I have just finished Thomas Szasz's short book about Virginia Woolf, "My Madness Saved Me." He would have been already 86 or so when he wrote it, and he doesn't pull any punches, basically declaring her to be a self-centred, neurotic upper class snob (anti-Semitic, too, and also an atheist, but who's perfect, eh?), and a bit of a fraud hiding behind a bogus mental illness diagnosis. I used to quite adore Virginia Woolf as a writer and as one of those rarefied and enigmatic British personalities of another era. And apparently, even if she was lesbian, she was really likely asexual, and we had might as well believe Vita Sackville-West when she insisted that the two women had never ever tested mattresses together. I would say the mystique has all vanished away now. I still think she was a brilliant writer.
Szasz is particularly famous for his two books "The Myth of Mental Illness" and "Manufacturers of Madness." He was a psychiatrist (he died in 2012 in his early nineties) who didn't believe in mental illness, that it was simply a useless catch-all for maladaptive behaviours, human irresponsibility and the fallout of a society not at all interested or invested in promoting human wellness. I largely agree with him, at least as far as the premises of his arguments are concerned, but I am also concerned that the fallout of living in a society that is so cold, self-centred and me-first materialistic as our own is going to create a toxic fallout of some people who, if they were not sick to begin with, are going to be very ill once we are finished with them, or should I say, once they are finished with us.
It often is awkward when one person you admire has basically pulled the rug out from another person that you admire. But then, who else could do it so well. Then, I read a bit about Szasz only to note that he also had his own feet of clay. Rather a bitter, stubborn individual not really interested in considering different points of view while steadfastly clinging to his opinions. On the other hand, he did seem to also share a common enemy with Virginia as neither were terribly fond of Sigmund Freud. According to Virginia, who met Freud months before he died, he was a miserable shrunken old man. Szasz mentioned that he was more interested in justifying his opinions than in offering people anything really concrete to help them recover.
Now that I'm older, I am aware of one thing. I would not particularly have liked either Virginia Woolf, or Thomas Szasa had I the opportunity of knowing them. And the feeling likely would be mutual. Simply put, I no longer care how gifted, talented, intelligent or insightful they or others might be. If they don't really care about others, if they are selfish, if they have no love in their hearts, if they are snobs and think themselves to be my own or other peoples' superiors, then really I would have no reason at all for wanting to know them. I can still enjoy the brilliance of their writing and their perspicacious insights into the world and into human nature, but being themselves such unpleasant persons to me also does something to taint their literary output.
I know that in my own experience, people have presumed to befriend me, not because they thought that I was nice, or caring, or supportive as their friend, but for the simple reason that they find me interesting. Which is really very insulting. I don't want to be interesting. I don't want to entertain others. I simply want to be a good, reliable and kind and rather ordinary friend who has others as good, reliable and kind and rather ordinary friends. Is that really too much to expect, Gentle Reader? Maybe I should just shut up more and act dumb.
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