Philosophical Investigations 13:3 July 1990 ISSN 0190-0536 $2.50

Wittgens tein’s Genius

Peter Lewis, University of Edinburgh.

My title is ambiguous. It alludes, on the one hand, to Wittgenstein’s conception of genius and, on the other hand, to Wittgenstein as genius. In this paper, I am primarily concerned with Wittgenstein’s conception of genius, though I will also give some consideration, in the light of that conception, to the issue of Wittgenstein as genius. I say Wittgenstein’s conception of genius, because I want to consider Wittgenstein’s reflections on the nature of genius that are to be found in Culture and vulue;’ and, given the nature of that text, we are bound to regard those reflections less as the outcome of an investigation into the concept of genius than as the way Wittgenstein himself tended to think of genius. Despite originating in numerous diverse manuscripts over many years, Wittgenstein’s reflections do, I believe, exhibit sufficient coherence and consistency to justify referring to his conception of genius.

I begin with an advertisement for a television programme about Wittgenstein broadcast to commemorate the centenary of his birth.

‘A Wonderful L i f e Genius, aeronautical engineer, soldier, school- master, gardener, hospital porter, architect, recluse, and Cambridge Professor of Philosophy, Ludwig Wittgenstein was one of the most original thinkers of this century. ’’

The form of this description of Wittgenstein seems to imply that being a genius is unconnected with any of the professions Wittgenstein engaged in, just as if it were a character trait or an aspect of his personality. In this respect, the advertisement is reminiscent of Russell’s pronouncement, ‘He was perhaps the most perfect example I have ever known of genius as traditionally conceived, passionate, profound, intense and d~mina t ing . ’~ The

1. 1980). Page references in the text are to this edition. 2. 3. Unwin, 1968), pp. 98-99.

L. Wittgenstein, Culture and Value, trans. P. Winch (Oxford, B. Blackwell,

Radio Times, April 17, 1989. B. Russell, Atrfobiography, Vol. 2, 1914-1944, (London, Goerge Allen and

Peter Lewis 247

latter four adjectives could be substituted for the word ‘genius’ without altering the grammar of the advertisement.

T o show what is unsatisfactory in these ways of talking about genius, we can employ a characteristic pattern of argument from the Philosophical fnvestigatwns. We imagine that someone possesses all the familiar character traits and features of personality attributed to genius and at the same time that he never achieves anything better than mediocre performances in any trade, profession, or field of endeavour, artistic, scientific, administrative, and so on. In such a case, I think it would be generally agreed that such a person could not properly be counted a genius. He displays, at best, only the psychological accompaniments of genius. T o be a genius it is necessary to be a genius at something or other, to possess geniusfor some profession or other, to show genius in one or more spheres. And, of course, it was in Wittgenstein’s performance in philosophy that Russell claimed to detect his genius, a performance, extra- ordinarily enough, in an undergraduate essay. The anecdote is well known, even if untrue.

‘I said to him: “My dear fellow, I don’t know whether you are an absolute idiot or not, but if you will write me an essay during the vacation upon any philosophical topic that interests you, I will read it and tell you.” He did-so, and brought it to me at the beginning of the next term. As soon as I read the first sentence, I became persuaded that he was a man of genius, and assured him that he should on no account become an aeronaut.’4

In this respect, the term ‘genius’ is similar to the term ‘talent’. We say someone has a .talent for this or that, or is talented at such and such. The reason for the similarity is that genius and talent are both related to the notion of ability: to possess genius for something, to have a talent for something, is to have, at least, a special ability in some field. Despite this similarity, we tend not to say simply ‘He is a talent’. ‘He has talent’ or ‘He has a talent for . . . ’ are preferable. In contrast, ‘He is a genius’ is as natural as either ‘He has genius’ or ‘He has a genius fo r . . . ’.

Traditionally, genius is distinguished from talent: it is a cliche of

4. Ibid., p. 99. A letter written soon after the receipt of Wittgenstein’s essay is probably nearer the truth. ‘. . . some MS he had written in the Vacation, very good, much better than my English pupils do. I shall certainly encourage him. Perhaps he will do great things. On the other hand I think it very likely he will get tired of philosophy.’ See B. F. McGuinness, Witlgenstein, A Lije, Vol. 1 , Young Ludwig (1889-1921) (London, Ihckworth, 1988, p. 94).

