American Studies

Preface

The only reliable lesson the past teaches us is how locked we are in the present. People ask, Where are the great Hollywood movies, the great pop songs, the great television newsmen, the great Democratic presidents, the great public intellectuals, the Great Books?, as though these were all eternally available types. They are not. Their availability is a myth.

I wrote most of the essays contained in this book in an office that overlooked a block of Times Square during a period of frenetic redevelopment. Every day, I watched tall buildings being demolished so that even taller ones could be constructed on their sites. Everyone has had the experience of driving past work crews on the highway. You see five guys sipping coffee and watching one man with a pick while he hacks halfheartedly at some gravel. You suspect that in five minutes the man with the pick will also be on a coffee break. Six months later, there is a new road. Building demolition is like that. You can watch for hours while workers move a few planks on a temporary scaffolding. Maybe a man with a blowtorch is laboring with apparent futility on a huge steel beam. Nothing else is going on. Two days later, a floor has disappeared. At the end of three years, the derelict structure has been obliterated and a new tower, whose erection was similarly mysterious, shimmers in its place. I was a witness to this transformation several times, but somehow I never saw it.

History is the same. The critical massing of conditions that enables a particular way of life to come into being is almost impossible to detect while it is happening, and so is its deterioration. The world just rolls over, without anyone noticing exactly when, and a new set of circumstances is put in place. But the impulse to hold on to the past is very strong, and it is often hard to understand why things that worked once can’t continue to work. A lot of energy and imagination are consumed trying to fit old systems to new settings, though the pegs keep getting squarer and the holes keep getting rounder. In the end, the only way to make the past usable is to misinterpret it, which means, strictly speaking, to lose it.

Not every culture is like this, but American culture has been like this since the late nineteenth century. It is the culture of modernity, where the highest praise one can receive after death is to be declared to have been ahead of one’s time—which, in life, is pretty much the definition of unhappiness. Happiness is being in one’s time, and the essays in this book are all, in one way or another, about efforts to cope with that fact under the conditions of modern life. The book begins with a story about a man who was the first American to invent a full-scale philosophy for modernity, William James; it ends with the story of a woman determined not to be put in the position of having to repeat her first success, Maya Lin.

The essays are exercises in historical criticism. Historical criticism is the business of putting things back into their contexts to see whether that makes a difference to the way we understand them. Beyond the commitment to historicizing, there is really no method to it. The hardest part (besides knowing that you are fated always to get the past wrong on its own terms) is suppressing the element of wishful thinking that infects all critical writing. Cast a cold eye is possibly too stern a directive, but a cool eye is desirable.

Still, the intention is to make sense, not to discredit. It’s true that things aren’t always what they seem, but what they seem is always part of what they are. The man on the subway platform looking at the woman with her nose in a book is a critic: he is trying to figure out whether she is really reading, and hasn’t noticed him, or is just pretending to be reading, and, if she is just pretending to be reading, whether that is because she hopes he won’t approach her or because she calculates that he will. If he does approach her, though, on the theory that she is just pretending to be reading, the first thing he will say is, What are you reading? Appearance, mystique, aura, reputation: these are all aspects of the things that interest us, and they are as real as anything else. It is good not to be fooled, but there is a difference between being disenthralled and being disillusioned. Criticism that denies the subject its surface appeal is unsuccessful criticism, and if something doesn’t seem more interesting after it has been taken apart, then it wasn’t worth taking apart. The last word—though only the last word—should be one of appreciation.

My own capacity for adjusting to change is no better than anyone else’s. Probably it is worse, which could explain my need constantly to write about it. We look backward for clues because, the future being the other side of a closed door, we have no place else to look. But even in America, where people are supposed to have no sense of history, there is a persistent reluctance to play with the cards that are on the table. We want to play with yesterday’s cards, but yesterday has already unraveled past reconstructing. Today is the only day we have.

