsewhere, the stories that we tell ourselves, whether they be false or true, are always real. Gefter concludes:

Adjusting our intuitions and adapting to the strange truths uncovered by physics is never easy. But we may just have to come around to the notion that there’s my universe and there’s your universe — but there’s no such thing as the universe.

Biological anthropologist Nina Jablonski points to the notion of race as urgently retirement-ready. Pointing out that it has always been a “vague and slippery concept,” she traces its origins to Hume and Kant — the first to divide humanity into geographic groupings called “races” — and the pseudoscientific seeds of racism this division planted:

Skin color, as the most noticeable racial characteristic, was associated with a nebulous assemblage of opinions and hearsay about the inherent natures of the various races. Skin color stood for morality, character, and the capacity for civilization; it became a meme.

Even though the atrocious “race science” that emerged in the 19th and early 20th century didn’t hold up — whenever scientists looked for actual sharp boundaries between groups, none came up — and race came to be something people identify themselves with as a shared category of experiences and social bonds, Jablonski argues that the toxic aftershocks of pseudoscience still poison culture:

Even after it has been shown that many diseases (adult-onset diabetes, alcoholism, high blood pressure, to name a few) show apparent racial patterns because people share similar environmental conditions, groupings by race are maintained. The use of racial self-categorization in epidemiological studies is defended and even encouraged. Medical studies of health disparities between “races” become meaningless when sufficient variables — such as differences in class, ethnic social practices, and attitudes — are taken into account.

Half a century after the ever-prescient Margaret Mead made the same point, Jablonski urges:

Race has a hold on history but no longer has a place in science. The sheer instability and potential for misinterpretation render race useless as a scientific concept. Inventing new vocabularies to deal with human diversity and inequity won’t be easy, but it must be done.

Psychologist Jonathan Gottschall, who has previously explored why storytelling is so central to the human experience, argues against the notion that there can be no science of art. With an eye to our civilization’s long struggle to define art, he writes:

We don’t even have a good definition, in truth, for what art is. In short, there’s nothing so central to human life that’s so incompletely understood.

Granted, Gottschall is only partly right, for there are some excellent definitions of art — take, for instance, Jeanette Winterson’s or Leo Tolstoy’s — but the fact that they don’t come from scientists only speaks to his larger point. He argues that rather than being unfit to shed light on the role of art in human life, science simply hasn’t applied itself to the problem adequately:

Scientific work in the humanities has mainly been scattered, preliminary, and desultory. It doesn’t constitute a research program.

If we want better answers to fundamental questions about art, science must jump into the game with both feet. Going it alone, humanities scholars can tell intriguing stories about the origins and significance of art, but they don’t have the tools to patiently winnow the field of competing ideas. That’s what the scientific method is for — separating the more accurate stories from the less accurate stories. But a strong science of art will require both the thick, granular expertise of humanities scholars and the clever hypothesis-testing of scientists. I’m not calling for a scientific takeover of the arts, I’m calling for a partnership.

[…]

The Delphic admonition “Know thyself” still rings out as the great prime directive of intellectual inquiry, and there will always be a gaping hole in human self-knowledge until we develop a science of art.

In a further testament to the zeitgeist-illuminating nature of the project, actor, author, and science-lover Alan Alda makes a passionate case for the same concept:

The trouble with truth is that not only is the notion of eternal, universal truth highly questionable, but simple, local truths are subject to refinement as well. Up is up and down is down, of course. Except under special circumstances. Is the North Pole up and the South Pole down? Is someone standing at one of the poles right-side up or upside-down? Kind of depends on your perspective.

When I studied how to think in school, I was taught that the first rule of logic was that a thing cannot both be and not be at the same time and in the same respect. That last note, “in the same respect,” says a lot. As soon as you change the frame of reference, you’ve changed the truthiness of a once immutable fact.

[…]

This is not to say that nothing is true or that everything is possible — just that it might not be so helpful for things to be known as true for all time, without a disclaimer… I wonder — and this is just a modest proposal — whether scientific truth should be identified in a way acknowledging that it’s something we know and understand for now, and in a certain way.

[…]

Facts, it seems to me, are workable units, useful in a given frame or context. They should be as exact and irrefutable as possible, tested by experiment to the fullest extent. When the frame changes, they don’t need to be discarded as untrue but respected as still useful within their domain. Most people who work with facts accept this, but I don’t think the public fully gets it.

