Egas Moniz
believed that the lobotomy, once perfected, could cure all
mental illness, and he marketed it to the world as such. By end of the 1940s,
the procedure was a hit, being performed on tens of thousands of patients all
over the world. Egas Moniz would even win a Nobel Prize for his discovery.
But by the 1950s, people began to notice that—and this might sound crazy
—drilling a hole through somebody’s face and scraping their brain the same
way you clean ice off your windshield can produce a few negative side
effects. And by “a few negative side effects,” I mean the patients became
goddamn potatoes. While often “curing” patients of their extreme emotional
afflictions, the procedure also left them with an inability to focus, make
decisions,
have careers, make long-term plans, or think abstractly about
themselves. Essentially, they became mindlessly satisfied zombies. They
became Elliots.
The Soviet Union, of all places, was the first country to outlaw the
lobotomy. The Soviets declared the procedure “contrary to human principles”
and claimed that it “turned an insane person into an idiot.”
7
This was sort of a
wake-up call to the rest of the world, because let’s face it, when Joseph Stalin
is lecturing you about ethics and human decency, you know you’ve fucked
up.
After that,
the rest of the world began, slowly, to ban the practice, and by
the 1960s, pretty much everyone hated it. The last lobotomy would be
performed in the United States in 1967, and the patient would die. Ten years
later, a drunken Tom Waits muttered his famous line on television, and the
rest, as they say, is history.
Tom Waits was a blistering alcoholic who spent most of the 1970s trying to
keep his eyes open and remember where he last left his cigarettes.
8
He also
found time to write and record seven brilliant albums in this period. He was
both prolific and profound, winning awards and selling millions of records
that were celebrated worldwide. He was one of
those rare artists whose
insight into the human condition could be startling.
Waits’s quip about the lobotomy makes us laugh, but there’s a hidden
wisdom to it: that he’d rather have the problem of passion with the bottle than
have no passion at all; that it’s better to find hope in lowly places than to find
none; that without our unruly impulses, we are nothing.
There’s pretty much always been a tacit assumption that our emotions
cause all our problems, and that our reason must swoop in to clean up the
mess. This line of thinking goes all the way back to Socrates, who declared
reason the root of all virtue.
9
At the beginning
of the Enlightenment,
Descartes argued that our reason was separate from our animalistic desires
and that it had to learn to control those desires.
10
Kant sort of said the same
thing.
11
Freud, too, except there were a lot of penises involved.
12
And when
Egas Moniz lobotomized his first patient in 1935, I’m sure he thought he had
just discovered a way to do what, for more than two thousand years,
philosophers had declared needed to be done: to grant reason dominion over
the unruly passions, to help humanity finally exercise some damn control over
itself.
This assumption (that we must use our rational mind to dominate our
emotions) has trickled down through the centuries and continues to define
much of our culture today. Let’s call it the “Classic Assumption.” The Classic
Assumption says that if
a person is undisciplined, unruly, or malicious, it’s
because he lacks the ability to subjugate his feelings, that he is weak-willed or
just plain fucked up. The Classic Assumption sees passion and emotion as
flaws, errors within the human psyche that must be overcome and fixed
within the self.
Today, we usually judge people based on the Classic Assumption. Obese
people are ridiculed and shamed because their obesity is seen as a failure of
self-control. They
know they should be thin, yet they continue to eat. Why?
Something must be wrong with them, we assume. Smokers: same deal. Drug
addicts receive the same treatment, of course, but often with the extra stigma
of being defined as criminals.
Depressed and suicidal people are subjected
to the Classic Assumption in
a way that’s dangerous, being told that their inability to create hope and
meaning in their lives is their own damn fault, that maybe, if they just tried a
little harder, hanging themselves by the necktie wouldn’t sound so appealing.
We see succumbing to our emotional impulses as a moral failing. We see a
lack of self-control as a sign of a deficient character. Conversely, we celebrate
people who beat their emotions into submission. We get collective hard-ons
for athletes and businessmen and leaders who are ruthless and robotic in their
efficiency. If a CEO sleeps under his desk and doesn’t see his kids for six
weeks at a time—fuck yeah, that’s determination! See? Anyone can be
successful!
Clearly, it’s not hard to see how the Classic
Assumption can lead to some
damaging . . . er, assumptions. If the Classic Assumption is true, then we
should be able to exhibit self-control, prevent emotional outbursts and crimes
of passion, and stave off addiction and indulgences through mental effort
alone. And any failure to do so reflects something inherently faulty or
damaged within us.
This is why we often develop the false belief that we need to change who
we are. Because if we can’t achieve our goals, if we can’t lose the weight or
get the promotion or learn the skill, then that
signifies some internal
deficiency. Therefore, in order to maintain hope, we decide we must
change
Do'stlaringiz bilan baham: