Creativity (31 page)

For Mark Strand, the poet’s responsibility to be a witness, a recorder of experience, is part of the broader responsibility we all have for keeping the universe ordered through our consciousness:

The physicist John Wheeler is puzzling out something that sounds very similar to Strand’s position, a quest after what has been called the anthropic principle, the idea that the world exists because
we
exist, an idea that usually occupies theologians and philosophers. According to them, we know about the existence of the universe because we are conscious of it. Perhaps the universe is there
only because
we are conscious of it. But Wheeler, always a scientist, would like to formulate this vague and ambitious proposition so that it actually could be tested:

Jonas Salk, in addition to his immunological research, the concern for his institute, and membership on the board of philanthropic foundations, for many years considered the broader implications of evolutionary theory as it affects the evolution of culture and consciousness:

Younger scientists often look at their elders with a certain discomfort. They scoff at the Wheelers, the Spocks, and the Salks, implying that they might be going slightly soft in the head, because in old age they seem to throw all caution to the wind, break out of disciplinary boundaries, and start concerning themselves with the big problems of existence. While occasionally there might be grounds for dismissing these attempts as the vaporings of senility, the examples in our sample point in a different direction. Older scientists and artists who have spent decades within a narrow s
egment of their domain often feel a sense of liberation when, after they have left their mark on the discipline, they begin to explore the world outside the artistic studio or the scientific laboratory. As they do this, the problems they address are almost certainly going to be more intractable than the ones they faced earlier in life. Should they therefore desist, or be ridiculed? Or should we feel sorry instead for their critics, who judge human endeavor only by the strict and often sterile rules of a single discipline?

Of course these questions are rhetorical, because as far as I am concerned the quest these men and women are embarking on is exactly what makes their stage of life so exciting and worthwhile. It is difficult to see how it could be otherwise. Wisdom and integrity cannot be found in any single domain. A broader viewpoint that breaks across disciplinary boundaries is needed, a way of understanding that combines knowing and sensing, feeling
and judging. In facing this task one cannot expect to succeed in the public eye, as one can when a field of culture recognizes one’s contributions to art, business, or science. But by this time a person aspiring to wisdom knows that the bottom line of a well-lived life is not so much success but the certainty we reach, in the most private fibers of our being, that our existence is linked in a meaningful way with the rest of the universe.

N
ow in this third part of the volume we look more closely at specific domains of creativity. For as chapter 4 showed, even though there are important common features to the creative process, in order to really see what happens in its concreteness we have to consider each domain separately. At a very abstract level, creativity in physics and poetry shares common traits; but such a level of abstraction misses many of the most interesting and vital aspects of the process. Therefore, this chapter and the next two present a number of cases from the same domain, in order to get a more det
ailed understanding of what is involved in producing a cultural change.

We start with a brief analysis of the goals and working methods of five writers—three poets and two novelists. Starting with writers makes sense because of all the cultural domains literature may nowadays be the most accessible. It is not easy to describe how theoretical physicists work in a way that is understandable to laypersons (among whose ranks I count myself). But we all read stories, we all write to a certain extent, so the craft of professional writers is not abstruse. However, even within the somewhat homogeneous domain of literature there are large differences. Not o
nly the obvious difference
between poet and novelist, but within each of these subdomains there are innumerable variations in terms of which part of the long tradition of poetry, for instance, the writer draws on; whether the writer works in a classical mode or as an experimentalist; what genre he or she prefers, and so on. Despite the fact that in the last analysis each writer is unique, the five sketches that follow give a flavor of what is involved in literary creation. But before getting down to cases, it may be useful to consider the more general question: Why are we interested in literature?

Among the oldest symbolic systems in the world are those organized around the content and the rules of language. The first narrative stories telling of real or imaginary events, the myths and campfire tales of our ancestors, extended dramatically the range of human experience through imagination. The rhyme and meter of poetry created patterns of order that must have seemed miraculous to people who had yet scarcely learned to improve on the precarious order of nature. And when the discovery of writing made it possible to preserve memory outside the fragile brain, the domain of the w
ord became one of the most effective tools and greatest sources of pride for humankind. Perhaps only art, dance, and music are more ancient; the beginnings of technology and arithmetic probably contemporaneous.