William James and the Case of the Epileptic Patient

1

In 1901, when he was fifty-nine, William James delivered the Gifford Lectures at the University of Edinburgh. James was an international academic celebrity. The Principles of Psychology, which appeared in 1890 and which had taken him twelve years to write, had been quickly recognized as the leading summation of developments in a field transformed by the introduction of laboratory methods and by the evolutionary theories of Charles Darwin. An abridged edition for students, Psychology: Briefer Course, popularly known as Jimmy, appeared in 1892; by the time of the Gifford Lectures, it had sold nearly fifty thousand copies.

The Gifford lectureship was a two-year appointment. James returned to Edinburgh for the second set of lectures in 1902, and that year the lectures were published as The Varieties of Religious Experience. The Varieties has probably been, over the years, James’s most popular book, read even when his functionalist psychology had been superseded by Freudianism and behaviorism, and his pragmatist philosophy was in eclipse. It is composed primarily of case histories, collected from all around the world and organized by category—Conversion, Saintliness, Mysticism, and so on. It looks, in other words, like a psychology textbook, and that is because it is a psychology textbook. The Varieties is not a study of religion; it is, as the subtitle states, a study in human nature.

James regarded the investigation of religious experience as a branch of abnormal psychology. He did not think that by treating the subject in this manner he was debunking religion; he thought that by treating it in this manner he was taking religion seriously. His approach reflected the holistic empiricism of which he was possibly the greatest nineteenth-century exponent: people have religious experiences, just as people have the experience of seeing tables or feeling cold. We assume that having the experience of seeing tables has something to do with there being tables in the world, and that feeling cold has something to do with a change in the temperature. Not everyone has visions or receives mystical revelations; but some human beings do. Those experiences are as psychologically real as any other state of consciousness, and since consciousness has evolved for the purpose of helping us to cope with our environment—since consciousness is not epiphenomenal, but is an active player in life—there must be something in the universe to which the religious feeling belongs. God is real, as James put it, summing up what he took to be the common-sense intuition about religion, since he produces real effects.¹

When he published the lectures, James put the sixth and seventh together in a chapter called The Sick Soul. The Sick Soul is an examination of morbidity—pessimism, disillusionment, anhedonia, and various types of melancholy, one of which James calls panic fear, and as an illustration of which he offers the following case:

Here is an excellent example, for permission to print which I have to thank the sufferer. The original is in French, and though the subject was evidently in a bad nervous condition at the time of which he writes, his case has otherwise the merit of extreme simplicity. I translate freely.

"Whilst in this state of philosophic pessimism and general depression of spirits about my prospects, I went one evening into a dressing-room in the twilight to procure some article that was there; when suddenly there fell upon me without any warning, just as if it came out of the darkness, a horrible fear of my own existence. Simultaneously there arose in my mind the image of an epileptic patient whom I had seen in the asylum, a black-haired youth with greenish skin, entirely idiotic, who used to sit all day on one of the benches, or rather shelves against the wall, with his knees drawn up against his chin, and the coarse gray undershirt, which was his only garment, drawn over them enclosing his entire figure. He sat there like a sort of sculptured Egyptian mummy, moving nothing but his black eyes and looking absolutely nonhuman. This image and my fear entered into a species of combination with each other. That shape am I, I felt, potentially. Nothing that I possess can defend me against that fate, if the hour for it should strike for me as it struck for him. There was such a horror of him, and such a perception of my own merely momentary discrepancy from him, that it was as if something hitherto solid within my breast gave way entirely, and I became a mass of quivering fear. After this the universe was changed for me altogether. I awoke morning after morning with a horrible dread at the pit of my stomach, and with a sense of the insecurity of life that I never knew before, and that I have never felt since. It was like a revelation; and although the immediate feelings passed away, the experience has made me sympathetic with the morbid feelings of others ever since. It gradually faded, but for months I was unable to go out into the dark alone.

In general I dreaded to be left alone. I remember wondering how other people could live, how I myself had ever lived, so unconscious of that pit of insecurity beneath the surface of life. My mother in particular, a very cheerful person, seemed to me a perfect paradox in her unconsciousness of danger, which you may well believe I was very careful not to disturb by revelations of my own state of mind. I have always thought that this experience of melancholia of mine had a religious bearing.