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Romanticism, but can be traced back to Plato’s Zon. Wittgenstein’s remarks in Culture and Value show that he too subscribes to this distinction: ‘Amongst Jews “genius” is found only in the holy man. Even the greatest ofJewish thinkers is no more than talented’ (p. 18). It is also traditional to claim that the difference is not a matter of degree: genius is not a matter of being very talented. And Wittgenstein concurs: ‘ . . . I want to say that Kraus had talent, an exceptional talent, but not genius’ (p. 65). However, Wittgenstein does not follow in the footsteps of Kant and Schopenhauer in maintaining that genius cannot be displayed in science but only in art and philosophy. He said to Desmond Lee that ‘the discovery of a method may well call for genius; but when the method is found, mere cleverness is all that is needed’; and in illustration of this remark gave the example of the transformation of alchemy into chemistry through the discovery of a method of inve~tigation.~

As well as indicating that Wittgenstein is prepared to concede the possibility of scientific genius, Wittgenstein’s remarks to Lee also throw light on the issue of Wittgenstein as genius. For Wittgenstein made use of the same example to characterize something new in philosopy. According to G. E. Moore’s notes of Wittgenstein’s 1930-33 lectures,

‘He said that what he was doing was a “new subject”, and not merely a stage in a “continuous development”; that there was now, in philosophy, a “kink” in the “development of human thought”, comparable to that which occurred when Galileo and his contemporaries had invented dynamics; that a “new method” had been discovered, as had happened when “chemistry was developed out of alchemy”; and that it was now possible for the first time that there should be “skilful” philosophers, though of course there had in the past been “great” philosophers.’6

If we assume that Wittgenstein is here describing his own achievement, then it appears that he complies with his own conception of genius. And yet, as we know, Wittgenstein describes himself in Culture and Value as having talent rather than genius (see pages 18, 75, 76). Indeed, he denies that he has ever invented a line 5. H. D. P. Lee, ‘Wittgenstein 1929-31’. Philosophy, 54, 1979, p. 218. Russell had expressed a similar thought in The New Statesman in 1913 in his essay ‘The Place of Science in a Liberal Education’, reprinted in Mysticism and Logic (1917): ‘In science the man of real genius is the man who invents a new method.’ Mysticism and Logic (London, George Allen and Unwin, 1963), p. 36 6. G. E. Moore, Philosophical Papers, (London, George Allen and Unwin, 1%3), p. 322.

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of thinking (p. 19). That is to say, given the traditional contrast between the creativity or inventiveness of genius as opposed to the skilfulness or cleverness of talent, Wittgenstein explicitly disavows creativity or inventiveness.

The same kind of disavowal can be found in Wittgenstein’s remarks about taste (pp. 59-60), where, like Kant in the Critique of AestheticJudgment, he contrasts taste with creative power. Taste is a matter of refining, polishing, making adjustments to a pre-existing structure; it does not ‘give birth’, it does not create a new structure. ‘ I have taste’ (p. 59), Wittgenstein claims. These remarks are dated 1947, sixteen years after the disavowal of genius quoted from pages 18-19. But now, at this later date, Wittgenstein is slightly less insistent, more prepared to concede a doubt. Thus, he writes, ‘I am not able to judge whether taste is all I have, or whether I have originality too’ (p. 60). Even so, this is still the traditional dualism - the man of genius has originality, the man of talent has taste.

However, in remarks dated 1939-40, Wittgenstein had drawn a distinction between different kinds of originality in a way which cuts across the traditional dualism. This is the distinction between the originality of the seed as opposed to the originality of the soil. ‘I believe that my originality (if that is the right word) is an originality belonging to the soil rather than to the seed. (Perhaps I have no seed of my own.) Sow a seed in my soil and it will grow differently than it would in any other soil’ (p. 36; cf. p. 79).