What makes words so powerful is that they enrich life by expanding the range of individual experience. Without stories and books, we would be limited to knowing only what has happened to us or to those whom we have met. With books we can join Herodotus during his travels to Egypt, or be with Lewis and Clark on their epic journey to the Pacific, or imagine what it might be like to travel beyond our galaxy a few hundred years hence.

But more important, the written word allows us to understand better what is happening within ourselves. In recording real or imaginary events, the writer arrests the evanescent stream of experience by naming its aspects and making them enduring in language. Then by reading and repeating a verse or passage of prose, we can savor the images and their meanings and thus understand more accurately how
we
feel and what
we
think. Fragile thoughts and feelings are transformed by words into concrete thoughts and emotions. In this sense, poetry and literature allow the creation of experienc
es that we would otherwise not have access to; they take our lives to higher levels of complexity.

Poetry and literature do not achieve their effect by simply presenting information. Their effectiveness rests on formal properties—on the music of the verse, the vividness of the imagery. When asked about the relative importance of intuition and intellect in their work, scientists tend to say something like “It is most effective when intuition and intellect are both involved.” A writer, Madeleine L’Engle, answered the question as follows: “Your intuition and your intellect should be working together…making love. That’s how it works best.” The two statements have the same content,
but which one is more effective? The image of intellect and intuition making love is more likely to arrest our attention, and get us to think about what is involved in the dialectical process of thought. It is also a more precise description, because it brings attention to the fact that the involvement is
between
the intellect and the intuition; it is not just a dry functional connection but one that actually resembles the relationship of love. So the choice of words, the construction of images and stories, is as important for the writer as the content of the message.

It has been said that all the stories have already been told, that there is nothing left to say. At best, a writer’s job is to pour new wine in old bottles, to retell in a new way the same emotional predicaments that humans have felt since the beginnings of time. Yet many authors find this a worthwhile challenge; they think of t
hemselves as gardeners whose task is to cultivate perennial ideas generation after generation. The same flowers will bloom each spring, but if the gardener slacks off, weeds will take over.

The writers whose works are described in this chapter share an obvious love for their craft. They have an almost religious respect for their domain and believe with the Gospel of St. John that “In the beginning was the Word.” At the same time, they know that the power of words depends on how they are used; so they enjoy playing with them, stretching their meanings, stringing them in novel combinations, and polishing them until they shine. Playful as they are with words, all of them are also deadly in earnest. They are all involved in creating imaginary worlds that are as nece
ssary for them as the physical world they inhabit. Without the symbolic refuges they create, the “real” world would not be very interesting. All of them feel that it is writing that gives them their identity; that if they could not write, their life would lose much of its meaning. At the same time, the goals and approaches of the five writers are
quite different. Some feel that they have a central message they want to convey, others tend to react more to experience; some emphasize tradition, others spontaneity.

T
O
B
E A
W
ITNESS

Mark Strand was living in Salt Lake City at the time of our interview and teaching at the University of Utah. His roots, however, are in the East, and recently he returned to live there with his family. Strand has received many honors for his poetry, including being named the poet laureate of the United States. But like most creative people, he does not take himself too seriously. When asked what was the most important challenge he was facing at this stage of life, he answered: “At some moments it’s training the puppy not to shit in the house. At other times, it’s trying to get some work done.”

Strand does not have a pretentious theory of
ars poetica
. But that does not mean that he takes his vocation lightly; in fact, his views of poetry are as serious as any. His writing grows out of the condition of mortality: Birth, love, and death are the stalks onto which his verse is grafted. To say anything new about these eternal themes he must do a lot of watching, a lot of reading, a lot of thinking. Strand sees his main skill as just paying attention to the textures and rhythms of life, being receptive to the multifaceted, constantly changing yet ever recurring stream of experiences. The sec
ret of saying something new is to be patient. If one reacts too quickly, it is likely that the reaction will be superficial, a cliché. “Keep your eyes and ears open,” he says, “and your mouth shut. For as long as possible.” Yet life is short, so patience is painful to the poet.