On asking this correspondent to explain more fully what he meant by these last words, the answer he wrote was this:

I mean that the fear was so invasive and powerful that if I had not clung to scripture-texts like ‘The eternal God is my refuge,’ etc., ‘Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy-laden,’ etc., ‘I am the resurrection and the life,’ etc., I think I should have grown really insane.²

As everyone now knows, the business about this being translated from the French was a pretense. In 1904, the Varieties was itself translated into French, and the translator, a man named Frank Abauzit, wrote to James requesting, understandably, the original text for this passage. The document, James wrote back, " … is my own case—acute neurasthenic attack with phobia. I naturally disguised the provenance! So you may translate freely."³ Abauzit was a friend of the Swiss psychologist Théodore Flournoy, who was a friend of James’s: they shared an interest in psychic phenomena—spiritualism, mediums, trances, and so on. James died in 1910; a year later, Flournoy published a little book called La Philosophie de William James, in which he quoted the passage in the Varieties about the vision of the epileptic and cited James’s letter to Abauzit confessing the deception. And that is how it became known that the story is autobiographical.

Edwin Holt, who had published The Principles of Psychology, and William James, Jr., James’s son, put out an English edition of Flournoy’s book in 1917, but they removed the material about the vision of the epileptic patient: neither the quotation from the Varieties nor the reference to James’s letter appears in it. In 1920, though, the story was quoted and identified as James’s own in The Letters of William James, edited by his oldest son, Henry, and it has turned up in virtually every account of James’s life ever since. It has been the cause of endless biographical mischief; for although the vision of the epileptic has an important place in the story of James’s thought, it does not have an important place in the story of James’s life.

This may seem counterintuitive. James called the story, in his letter to Abauzit, my own case, after all, and there is no reason to believe that he made that up. It is the story of a kind of crisis, and biographies tend conventionally to be structured as crisis-and-recovery narratives, in which the subject undergoes a period of disillusionment or adversity, and then has a breakthrough or arrives at a turning point (or, in the case of religious figures, undergoes a conversion experience) before going on to achieve distinction. The vision of the epileptic is an obvious candidate for such a crisis in James’s life, and most biographers have elected it to the office. But that is the wrong place to put it.

In the standard narrative of James’s life, the vision of the epileptic is paired with a second experience, which is made to represent James’s recovery or breakthrough. This is what can be called the Renouvier episode. Information about it also first surfaced in the 1920 edition of James’s Letters. In this case the source is a diary James kept from 1868, when he was twenty-six and studying in Germany, until 1873, when he accepted an offer to join the Harvard faculty. The entry for April 30, 1870, reads as follows. (The reference in the second sentence is to the second of the Essais de critique générale, entitled L’Homme [1859], by the French philosopher Charles Renouvier; Bain, later on, is Alexander Bain, a British psychologist who was a friend and follower of John Stuart Mill.)

I think that yesterday was a crisis in my life. I finished the first part of Renouvier’s second Essais and see no reason why his definition of Free Will—"the sustaining of a thought because I choose to when I might have other thoughts"—need be the definition of an illusion. At any rate, I will assume for the present—until next year—that it is no illusion. My first act of free will shall be to believe in free will. For the remainder of the year, I will abstain from the mere speculation and contemplative Grüblei [in this context, grubbing among subtleties] in which my nature takes most delight, and voluntarily cultivate the feeling of moral freedom, by reading books favorable to it, as well as by acting. After the first of January, my callow skin being somewhat fledged, I may perhaps return to metaphysical study and skepticism without danger to my powers of action. For the present then remember: care little for speculation; much for the form of my action; recollect that only when habits of order are formed can we advance to really interesting fields of action—and consequently accumulate grain on grain of willful choice like a very miser; never forgetting how one link dropped undoes an indefinite number. Principiis obsta [Resist beginnings]—Today has furnished the exceptionally passionate initiative which Bain posits as needful for the acquisition of habits. I will see to the sequel. Not in maxims, not in Anschauungen [contemplations], but in accumulated acts of thought lies salvation. Passer outre [To go on]. Hitherto, when I have felt like taking a free initiative, like daring to act originally, without carefully waiting for contemplation of the external world to determine all for me, suicide seemed the most manly form to put my daring into; now, I will go a step further with my will, not only act with it, but believe as well; believe in my individual reality and creative power. My belief, to be sure, can’t be optimistic—but I will posit life (the real, the good) in the self-governing resistance of the ego to the world. Life shall [consist in? the page is torn here] doing and suffering and creating.⁴