That’s why I hope for more wariness about implying we know something to be true or false for all time and for everywhere in the cosmos.

Illustration from 'Once Upon an Alphabet' by Oliver Jeffers. Click image for more.

And indeed this elasticity of truth across time is at the heart of what I find to be the most beautiful and culturally essential contribution to the collection. As someone who believes that the stewardship of enduring ideas is at least as important as the genesis of new ones — not only because past ideas are the combinatorial building blocks of future ones but also because in order to move forward we always need a backdrop against which to paint the contrast of progress and improvement — I was most bewitched by writer Ian McEwan’s admonition against the arrogance of retiring any idea as an impediment to progress:

Beware of arrogance! Retire nothing! A great and rich scientific tradition should hang onto everything it has. Truth is not the only measure. There are ways of being wrong that help others to be right. Some are wrong, but brilliantly so. Some are wrong but contribute to method. Some are wrong but help found a discipline. Aristotle ranged over the whole of human knowledge and was wrong about much. But his invention of zoology alone was priceless. Would you cast him aside? You never know when you might need an old idea. It could rise again one day to enhance a perspective the present cannot imagine. It would not be available to us if it were fully retired.

To appreciate McEwan’s point, one need only look at something like Bertrand Russell’s timely thoughts on boredom, penned in 1930 and yet astoundingly resonant with our present anxieties about the societal side effects of current technology. McEwan captures this beautifully:

Every last serious and systematic speculation about the world deserves to be preserved. We need to remember how we got to where we are, and we’d like the future not to retire us. Science should look to literature and maintain a vibrant living history as a monument to ingenuity and persistence. We won’t retire Shakespeare. Nor should we Bacon.

Complement This Idea Must Die, the entirety of which weaves a mind-stretching mesh of complementary and contradictory perspectives on our relationship with knowledge, with some stimulating answers to previous editions of Brockman’s annual question, exploring the only thing worth worrying about (2013), the single most elegant theory of how the world works (2012), and the best way to make ourselves smarter (2011).

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26-Year-Old Frida Kahlo’s Compassionate Letter to 46-Year-Old Georgia O’Keeffe

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“I would like to tell you every thing that happened to me since the last time we saw each other, but most of them are sad and you mustn’t know sad things now.”

There is something uncommonly heartening about bearing witness to the virtuous cycle of support and mutual appreciation between two creative luminaries — elevating epistolary exchanges like those between Hermann Hesse and Thomas Mann, Mark Twain and Helen Keller, Ursula Nordstrom and Maurice Sendak, Ralph Waldo Emerson and Walt Whitman. They seem to remind us that, contrary to the toxic myth of the solitary genius, creative culture is propelled by the power of scenius, by the goodwill and generosity of kindred spirits, by tangible reminders that we belong to a human enterprise larger than we are.

One of the most touching such exchanges was between two of the greatest artists and most remarkable women the world has ever known — Frida Kahlo and Georgia O’Keeffe. Both were prolific letter writers — Kahlo in her passionate illustrated love letters to Diego Rivera, and O’Keeffe in her equally passionate love letters to Alfred Stieglitz, her lifelong correspondence with her best friend, and her emboldening missives to Sherwood Anderson. But what Kahlo wrote to O’Keeffe in 1933 was a wholly different kind of epistolary and human magic.

Even though the Mexican painter had herself been dealt an unfair hand — including a miscarriage just a few months earlier, her mother’s recent death, and more than thirty operations over the course of her life after a serious traffic accident during adolescence sent an iron rod through her stomach and uterus — Kahlo didn’t hesitate to reach out with a beam of compassion during O’Keeffe’s moment of crisis. Shortly after the American painter was hospitalized for a nervous breakdown and instructed by doctors not to paint for a year, Kahlo sent her an epitome of what Virginia Woolf so aptly called “the humane art.”

