One of the pleasures in writing this book, in addition to having an excuse to read all the works one should have read years ago, and rereading so many others, was the tours I did make of universities, meeting with writers, scientists, philosophers, filmmakers, academics, and others whose works feature in these pages. In all cases my methodology was similar. During the course of conversations that on occasion lasted for three hours or more, I would ask my interlocutor what in his/her opinion were the three most important ideas in his/her field in the twentieth century. Some people provided five ideas, while others plumped for just one. In economics three experts, two of them Nobel Prize winners, overlapped to the point where they suggested just four ideas between them, when they could have given nine.
The book is a narrative. One way of looking at the achievement of twentieth-century thought is to view it as the uncovering of the greatest narrative there is. Accordingly, most of the chapters move forward in time: I think of these as longitudinal or ‘vertical’ chapters. A few, however, are ‘horizontal’ or latitudinal. They are chapter I, on the year 1900; chapter 2, on Vienna at the turn of the century and the ‘halfway house’ character of its thought; chapter 8, on the miraculous year of 1913; chapter 9, on the intellectual consequences of World War I; chapter 23, on Jean-Paul Sartre’s Paris. Here, the forward march of ideas is slowed down, and simultaneous developments, sometimes in the same place, are considered in detail. This is partly because that is what happened; but I hope readers will also find the change of pace welcome. I hope too that readers will find helpful the printing of key names and concepts in bold type. In a big book like this one, chapter titles may not be enough of a guide.
The four parts into which the text is divided do seem to reflect definite changes in sensibility. In part 1 I have reversed the argument in Frank Kermode’s The Sense of an Ending (1967).11 In fiction particularly, says Kermode, the way plots end – and the concordance they show with the events that precede them – constitutes a fundamental aspect of human nature, a way of making sense of the world. First we had angels – myths – going on forever; then tragedy; most recently perpetual crisis. Part I, on the contrary, reflects my belief that in all areas of life – physics, biology, painting, music, philosophy, film, architecture, transport – the beginning of the century heralded a feeling of new ground being broken, new stories to be told, and therefore new endings to be imagined. Not everyone was optimistic about the changes taking place, but sheer newness is very much a defining idea of this epoch. This belief continued until World War I.
Although chapter 9 specifically considers the intellectual consequences of World War I, there is a sense in which all of part 2, ‘Spengler to Animal Farm: Civilisations and Their Discontents’, might also be regarded in the same way. One does not have to agree with the arguments of Freud’s 1931 book, which bore the title Civilisation and Its Discontents, to accept that his phrase summed up the mood of an entire generation.
Part 3 reflects a quite different sensibility, at once more optimistic than the prewar period, perhaps the most positive moment of the positive hour, when in the West – or rather the non-Communist world – liberal social engineering seemed possible. One of the more curious aspects of twentieth-century history is that World War I sparked so much pessimism, whereas World War II had the opposite effect.
It is too soon to tell whether the sensibility that determines part 4 and is known as post-modernism represents as much of a break as some say. There are those who see it as simply an addendum to modernism, but in the sense in which it promises an era of post-Western thought, and even post-scientific thought (see pages 755–56), it may yet prove to be a far more radical break with the past. This is still to be resolved. If we are entering a postscientific age (and I for one am sceptical), then the new millennium will see as radical a break as any that has occurred since Darwin produced ‘the greatest idea, ever.’
PART ONE
FREUD TO WITTGENSTEIN
The Sense of a Beginning
1
DISTURBING THE PEACE
The year 1900 A.D. need not have been remarkable. Centuries are man-made conventions after all, and although people may think in terms of tens and hundreds and thousands, nature doesn’t. She surrenders her secrets piecemeal and, so far as we know, at random. Moreover, for many people around the world, the year 1900 A.D. meant little. It was a Christian date and therefore not strictly relevant to any of the inhabitants of Africa, the Americas, Asia, or the Middle East. Nevertheless, the year that the West chose to call 1900 was an unusual year by any standard. So far as intellectual developments – the subject of this book – were concerned, four very different kinds of breakthrough were reported, each one offering a startling reappraisal of the world and man’s place within it. And these new ideas were fundamental, changing the landscape dramatically.
The twentieth century was less than a week old when, on Saturday, 6 January, in Vienna, Austria, there appeared a review of a book that would totally revise the way man thought about himself. Technically, the book had been published the previous November, in Leipzig as well as Vienna, but it bore the date 1900, and the review was the first anyone had heard of it. The book was entitled The Interpretation of Dreams, and its author was a forty-four-year-old Jewish doctor from Freiberg in Moravia, called Sigmund Freud.1 Freud, the eldest of eight children, was outwardly a conventional man. He believed passionately in punctuality. He wore suits made of English cloth, cut from material chosen by his wife. Very self-confident as a young man, he once quipped that ‘the good impression of my tailor matters to me as much as that of my professor.’2 A lover of fresh air and a keen amateur mountaineer, he was nevertheless a ‘relentless’ cigar smoker.3 Hanns Sachs, one of his disciples and a friend with whom he went mushrooming (a favourite pastime), recalled ‘deep set and piercing eyes and a finely shaped forehead, remarkably high at the temples.’4 However, what drew the attention of friends and critics alike was not the eyes themselves but the look that shone out from them. According to his biographer Giovanni Costigan, ‘There was something baffling in this look – compounded partly of intellectual suffering, partly of distrust, partly of resentment.’5
There was good reason. Though Freud might be a conventional man in his personal habits, The Interpretation of Dreams was a deeply controversial and – for many people in Vienna – an utterly shocking book. To the world outside, the Austro-Hungarian capital in 1900 seemed a gracious if rather antiquated metropolis, dominated by the cathedral, whose Gothic spire soared above the baroque roofs and ornate churches below. The court was stuck in an unwieldy mix of pomposity and gloom. The emperor still dined in the Spanish manner, with all the silverware laid to the right of the plate.6 The ostentation at court was one reason Freud gave for so detesting Vienna. In 1898 he had written, ‘It is a misery to live here and it is no atmosphere in which the hope of completing any difficult thing can survive.’7 In particular, he loathed the ‘eighty families’ of Austria, ‘with their inherited insolence, their rigid etiquette, and their swarm of functionaries.’ The Viennese aristocracy had intermarried so many times that they were in fact one huge family, who addressed each other as Du, and by nicknames, and spent their time at each others’ parties.8 This was not all Freud hated. The ‘abominable steeple of St Stefan’ he saw as the symbol of a clericalism he found oppressive. He was no music lover either, and he therefore had a healthy disdain for the ‘frivolous’ waltzes of Johann Strauss. Given all this, it is not hard to see why he should loathe his native city. And yet there are grounds for believing that his often-voiced hatred for the place was only half the picture. On II November 1918, as the guns fell silent after World War I, he made a note to himself in a memorandum, ‘Austria-Hungary is no more. I do not want to live anywhere else. For me emigration is out of the question. I shall live on with the torso and imagine that it is the whole.’9