The obvious temptation is to make the vision of the epileptic the crisis for which the reading of Renouvier was the cure. And this is just what James’s son Henry did in his edition of the Letters: he suggested that the vision of the epileptic must have occurred in the winter of 1869-70, and that the diary entry for April 30, 1870, therefore marks the moment his father’s resolution and self-confidence appear to be reasserting themselves.⁵ Ralph Barton Perry, James’s former colleague in the Harvard philosophy department and his official biographer, linked them in the same way in his two-volume life, The Thought and Character of William James (1935): he called the Renouvier episode the turning point in James’s spiritual crisis, and dated the vision of the epileptic probably in 1870, just prior to his conversion to Renouvier.⁶ Most biographers have followed their practice.

Gay Wilson Allen, in William James: A Biography (1967), had it that James told his son Henry when the vision of the epileptic had occurred, but this assumption seems to have no basis. Henry apparently learned about the episode the same way everyone else did, from Flournoy’s book, after his father’s death. And this means that we have no idea when the original experience actually took place. Assuming—no small assumption—that the autobiographical details in the phony Frenchman’s account are James’s own, it can be inferred that it happened after James had visited an asylum, during a period of uncertainty about his career, and while he was living at home. This narrows the possibilities down to some date before 1878, which is the year that, at the age of thirty-six, James finally got married. James was continually changing his mind about his career (as, nearly until the wedding, he continually changed his mind about his marriage). And he was often inside asylums. Insanity was a particular interest of his, and he knew people who were patients in asylums, notably his cousin Kitty James (who married her psychiatrist, Morton Prince). James was a student at the Harvard Medical School from 1866 to 1869, and probably visited asylums as part of his training. Although the diary in which the Renouvier entry appears is complete from December 1869 through April 1870, there is no mention in it of a vision of an epileptic, or even of a visit to an asylum. Yet commentators can be remarkably certain about the timing. Jacques Barzun, in A Stroll with William James, informs us that the episode of the epileptic occurred within the week before or after March 8, 1870—that is, the month before the Renouvier episode.⁷ He does not explain how he arrived at this determination.

In fact, there is nothing to exclude the possibility that the vision of the epileptic occurred after the Renouvier episode. Such a theory was proposed by the psychiatrist Howard M. Feinstein in an article published in 1981, which became the basis for his fascinating work of biographical speculation, Becoming William James (1984). Feinstein begins with the psychiatrist’s standard presumption that whatever the etiology of a crisis, the patient’s own account of it cannot possibly be the correct one. In his diary and letters beginning around 1867 and continuing into the early 1870s, James complains continually of a bad back, an inability to use his eyes, poor digestion, restlessness, pessimism, melancholy, misanthropy, general feelings of ineffectualness, and, a few times, suicidal impulses. Something, as Miss Clavel liked to say, was not right. Feinstein’s diagnosis is family dynamics: he thinks that (among other things) Henry Sr. was driving his son nuts on the subject of his future career. The Renouvier episode, in Feinstein’s view, was just another self-punishing effort by William during this period to take himself in hand and make something of his life—specifically, by denying himself (as the diary puts it) the "speculation and contemplative Grüblei in which my nature takes most delight." There does indeed seem to be a load of bad superego in that passage.