Strand claims that often he starts writing without anything specific in mind. What gets him started is the simple desire to write. Writing for him—as for the rest of the individuals discussed in this
chapter—is a necessity, like swimming for a fish or flying for a bird. The theme of the poem emerges in the writing, as one word suggests another, one image calls another into being. This is the problem-finding process that is typical of creative work in the arts as well as the sciences.

But amusement seems like a radical understatement for the way Strand experiences writing. For one thing, it is a never-ending process almost obsessive in its demands on the poet. “I am always thinking in the back of my mind, there’s something always going on back there. I am always working, even if it’s sort of unconsciously, even though I’m carrying on conversations with people and doing other things, somewhere in the back of my mind I’m writing, mulling over. And another part of my mind is reviewing what I’ve done.” In fact, one of the major problems Strand tries to avoid is a sort of men
tal meltdown that occurs when he gets too deeply involved with the writing of a poem. At such times, to avoid blowing a fuse, he has developed a variety of rituals to distract himself: playing a few hands of solitaire, taking the dog for a walk, running “meaningless errands,” going to the kitchen to have a snack. Driving is an especially useful respite, because it forces him to concentrate on the road and thus relieves his mind from the bur
den of thought. Afterward, refreshed by the interval, he can return to work with a clearer mind.

Then there is the opposite danger: running into a dry spell. Strand has experienced this, too. After moving to Utah he was unable to write anything serious for many months. A writing block is not merely inconvenient; for someone who defines himself through writing, it is like being in a coma. So writing may be amusing when everything is going well; but between feast and famine the fragile flow is constantly threatened. Moreover, achieving even moderate affluence from writing verse is almost impossible under the best of circumstances. But Strand does not complain about the hardships
involved. He feels privileged to be doing what he loves and is impatient with artists who moan and groan about how difficult their lives are. The whine of the victim is absent from his repertoire—as from that of practically all the individuals we interviewed.

In chapter five I quoted Strand’s description of the total immersion in the flow of writing. But this state cannot be sustained for long stretches of time: “I could never stay in that frame of mind for an entire day. It comes and goes. If I’m working well, it’s there. I will be in a daze, I mean, I will be very disconnected from everything around me. When I’m in a daze I’m creating a space for myself, some psychic space [from] which I can work.”

Strand’s modus operandi seems to consist of a constant alternation between a highly concentrated critical assessment and a relaxed, receptive, nonjudgmental openness to experience. His attention coils and uncoils, its focus sharpens and softens, like the systolic and diastolic beat of the heart. It is out of this dynamic change of perspective that a good new work arises. Without openness the poet might miss the significant experience. But once the experience registers in his consciousness, he needs the focused, critical approach to transform it into a vivid verbal image that
communicates its essence to the reader.

Obsessed as he is with his art, Strand realizes that he could not really work in such a concentrated way longer than he does now, for more than a few hours a day. Besides, the enterprise of writing makes sense only within the context of a broader, more mundane reality. Some artists get so involved in their creations that they lose their appetite for raw experience, but Strand welcomes ordinary
life—puttering in the yard, having meals with the family, going on hikes, lecturing, even shopping. These activities:

Mark Strand seems comfortable with his place in the world—with his family, his job, and his dog. He knows that he is good at his craft, which is to express in arresting and accurate language what he has learned from witnessing life. When he was a child, there were no special signs that pointed to his future calling. His parents had struggled to achieve a comfortable middle-class status, and they encouraged their son to be articulate, informed, and well read. But for Strand to become a poet was definitely not a part of their agenda. They were afraid, with good reason, that such
a career would never lead to financial self-sufficiency. In fact, by age forty-five, when some people’s thoughts turn to the possibility of retirement, Strand still didn’t have a steady job.