In a letter from March 1, 1933, preserved by the Beinecke Rare Book & Manuscript Library at Yale, Kahlo writes:

Georgia,

Was wonderful to hear your voice again. Every day since I called you and many times before months ago I wanted to write you a letter. I wrote you many, but every one seemed more stupid and empty and I torn them up. I can’t write in English all that I would like to tell, especially to you. I am sending this one because I promised it to you. I felt terrible when Sybil Brown told me that you were sick but I still don’t know what is the matter with you. Please Georgia dear if you can’t write, ask Stieglitz to do it for you and let me know how are you feeling will you? I’ll be in Detroit two more weeks. I would like to tell you every thing that happened to me since the last time we saw each other, but most of them are sad and you mustn’t know sad things now. After all I shouldn’t complain because I have been happy in many ways though. Diego is good to me, and you can’t imagine how happy he has been working on the frescoes here. I have been painting a little too and that helped. I thought of you a lot and never forget your wonderful hands and the color of your eyes. I will see you soon. I am sure that in New York I will be much happier. If you still in the hospital when I come back I will bring you flowers, but it is so difficult to find the ones I would like for you. I would be so happy if you could write me even two words. I like you very much Georgia.

Frieda

What’s especially interesting is the simultaneous mirroring and reversing of circumstances pertaining to the relationship between art and mental health. Kahlo had actually first begun painting while recovering, immobile in bed, from the brutal accident that nearly killed her. At the time of their 1933 correspondence, O’Keeffe was doing the opposite — recovering in bed from brutally overextending herself in art. But this wasn’t the only reversal between the two. Citing the letter in her book Carr, O’Keeffe, Kahlo: Places of Their Own (public library), Sharyn Rohlfsen Udal — who suggests that Kahlo, with her long history of affairs with both men and women, may have been interested in something more than friendship with O’Keeffe — writes:

The next confirmed record of the O’Keeffe–Kahlo contact was through their mutual friend Rose Covarrubias, who took O’Keeffe to visit Kahlo (confined to her bed in Coyoacan after a year-long hospitalization) twice during O’Keeffe’s 1951 visit to Mexico. It is an interesting reversal of roles from the 1933 contact, when it was O’Keeffe who was ill, Kahlo the solicitous visitor.

And that, perhaps, is the point — a palpable reminder that the history of arts and letters is strewn with these barely visible threads of mutuality, generosity, and goodwill, which stand as the most steadfast support structure for the creative spirit.

HT Open Culture

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The Unity of Dread and Bliss: Rilke on How Our Fear of the Unexplainable Robs Us of Joy

By:

“Fear of the unexplainable has not only impoverished our inner lives, but also diminished relations between people.”

“If we ever reach the point where we think we thoroughly understand who we are and where we came from,” Carl Sagan wrote in his spectacular lecture-turned-book on science and spirituality, “we will have failed.” More than a decade earlier, in delivering the same annual Gifford Lecture, Hannah Arendt argued that our appetite for “unanswerable questions” is what defines our humanity. But it was another great mind, not a scientist but a poet, who delivered this message with the most luminous immediacy many decades earlier: Rainer Maria Rilke.

In an exquisite passage from his Letters to a Young Poet — a secular masterwork with the timeless resonance of scripture, and the source of Rilke’s wisdom on what love asks of us and how to live the questions — later included in Joanna Macy’s infinitely ennobling A Year with Rilke: Daily Readings from the Best of Rainer Maria Rilke (public library), the poet writes in 1904:

The tendency of people to be fearful of those experiences they call apparitions or assign to the “spirit world,” including death, has done infinite harm to life. All these things so naturally related to us have been driven away through our daily resistance to them, to the point where our capacity to sense them has atrophied… Fear of the unexplainable has not only impoverished our inner lives, but also diminished relations between people; these have been dragged, so to speak, from the river of infinite possibilities and stuck on the dry bank where nothing happens. For it is not only sluggishness that makes human relations so unspeakably monotonous, it is the aversion to any new, unforeseen experience we are not sure we can handle.

Nearly two decades later, he revisits this slippery subject from another angle in a letter to Countess Margot Sizzo-Noris-Crouy:

The person who has not, in a moment of firm resolve, accepted — yes, even rejoiced in — what has struck him with terror — he has never taken possession of the full, ineffable power of our existence. He withdraws to the edge; when things play out, he will be neither alive nor dead.

To discover the unity of dread and bliss, these two faces of the same divinity (indeed, they reveal themselves as a single face that presents itself differently according to the way in which we see it): that is the essential meaning…

Complement the magnificent A Year with Rilke — which spans from Rilke’s early poems to the last sonnet he wrote days before his death from leukemia, and includes fragments of his letters, diaries, and prose — with Rilke on how befriending death can help us live more fully and astrophysicist Marcelo Gleiser on how to live with mystery in the age of knowledge.

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