“Can We Know Someone?”

“Can We Know Someone?”

“Can We Know Someone?”

It’s a question I return to over and over, in classes and in my writing on artists.  It never stops fascinating me.  What do we know when we know a person–as Dan McAdams once phrased it–and how much do we know?

First things first.  There’s a sense out there, I hear it expressed now and again, that without Person X around to talk for himself, no trustworthy understanding of Person X can be reached.  To put it more simply:  If your subject is dead, you can’t grasp him psychologically.  (Quick side note:  this would cancel the field of biography, let alone psychobiography, since most biographies are written about people no longer living).

This critique strikes me as wrong-headed for several reasons.  One thing to realize is that most famous people–artists, for instance–leave behind relatively thorough records of thought about themselves.  They may be dead, but these records keep speaking eternally.  Take Sylvia Plath (an artist I wrote about at length in my Handbook of Psychobiography).  One can consult her journals, letters, poems, diaries, stories, autobiographical novels (The Bell Jar).  In all these Plath speaks for herself.  She addresses hundreds of questions on her own, questions you might have asked her had she been alive to talk with.  So, the record, sometimes massive in scope and detail, tells you more than you need to know.

Plus, you can talk to other people who knew Person X well.  They tell you what Person X told them.  They also tell you what they observed on their own about Person X.  All these intimacies are partial, of course.  But as you add them up, a picture begins to form.

The other thing is this:  People don’t know themselves all that well.  We can certainly ask them why they wrote a particular song, what their motives were, what the song expresses, and they can venture an answer, but this answer is not necessarily correct.  It’s just one piece in the jigsaw.  It isn’t, axiomatically, a super-privileged viewpoint.  Now, don’t get me wrong.  I always want to know what my subjects say about their work.  It’s more data to mull over.  But I never treat what they say as THE ANSWER.  There may be other answers, answers of which the artist himself is unaware, for simple reasons or for deep psychological reasons bound up in psychological defenses against knowing.  Cognitive psychologists tend to agree these days on the fact that about 70% of what we do is generated unconsciously.  We are mysteries to ourselves.  We don’t think we are, but we are.  We are.

What do you think?  Can people no longer living be known?  Or is it all a hopeless enterprise?

4 thoughts on ““Can We Know Someone?”

  1. Not a hopeless endeavor. But, entirely precise either, as you would agree yourself. I think the biggest problem I have is the fact that (and I could be totally wrong here) when studying psychobiography, people tend to take the liberty to judge. So, in the end, for example… Elvis becomes a freak, a sick man with paedophilic (?) tendencies and Lennon – a Yoko obsessed druggie with mommy issues.

    The problem I think and when I say this please… do not misunderstand this to mean that I am belittling or even depreciating the field of psychobiography. I believe it lends value. And I also believe that yes, people are emotion driven… but, more importantly, each of our lives and the decisions we make, or the actions we take as a result of those decisions are based on a personal reality. Exclusive real realities.

    1. What you are talking about is pathography. Psychobiography is not about calling people names or indulging in moral judgments. It IS about exploring the links between personality and creativity, right?

      1. Yes, I agree. Though (and perhaps I am naive in feeling so) but it can initially atleast… risk coming across as mere sport… idle fun. But, deeper still, yes… I agree with you, it reveals an intrinsic link between creativity and the psyche.

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