The Geography of Genius

Eric Weiner

25 annotations • Jun 2024 • data

Introduction

This was the 1960s and '70s, a time when creativity and genius were not subjects the academy took seriously, which seems odd, given that universities are supposedly in the business of producing geniuses, but less odd when you consider that, as the author Robert Grudin so astutely observed, "there are two types of subjects that a culture studies little: those which it despises and those which it holds dearest."
We hold dear the notion of the solitary creator, courageously overcoming the odds, vanquishing the confederacy of dunces allied against her. Yet we secretly (and sometimes not so secretly) despise the know-it-all, especially one with dangerous new ideas.

Chapter 1

Why did this well-lit but otherwise unremarkable land give rise to a people unlike any other the world had seen, a people, as the great classicist Humphrey Kitto put it, "not very numerous, not very powerful, not very organized, who had a totally new conception of what human life was for, and showed for the first time what the human mind was for"?
Admission to the club of genius depends entirely on the whims, the fashion, of the day. "Creativity cannot be separated from its recognition," says psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, the main advocate of this theory. Put more bluntly, someone is only a genius if we say so.
A crucial question is not whether someone is competitive but, rather, for what (or whom) they are competing. In ancient Athens, the answer was clear: the city. The ancient Athenians enjoyed a deeply intimate relationship with their city, the likes of which we can scarcely imagine. The closest term we have to describe this sentiment is civic duty, but that carries the weight of obligation and doesn't sound like any fun. What the Athenians practiced was more like civic joy. That we find that juxtaposition of words odd speaks volumes about the chasm that separates us and the ancients.
One of the biggest misperceptions about places of genius, I'm discovering, is that they are akin to paradise. They are not. Paradise is antithetical to genius. Paradise makes no demands, and creative genius takes root through meeting demands in new and imaginative ways. "The Athenians matured because they were challenged on all fronts," said Nietzsche, in a variation of his famous "what doesn't kill you will make you stronger" line. Creativity is a response to our environment. Greek painting was a response to the complex light (the Greek painter Apollodoros was the first to develop a technique for creating the illusion of depth), Greek architecture a response to the complex landscape, Greek philosophy a response to the complex, uncertain times.
In ancient Athens, notes the great urbanist Lewis Mumford, "poverty was not an embarrassment: if anything, riches were suspect."
Freedom, not democracy, is what's needed, he had told me. They're not the same thing. "You can have enlightened autocrats. China never had democracy but they had enlightened autocrats." Some psychologists go even further, suggesting that oligarchies may actually foster more creativity than democracies since, with less public oversight, they're more willing to engage in risky or "unnecessary" projects.
Eccentric, barefoot, and endearingly stubborn, Socrates occupied that precarious position that all geniuses do—perched between insider and outsider. Far enough outside the mainstream to see the world through fresh eyes, yet close enough so that those fresh insights resonated with others.
What distinguishes geniuses is not a seamless fit with their times but, rather, what psychologist Keith Sawyer calls "the capacity to be able to exploit an apparent misfit." This was certainly the case with Socrates; he pushed the boundaries of acceptable discourse—and got away with it, until he didn't. His ideas resonated even as they riled. That is the way it is with geniuses. They fit in their times the way a pearl fits in an oyster shell. Uncomfortably yet essentially. A useful irritant.
Alcohol and creativity have long been linked in the public imagination, and in the imagination of inebriated writers and artists down through the ages. William Faulkner said he wasn't able to face the blank page without a bottle of Jack Daniel's. Many painters, from van Gogh to Jackson Pollock, liked a swig or four while working. Winston Churchill claims he could not have written The World Crisis, his five-volume memoir, without his muse, booze. Indeed, some call this alcohol-fueled productivity the "Churchill gene."
To understand the significance of the research, we need to step back and examine the four stages of the creative process: preparation, incubation, illumination, and verification. Alcohol affects each of these stages differently. One study, by Swedish psychologist Torsten Norlander, found that alcohol consumption facilitates the incubation stage—that is, when you're not actively trying to solve a problem but, instead, allow it to marinate, letting your unconscious have a crack at it—but impairs the verification stage. In other words, you may come up with brilliant ideas but you won't be able to recognize them.
The sober men took, on average, 15.4 seconds to come up with a creative response, but the vodka drinkers needed only 11.5 seconds. Later the researchers asked the volunteers (presumably after they sobered up) how they approached the task. The inebriated group tended to describe their approach as "intuitive," while the sober group used words like "analytical."
The study provides the first empirical evidence of something we have long suspected: alcohol decreases inhibition and, for some at least, opens creative channels otherwise shuttered.
Mathematicians, for instance, speak reverentially of an "elegant proof." An elegant proof is not merely correct but highly streamlined. Nothing extraneous, and nothing missing. An elegant proof is pleasing to the mind the way an elegant design is pleasing to the eye. The Greeks always sought the most elegant solution to any problem. Invariably, that meant finding connections, for, as historian Edith Hamilton put it, "to see anything in relation to other things is to see it simplified."
On an individual level, psychologists have identified this "openness to experience" as the single most important trait of exceptionally creative people. The same holds true for societies, as Dean Simonton's research shows. He examined a country that has, historically, been among the world's most closed societies: Japan. Looking at a long stretch of time, from 580 until 1939, Simonton compared Japan's "extra cultural influx" (travel abroad, immigration, etc.) and its national achievements in such fields as medicine, philosophy, painting, and literature. He found a consistent correlation: the greater Japan's openness, the greater its achievements, especially in the arts. This hold true, he believes, for all cultures; every leap forward is preceded by an exposure to foreign ideas.
Psychologists Christopher Long and Dara Greenwood recently investigated the connection between awareness of death and creativity. They asked a group of undergraduates to write humorous captions for New Yorker cartoons. Some of the students, though, were first "primed" with subliminal messages of death. These students produced cartoons judged to be more creative and more humorous.
Armand D'Angour, a classicist who was also trained as a psychotherapist, believes that this ability to process grief actually helps explain the Greek miracle. "The inability to acknowledge and mourn loss is apt to lead to a shutdown of vital creative impulses . . . only the resolution of loss allows for a fresh start and renewed access to sources of creativity,"