The metaphor of the originality of the seed evidently characterizes Wittgenstein’s understanding of the traditional conception of genius. This image trades on the ideas of originating, of having an origin: just as the flower has its origin in the seed, so the new way of thinking originates from the genius. Wittgenstein’s use of this metaphor links his view of genius to the tradition in European thought which sees ‘untramellcd nature’ (p. 11) as an uncorrupted source of inspiration - a view given forceful expression by Schopenhauer:

‘In its powerful originality [the work of art] is drawn only from life itself, from nature, from the world, and only by the genuine genius. . . . Only the genuine works that are drawn directly from nature and life remain eternally young and strong, like nature and life itself. For they belong to no age, but to mankind.’7

7. (New York, Dover Press, 1966). Vol. 1, pp. 235-6.

A. Schopenhauer, The World as Will and Representation, trans. E . F. J. Payne,

250 Philosophical Investigations

Wittgenstein’s distinction between different kinds of originality allows him to cut across the traditional gap between genius and talent, by maintaining that even the man of talent is capable of originality. ‘Sow a seed in my soil,’ says Wittgenstein, ‘and it will grow differently than it would in any other soil’ (p. 36). Here the image trades on the ideas of novelty and variety: originality as opposed to conformity and uniformity. Wittgenstein is thus able to provide a more satisfactory view of talent than is often given. In some writers, such as Schopenhauer, talent tends to be reduced to the routine and the repetitive, to mere skilfulness; and this goes against our feeling that a person with a talent for something is distinguished by vitality rather by mechanical lifelessness. ‘Talent is a spring from which fresh water is constantly flowing’ (p. 10). But, Wittgenstein continues, ‘this spring loses its value if it is not used in the right way’ (loc. cit . ) . This use of yet another nature metaphor leads back to Wittgenstein’s remark about the seed and the soil.

As we have seen, Wittgenstein lays claim only to the originality of the soil: he disclaims inventing a line of thinking. Rather, he says, ‘I have always taken one over from someone else. I have straightaway seized on it with enthusiasm for my work of clarification’ (p. 19). And he then proceeds to list the names of those who influenced him, those thinkers such as Boltzmann, Herz, Schopenhauer, Frege, Russell, and so on, who, we might say, planted seeds into Wittgenstein’s fertile soil, where they flourished, eventually, into the new method in philosophy. Wittgenstein finds another illustration of this kind of relationship in what he calls ‘the case of Breuer and Freud’ (los. t i t . ) . Breuer, Wittgenstein suggests, provided ‘the real germ of psychoanalysis’ (p. 36). Since Breuer was himself a Jew, this case cannot be an example of ‘Jewish reproductiveness’ (p. 19), i.e., Wittgenstein’s view that Jewish thinkers are ‘no more than talented’ (p. 18). Nevertheless, it seems to me that the relationship between Breuer and Freud is an instructive one for thinking about Wittgenstein’s views on genius and talent. *

Freud always acknowledged that the origin of his technique of

8. O n the relationship between Breuer and Freud, see Ernest Jones, Sigmund Freud: Lgeueid Work, Vol. 1, The Young Freud, 1856-1900, (London, Hogarth Press, 1953); Frank J. Sulloway, Freud, Biologist of the Mind, (London, Burnett Books, 1979); Ronald W. Clark, Freud: The Man and the Cause, (London, Granada Publishing Ltd., 1982).

Peter Lewis 25 1

therapeutic psychoanalysis lay in Breuer’s treatment of his patient, Anna O., whom he treated from 1880-1882. Anna, or Bertha Papenheim, to use her real name, suffered from a variety of hysterical symptoms, including delirium and changes of personality. In the course of treating her, Breuer found that if, at the end of a day, he repeated to her words she had uttered in an earlier hallucinated state, she was able to recall the details of the terrifying hallucination, thereby relieving her symptoms and her agitated state of mind. It was the patient herself who dubbed this procedure ‘the talking cure’ or ‘chimney sweeping’. Although Freud displayed great interest in the case when he first heard of it in November, 1882 - by which time Anna was cured, temporarily, at any rate - he did not systematically employ the procedure with his own patients until May, 1889, some seventeen years later. Following his confirmation of Breuer’s success, they published their results in 1892; and in 1895 came The Studies on Hysteria in which Freud presented his theory of the nature and causes of hysteria which he subsequently developed into what we know as the theory of psychoanalysis.

