“Ah—there I begin to follow you!”
“Of course!.. Well now, we jump from that to another psychological aspect of this process of wish-fulfillment. And that is this. A work of art is good if it is successfuclass="underline" that is, if it succeeds in giving the auditor or reader an illusion, however momentary; if it convinces him, and, in convincing him, adds something to his experience both in range and coherence, both in command of feeling and command of expression. And here we come to the idea which is terribly disquieting to the purely esthetic critic, who likes to believe that there are absolute standards of excellence in art. For if we take a functional view of art, as we must, then everything becomes relative; and the shilling shocker or smutty story, which captivates Bill the sailor, is giving him exactly the escape and aggrandizement, and therefore beauty, that Hamlet gives to you or me. The equation is the same. What right have you got, then, to assume that Hamlet is ‘better’ than Deadeye Dick? On absolute grounds, none whatever. They are intended for different audiences, and each succeeds. Of course, Hamlet is infinitely more complex than the other. And we can and should record that fact and study it carefully, seeing in art, as we see in our so-called civilization, an apparent evolution from simple to complex. Well, all this being true, why be an artist? Or for which audience?… That’s the horrible problem.”
“I can see you’re in a bad fix. But if you feel that way about it, why not give it up? And do something really useless like me — selling chewing-gum or lace petticoats to people who don’t want them? Why not?”
“Yes, why not? The answer is, that though I’m an unsuccessful artist — pleasing practically nobody but myself — and though, as a good psychologist, I scorn or at any rate see through the whole bloody business, nevertheless I have that particular sort of neurosis, verbal in its outward expression, which will probably keep me an artist till I die or go mad.… Suppose I’m a sort of forerunner, a new type. And what then?”
“A new type? Tell it to the marines! You don’t look it. You’re no more a new type than I am.”
“Yes, sir! A type in which there is an artist’s neurosis, but also a penetrating intelligence which will not permit, or permit only with contempt, the neurosis to work itself out! If you want a parallel which will make the predicament clear, conceive a Christ, for example, who understood the nature of his psychological affliction, foresaw its fatal consequences for himself, foresaw also that to yield to his neurosis would perhaps retard the development of mankind for four thousand years, and nevertheless had to yield to it. As a matter of fact, that illustration occurs to me because it is the theme of a play that I’ve had in mind for some time. The Man Who Was Greater Than God.”
“It’s a damned good title, I’ll say that much for it! But if you ever got it on the stage, you’d be mobbed.”
“Oh, it would be impossible at present. At any rate, it probably would be, if my hero was too palpably modeled on Christ. I could, however, and probably would, represent him as a modern man, an intelligent man, who nevertheless had religious delusions of grandeur. Perhaps an illegitimate child, who compensated for that flaw in his descent by believing himself to be the son of God … Or, I’ve also considered dropping the Messiah idea altogether, and having for my hero an artist, or a writer, or perhaps a social reformer. In that case, I betray myself—it’s really myself I should be portraying in either character. The Strindberg and Nietzsche and von Kleist type, but with the addition of intellectual poise, or insight! However, what good would it do? What’s the use of doing it? The predicament of the hero would be too exceptional to be widely interesting — no audience could possibly sympathize with him. The Messiah, on the other hand, would be a figure universally appealing … Yes, it would have to be the Messiah, much as I prefer the artist … But — why not act that play, in my own life, instead of thus taking flight from the problem in one more surrender to my neurosis?”
“Act it? I don’t get you. How do you mean act it?”
“Well, in the play the hero would finally decide (perhaps he is pushed, somewhat, to this conclusion by his friend, a psychoanalyst) to abjure his art, entirely and forever. To anyone who is an artist, that scene would be positively plangent with invitations to narcissistic anguish — every artist, beholding, would weep for himself. Imagine it. A Shakespeare, for instance, deciding for the good of humanity, not to write plays! Seeing them all there — his Hamlet, his Othello, his Lear, his Cleopatra, his magnificent Coriolanus — and dismissing them unborn! Very touching. And to make it worse, he perhaps pays for this in a complete mental breakdown, or death … That’s the play: in which, as you see, I have all the luxury of this suicidal decision, but also the luxury of having again, and thus intimately, adored myself. Now the question is — why not do it, instead of writing it? Why not give up, in advance, that play and all my other ambitions? I think very seriously of it; at the same time suspecting that my whole life would be deranged by it … It’s a nice little problem. To write, or to commit suicide.”
“Don’t do either! but have a cocktail!”
“That’s not a bad idea, either! a dry Martini would go nicely.”
“Steward! Can we have two dry Martinis, please?”
“Two dry Martinis, yes, sir.”
“Yes, it’s very sad and complicated. If you look at the problem from a purely humanitarian point of view, and try to solve it solely in the interests of mankind — even then, it’s not too simple. In the first place, there is always the possibility that the whole Freudian idea, as thus applied to art, is wrong. It may be that art will be a permanent necessity for man, a penalty that he pays for having become a social and civilized animal. How can we be sure? If I go on writing plays and novels, may I not at any rate give aid and comfort to a few verbalistic lunatics like myself, and help them to keep their spiritual balance in this melancholy world? And isn’t that a good deed?… But no, I’m not sure. The intellectual side of me declines to believe in that — or balks at it. I have what my friend Tompkins, the psychoanalyst, calls a Samson complex.”
“This gets deeper and darker. Have a drink. Here’s to the Samson complex!”
“Your bloody good health!”
“Not bad at all.”