Chapter 2

If you're like me, you probably know that the Chinese invented gunpowder and fireworks. You're probably not aware, though, of the breadth and depth of Chinese accomplishments. The Chinese invented everything from the compass and block printing to mechanical clocks and toilet paper (a genius invention, if ever there was one). Medical advances were made during the golden age as well, and as political scientist Charles Murray points out, "If you were going to be ill in [the twelfth century] and were given the choice of living in Europe or China, there is no question about the right decision."
Places of genius require a degree of uncertainty, and perhaps even chaos.
In primitive societies, most people participate in creative activities. In more "advanced" ones, creativity becomes something special and therefore an option for fewer and fewer people.
Asian cultures—especially Confucian ones such as China and Korea—approach creativity very differently from Western ones. Westerners tend to be concerned solely with the outcome of creativity. The product, as it were. Asians care about process, the journey as much as the destination.
Also, Western cultures equate creativity with novelty; for us to consider something, anything, creative it must represent a radical break from tradition. Not so in Confucian countries such as China. The Chinese are less concerned with the novelty of an invention or idea and much more concerned with its utility. Not "Is this innovation new and surprising?" but "Is it useful?" In China, creativity represents not a break from tradition but a continuation of it, a circling back.
Why such different approaches? Our notions of creativity and genius are deeply rooted in our creation myths. These myths are extremely powerful. Even if you're not the least bit religious, chances are you have internalized them. "In the beginning God created heaven and earth." The impact of those words, on the religious and the secular alike, is enormous. In the Judeo-Christian tradition, it is possible—indeed admirable—to create something ex nihilo, from nothing. That is what God did in creating the world, and that is what we humans aim to do, too. In this worldview, the artist (or architect or software engineer) creates something out of the blue, something that did not exist before. The creative act, like time itself, is linear. The creator starts at X and advances—in fits and starts, with plenty of coffee breaks—until he or she reaches Y.
In Chinese cosmology, though, the universe, the Tao, has no beginning nor is there a creator. There has always been something and always will be. The creative act, therefore, is not one of invention but of discovery. The Chinese way is creatio in situ. Creation in context. Confucius himself said, "I transmit but do not create," and warned people away from the novel and unusual, lest they fall into the trap of "strange doctrines."