Feinstein quotes a letter from William to his brother Robertson, who had settled in Milwaukee (a reasonable distance from the indeed distracting Henry Sr.), which seems to support the contention that the Renouvier episode was a hollow epiphany. The Renouvier diary entry is dated April 30, 1870; on July 25, 1870, William informs Robertson that my own symptoms of improvement 2 months ago have not amounted to anything. As is so often the case with such self-treatment, observes Dr. Feinstein, the ‘cure’ was part of the problem.⁸

But Feinstein did not wish to abandon the crisis-and-recovery narrative. He only wished to invert it. In his new chronology, the Renouvier episode becomes the crisis, and the vision of the epileptic marks the breakthrough. James had the vision, Feinstein argues, not in the winter of 1870, which is where Perry and most other commentators place it, but two and a half years later; and he offers as evidence another letter to Robertson, this one written in 1874, in which William reports that I had a crisis just before and about the time of your last visit here. Robertson’s last visit to the James family home in Cambridge took place in November 1872: he had just gotten married, and was introducing his new wife to the family. (She was approved, but only just: She is in no way responsive; takes everything as her due, is a peer of all the world, and don’t know the beginning of a life beyond sense, Henry Sr. reported serenely to his son the novelist.)⁹ The vision of the epileptic, Feinstein concludes, must have happened in the fall of 1872, long after the Renouvier episode. Many people, including the editors of the marvelous twelve-volume edition of The Correspondence of William James, have accepted Feinstein’s chronology.¹⁰

But it has a few holes. The July 25, 1870, letter to Robertson which Feinstein cites to show that the Renouvier cure had failed (my own symptoms of improvement 2 months ago have not amounted to anything) was preceded by another letter from William to Robertson, dated April 17, 1870, in which William reports that after 3 months prostration I begin to show signs of getting on my legs again.¹¹This can’t be an allusion to the Renouvier episode, because the diary for April 30 states that yesterday was a crisis in my life—that is, April 29. What James is referring to, in fact, is his bad back, which was almost always the leading item on his list of health problems, and which at times prevented him from walking even short distances without pain. Getting on my legs is not a metaphor. There is, in James’s letters, always a strong correlation between the state of his back and the state of his spirits, as would be natural for someone with a chronic ailment. But he is not saying, in that July 25 letter, Renouvier has failed me. He’s saying that his back is bothering him again.

And the 1874 letter, also to Robertson, that Feinstein offers in support of his dating of the vision of the epileptic is at odds with his own theory. Feinstein cites the letter, but he does not quote it. Here is what it says:

I had a crisis just before and about the time of your last visit here, which was more philosophical than theological perhaps, that is did not deal with my personal relations to God as yours seem to have done [Robertson had written to William about his own developing religious interests]—but it was accompanied with anxiety and despair &c—I worked through it into the faith in free-will and into the final reign of the Good conditional on the co-operation of each of us in the sphere—small enough often—in which it is allowed him to be operative. Why God waits on our cooperation is not to be fathomed—but as a fact of experience I believe it—and having that belief open to me, I have lost much of my former interest in speculative questions—I have taken up Physiology instead of Philosophy and go along on a much calmer sea with a more even keel.¹²

This is essentially the language of the Renouvier diary entry.

Whatever this crisis in the fall of 1872 entailed, therefore, it was not a renouncement of Renouvier. On November 2, 1872, James wrote a letter to Renouvier himself, in which he expressed the admiration and gratitude that reading your essays has inspired in me … . Thanks to you, I possess for the first time an intelligible and rational conception of freedom.¹³ Six weeks later, he wrote to Robertson, who was safely back in Wisconsin again, advising him that when feelings of depression come, the only thing is to have faith and wait, and resolve whatever happens to be faithful ‘in the outward act’ (as a philosopher says) that is do as if the good were the law of being, even if one can’t for the moment really believe it. The belief will come in its time.¹⁴ And there is a letter from William’s father to Henry the novelist (then living in Rome), apparently written in March 1873, in which he reports that William has been crowing recently about the improvement in his health and spirits since the previous spring: I ventured to ask what especially in his opinion had produced the change. He said several things: the reading of Renouvier (particularly his vindication of the freedom of the will) and of Wordsworth.¹⁵

Finally, there is a piece of evidence that has not been mentioned before, but that brings us as close as we are likely to get to this mysterious crisis of 1872. It is on a single sheet of notepaper dated October 21, 1872, and it reads, in part:

Tonight I feel full of Lebensmut [optimism] because of the unforeseen awakening in me within the past few days of dormant feelings and keen powers of thought. But this is an irrational ground of reconciliation with the Universe, being based on accidental particulars of experience, the which if they happened to be of an opposite quality wd. justify an opposite conclusion. The desideration is a conception of the whole which, no matter what be the experience of the moment, will reconcile one to it. So far I see only the: for the sake of—! The evil is somehow mechanically continuous with the good. The latter is thus ever imminent, ever potential and for its sake I’ll go the former.¹⁶

This does not correlate very well with the feelings aroused by the apparition of the epileptic patient described in The Varieties of Religious Experience.