This case beautifiilly illustrates Wittgenstein’s image of seed and soil. But, on the other hand, it does not appear to me to exemplify the contrast between productive genius and fertile talent. It would be difficult to use this case to justify thinking of Breuer as a man of genius. For one thing, his discovery seems to have been due, at least in part, to the alertness of his patient in noticing aspects of her own pathological behaviour. For another, Breuer himself made very little of the case - he regarded it as too unusual to be one from which anything significant could be learned. It is surely Freud, rather than Breuer, that we should think of as the genius inventing a new way of thinking about mental illness.

Now, although Wittgenstein does concede that ‘Breuer’s seed- grain can only have been quite tiny’ (p. 36), he does not pursue the deeper issue Concerning what it is to identify Breuer’s work as seed- grain. For it is only in the light of Freud’s achievement that it is possible for us to identify what Breuer did as providing the germ of psychoanalysis. Here it is worth recalling what Wittgenstein says about seed and plant in his discussion of mind and brain in Zettel $608: ‘ . . . nothing in the seed corresponds to the plant which comes from it; so that it is impossible to infer the properties or structure of the plant from those of the seed that comes out of it - this can only

252 Philosophical Investigations

be done from the history of the seed.’ Something similar can be said about the relationship between ‘Breuer’s seed’ and ‘Freud’s plant.’ Looking just at the case of Anna O., we could hardly infer from it the characteristics of psychoanalytic theory; and yet looking back at it from the perspective of history we can see in it aspects of mature psychoanalytic practice.

I think this point is also applicable to the relation of Wittgenstein’s later philosophy to many of the writers Wittgenstein identifies as influences on his thinking. Of course, one cannot generalize here - each case has to be looked at separately. In some cases, perhaps Wittgenstein did take over an idea from another writer. But all too often, commentators are inclined to pick on some similarity between Wittgenstein and someone whose work he is known to have read and then to proclaim that this is the source of Wittgenstein’s thought. Thus, for example, it is alleged that it is from Schopenhauer that Wittgenstein obtained his key notions of ‘family resemblance’ and ‘forms of life’.’ Now even it is true that it was his reading of Schopenhauer that prompted Wittgenstein to employ these terms, I would argue that it is only because we read Schopenhauer with Wittgenstein’s views in mind that it is possible for us to regard what Schopenhauer says as the seeds of Wittgenstein’s ideas. Without Wittgenstein’s achievement, Schop- enhauer’s words would undoubtedly strike us as nothing more than another sample of the colourful imagery so characteristic of his style. The point here is not simply that in different soil the same seed produces different results but that in different soil the seed takes on a different identity - in a sense, it is a different seed.

A further, and clearer, illustration of this relationship can be seen in an artistic tradition in which a major artist changes our understanding of the past. As F. R. Leavis says ofJane Austen, ‘ . . . her relation to tradition is a creative one. She not only makes tradition for those coming after, but her achievement has for us a retroactive effect: as we look back beyond her we see in what goes before, and see because of her, potentialities and significances brought out in such a way that, for us, she creates the tradition we see leading down to her. Her work, like the work of all great

9. p. 302.

B. Magee, The Philosophy .f Schopenhauer, (Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1983),

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creative writers, gives a meaning to the past.’“’ This statement seems to me to be equally true of Wittgenstein’s relationship to the philosophical tradition in which he stands: we read it differently in the light of his work, and that is a measure of his achievement, of his genius.

I want now to consider a further aspect of Wittgenstein’s remarks on genius and talent. According to the traditional view, to which, as we have seen, Wittgenstein subscribes, no amount of talent is sufficient for genius. But, according to some accounts, which emphasize the extent of the gap between genius and talent, it would seem to be possible to have genius without talent. This is, I think, a special difficulty for Schopenhauer’s theory of artistic genius. And yet, it surely makes no sense to suggest that someone might possess, say, a genius for mathematics but have no talent at all for mathematics. Evidently, genius presupposes talent. In Culture and Value Wittgenstein avoids this difficulty by linking the two concepts of genius and talent by reference to the ideas of character and courage.

‘The measure of g,enius is character - even though character on its own does not amount to genius. Genius is not ‘talent plus character’, but character manifesting itself in the form of a special talent’ (p. 35).

‘One might say: “Genius is talent exercised with courage” ’ (p. 38).

In an attempt to understand these remarks about character and courage, I consider a number of examples, beginning with the case of sporting achievement.

It is quite common on television and radio for commentators on some exciting and gruelling game, whether it be tennis or snooker or golf, to remark that it showed great character on behalf of the player in question to come back-from the brink of seemingly inevitable defeat to win the match. Some players, lacking character, go to pieces under pressure: we say their game disintegrates - they lose their ability to deploy the skills they possess. Other players do not go to pieces so much as lose the will to win: it takes courage to fight back from a hopeless position. In the case of sporting encounters, charact:er and courage are displayed in the face of external pressure. It is easy to see how these points apply in

10. p. 14.

F. R. Leavis, The Great Tradition, (Harmondsworth, Penguin Books, 1977).

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intellectual and artistic contexts: it takes character and courage to continue pursuing a line of thought, a way of writing or painting, which meets opposition from established figures, people in authority, and so on. Here one might remember Galileo faced with the Inquisition or Shostakovitch faced with Stalin. Wittgenstein’s remark about ‘the integrity of a tree which stands firmly in its place whatever may be going on around it’ (p. 2) applies to these sorts of cases.

However, when Wittgenstein speaks of genius as talent exercised with courage, he is concerned with character or courage not only in the face of external pressure but also in the face of what may be called internal pressures, though these are many and various. Again, Freud provides a fascinating example. His theory of the sexual aetiology of the neuroses shocked polite Viennese society as well as conservative colleagues in the medical profession. Breuer found it unacceptable, and indeed it led to the break-up of their intellectudl partnership. But it would be surprising if Freud himself had not found it a t all disturbing: the postulation of infantile sexuality challenged deep-seated conceptions of the nature of childhood which Freud shared. It took courage to persevere with this theory. And yet this too might be regarded as superficial when considered alongside the upheaval in Freud’s thinking involved in substituting the so-caLled seduction theory with the seduction- fantasy theory, that is, in replacing the theory that neurosis has its origin in the child’s seduction by its parents with the theory that neurosis originates in childhood fantasies of parental seduction. For though in this way Freud appeared to be making a concession to his outraged peers and so making life easier for himself, he was required to overturn his own hard-won view of the origin of neurosis. Wittgenstein’s words are remarkably apposite: ‘you could attach prices to thoughts. Some cost a lot, some a little. And how does one pay for thoughts? The answer, I think, is: with courage’ (p. 52). Another illustration of this kind of intellectual courage would, of course, be Wittgenstein’s recognition of ‘grave mistakes’ in his old way of thinking (as he puts it in the Preface to Philosophical Investigations). It is in this kind of context that we can make sense of the remark that ‘courage is always original’ (P- 36).

What I have said s o far does not entirely capture the force of Wittgenstein’s remarks about character and genius. The examples I

Peter Lewis 255

have offered perhaps illustrate what Wittgenstein calls ‘talent plus character’ rather than ‘character manifesting itself in the form of a special talent’. While it undoubtedly takes strength of character to tear up one’s cherished ideas and start anew, this is not necessarily something revealed in or through the work: it is what we discover about the individual when we investigate the history of the work.

Taking up a clue from Wittgenstein, viz., that someone may show courage by writing a symphony (p. 35), I want to present Beethoven and Beethoven’s symphonies as an illustration of Wittgenstein’s conception of genius, of character manifesting itself in the form of a special talent. We know from Beethoven’s ‘Heiligenstadt testament’ of the despair which brought him to the brink of suicide when he realized the extent of his deafness; and we know from his letters how, after the Second Symphony, he resolved to ‘take a new road.’” Here, without doubt, is character; here is courage. And yet, this is not merely something we know about Beethoven; it is also something we hear in the music itself. Here I cannot do better than to quote from E. M. Forster’s marvellous depiction of the Fifth Symphony in his novel Howard’s End.