What is significant about these notes and letters from 1872 and 1873 is that they indicate that James was still struggling to recover from some sort of breakdown two and a half years after recording in his diary the fresh start inspired by Renouvier. Feinstein is surely right to point out that an experience that does not produce results for almost three years can hardly be counted a breakthrough. The most we can say is that Renouvier’s idea about free will was one of the things James preserved from a long period of ill health and poor spirits. It was neither the cause of a breakdown nor the cure.

2

What was the problem? In 1979, a graduate student felicitously named James William Anderson reported, in his dissertation, rumors that James had once been a patient at the McLean Asylum for the Insane, outside Boston. The same rumor has been reported since by the historian of science Robert J. Richards, who said it had been confirmed for him by someone who had worked in the hospital in an official capacity; by Feinstein, in Becoming William James; and by Alfred Kazin, who wrote in 1993 that years ago the famous Harvard psychologist Henry A. Murray told me that at one point in his life James had put himself into McLean’s.¹⁷ In her biography of James, Genuine Reality, Linda Simon names a psychiatrist, Ruth Tiffany Barnhouse, who did her residency at McLean in the 1950s and who says that she saw James’s patient records in the archives there.

This fresh wrinkle has had two effects. It has devalued somewhat the biographical significance of the Renouvier episode—since if James was hospitalized, it is not likely to have been for frustration with what is, after all, a fairly ancient philosophical puzzle about whether there is such a thing as free will. And it has redirected attention to the story about the epileptic patient. Hospitalization for a mental disorder not only seems to explain the shock of recognition in that story (That shape am I); it suggests that something more is possibly being masked than the nationality of the sufferer. James may have had deeper reasons for not wishing to give himself away, reasons having to do with an incident in his life he wished to remain suppressed, when he recalled the vision in The Varieties of Religious Experience.

But is it so? The McLean Hospital (the name was changed in 1892) still exists. Robert Lowell was a patient there; so was Sylvia Plath. It is now located in Belmont, and is affiliated, as it has been since its founding, in 1811, with Massachusetts General Hospital and the Harvard Medical School. Scholars who have asked to see James’s patient records there have been informed that hospital policy forbids the release of information about individual patients, including confirmation that someone was ever a patient.

I wrote to the archivist at McLean asking whether James might simply have been at the hospital in his capacity as a medical student, and met with this boilerplate rebuff. But when I approached the administration of the hospital, I got a different response, which is that requests for information about William James had been forwarded to the James family, which has refused to permit the information to be released.¹⁸ Robertson James, in later life an alcoholic, was a patient at McLean;¹⁹ so was William’s cousin Kitty James Prince (he used to visit her there). And William James, Jr., James’s son, may, as Linda Simon notes in her biography, also have been hospitalized at McLean for depression. So that the family’s reluctance to send researchers into the archives looking for folders labeled James—or even James, William—might only be an effort to protect the privacy of some of its less celebrated members. On the other hand, if the celebrated one was never an inmate, a statement to that effect would have sufficed to shield the rest. In the absence of such a statement, we can probably assume that he was.

The next question is, When? What makes incomplete biographical information generally worse than no information at all is that speculation fills the gaps and eventually becomes indistinguishable from the facts—as has happened with the dating of the episode of the epileptic patient. In the case of James’s hospitalization, the inclination is to insert the information into the period of his physical and mental distress—that is, sometime between 1867, when he began to complain regularly about his various symptoms, and late 1872, when, at the age of thirty, he finally got a job, as a part-time teacher at Harvard—and then to try to rewrite the crisis-and-recovery narrative around