‘. . . the music started [i.e., the Third movement] with a goblin walking quietly ‘over the universe, from end to end. Others followed him. They were not aggressive creatures; it was that that made them so terrible to Helen. They merely observed in passing that there was no such thing as splendour or heroism in the world. After the interlude ofelephants dancing, they returned and made the observation for the second time. Helen could not contradict them. . . . Panic and emptiness! Panic and emptiness! The goblins were right. . . . It was as if the splendour oflife might boil over and waste to steam and froth. In its dissolution one heard the terrible, ominous note, and a goblin with increasing malignity, walked quietly over the universe from end to end. Panic and emptiness! Panic and emptiness! Even the flaming ramparts of the world might fall.

‘Beethoven chose to make all right in the end. He built the ramparts up. He blew with his mouth for the second time, and again the goblins werqscattered. He brought back the gusts of splendour, the heroism, thc youth, the magnificence of life and death, and, amid vast roarings of a superhuman joy, he led his Fifth Symphony to its conclusion. But the goblins were there.

11, Co., 1896). pp. 45-8 an8d p. 49.

Charles Grove, Beethoven and His Nine Symphonies, (London, Novello and

256 Philosophical Investigations

They could return. He had said so bravely, and that is why one can trust Beethoven when he says other things.’12

Beethoven’s unflinching honesty exhibits the kind of courage, the kind of character, that Wittgenstein takes to be a feature of the man of genius. I t is in the light of this view that we can gain some understanding of Wittgenstein’s doubts about Shakespeare’s achieve- ment. At one point he quotes the phrase ‘Beethoven’s great heart’ and comments, ‘nobody could speak of “Shakespeare’s great heart”’ (p. 84). For Wittgenstein, Shakespeare’s plays do not display character in the way that Beethoven’s symphonies do. By contrast, Wittgenstein was prepared to speak of ‘the authority of a Milton’ (p. 48). In this respect Wittgenstein’s remarks bear a resemblance to Coleridge’s famous statement that ‘Shakespeare’s poetry is characterless’; that is, it does not reflect the individual Shakespeare; but John Milton himself ‘is in every line of the Paradise

But whereas for Coleridge this is just an aspect of Shakespeare’s greatness, for Wittgenstein it is a basis for criticism in so far as the significance of an artist ‘for us’ consists in ‘nothing but his personality’ (p. 23). The work which shows character is that which can ‘provide us with spiritual nourishment’ ( lac. cit.) and which has something to teach us (p. 36).14

‘Genius is talent in which character makes itself heard’ (p. 65). Wittgenstein’s linking genius and character in this way provides some understanding of the grammatical points I touched on at the beginning of this essay, in particular, the fact that we find it more natural to describe someone as ‘a genius’ than as ‘a talent’. Genius involves not just ‘what you have’ but also ‘what you are’ (p. 60). But thinking of genius in this way also contains difficulties. For instance, it is not clear that such a conception would be applicable to work in mathematics and the sciences: what could it mean to say that character makes itself heard in the differential calculus of Leibniz or Newton? This is one respect in which Wittgenstein’s conception of genius reveals its allegiance to the romantic tradition. It also underlines the point with which I began, that the remarks on

12. E. M. Forster, Howard’r Erid, (Harmondsworth, Penguin Books, 1971).

13. S. T. Coleridge, Table Talk, (Edinburgh, John Grant, 1905). May 12, 1830. 14. Cf. Lars Hertzberg, ‘Critical Notice of Culture arid Value’, Philosophical Ir~uerti~qations, Vol. 5, 1982, p. 161.

pp. 32-3.

Peter Lewis 257

genius and talent in Culture and Value are not the fruits of a typically Wittgensteinian philosophical survey. l5

Department of Philosophy, University of Edinburgh, David Hume Tower , George Square, Edinburgh, EH8 9JX.

15. An earlier version of this essay was presented to the conference on Wittgenstein and the Philosophy of Culture at the Inter-University Centre of Postgraduate Studies, Dubrovnik, in May 1989. I am grateful for the helpful comments I received on that occasion.