The Foundations of Personality - Abraham Myerson (best large ereader .txt) 📗

was still very strong, but it

lent subtlety and wisdom to his life, rather than weakness. Now

and then he became harassed by a feeling of unreality, by a

questioning skepticism that nullified happiness, and he felt

himself divided by his intellect. These he shook off by dropping

his work, by hunting, fishing and accepting simple goals of

activity. Later on he married, and became a scholar of some note.

I think he now relishes life as well as any really thoughtful man

of middle life can.

 

There is a personality type, the emotional introspective, whose

interest in life is directed toward their own sensations and

emotions. They do not view people or things as having a value in

themselves and for themselves; they deliberately view them as

sources of a personal pleasurable sensation. I do not mean the

crude egoist who asks of anything or anybody, “What good is it

(or he) for me?” but I mean that connoisseur in emotions,

casually blase and bored, who seeks new sensations. This is an

introspective deviation of a serious kind, for the connoisseur in

emotions rarely is happy and usually is most deeply miserable.

Bourget in his remarkable psychological novel, “A Love Crime,”

has admirably drawn one of these characters. The exquisite

Armand, seeking pleasure constantly, is divided into the

sensualist who seduces and ruins and the introspectionist who

watches the proceeding with disgust and disillusion. It is not an

outraged conscience that is at work but the inability to feel

without analyzing the feeling “Ah, for a single passion that

might apply my entire sensibility to another being, like wet

paper against a window pane.” This is the eternal tragedy of

sophistication,—that there results an anhedonia in large part

manifested by a restless introspection. The mind is drawn away

from the outside world, and everything is seen out of proportion.

 

The hypochondriac directs his attention to his health and is in

part a monothymic of the fear type. Moliere’s “Le Malade

Imaginaire” is a classical study of this person, and I do not,

presume to better it. Modern popularizing of disease has

distinctly increased the numbers of the hypochondriacs, or at any

rate has made their fears more scientific. Brain tumor, gastric

ulcer, appendicitis, tuberculosis, heart disease, cancer,

syphilis,—often have I seen a hypochondriac run the gamut of

all these deadly diseases and still retain his health. The faddy

habits they form are the sustenance of those who start the varied

forms of vegetarianism, chewing cults, fresh-air fiends,

wet-grass fanatics, back-to-nature societies, and the mild

lunacies of our (and every) age.

 

One such hypochondriac, J., after suffering from every disease in

the advertising pages of the daily newspapers, developed a system

of habits that finally became a disease in itself. He rose at

6.30 each morning, stood naked in the middle of the room, took

six deep breaths, rolled around on the floor and kicked his arms

and legs about for fifteen minutes, took a drink of cold water,

had a shower bath and a rub-down, shaved, attended to “certain

bodily functions” (his term, not mine), ate a breakfast

consisting of gluten bread, two slices, one and one-half glasses

of milk, a soft-boiled egg (three and one-half minutes) and an

orange; walked to work, taking exactly twenty minutes to do it;

opened the windows wide in his office (fighting with the other

clerks who preferred comfort to fresh air), ate a health luncheon

at noon consisting of Postum, nuts, health bread, and two squares

of milk chocolate; walked home at six, taking exactly 20 minutes

to do it; washed, lay on the couch fifteen minutes with mind

fixed on infinity (a Hindoo trick, so he heard), ate dinner,

which never varied much from rice, cream, potatoes, milk and,

heritage of saner days, a small piece of pie! All the day he

watched each pain and ache, noted whether he belched or spit more

than usual, and at night went to sleep at 10.30. Needless to say

he had no friends, was known as “that nut” and really broke down

from too arduous an introspective existence.

 

The term self-denial has been used from earliest times to

indicate what we have called inhibition. But self-denial is

fundamentally a wrong term, since it implies that the self is

that which lusts and shirks, and that which controls desire and

holds the individual to a consistent and ethical line of conduct

is not the self. In fact, the self is based on inhibition and

control, and when there is failure in these regards there is

self-failure.

 

Interesting is the under-inhibited person. I mean by this term

the one who consistently and in most relationship shows an

inability to control the primitive instincts, impulses and

desires. J. F. may stand as a type that becomes the “black sheep”

and in many cases the “criminal.” He comes of what is known as a

“good family,” which in his case means that the parents are

well-to-do, of good reputation and rather above the average in

intelligence. The brothers and sisters have all done well, are

settled in their ways and are not to be distinguished from the

people of their social set in manners or morals.

 

It was impossible to discipline J. As a very young child he

resisted his mother’s efforts to train him into tidiness or

restraint. He stole whatever he desired, and though he was

alternately punished and pleaded with, though he seemed to desire

to please his parents, he continued to steal whenever there was

opportunity. At six he entered a neighbor’s house, and while

there took a purse that was lying on a table, rifled it of its

contents and disappeared for nearly a day, when he was found in a

down-town district, having gorged himself with candy and cake.

From then on his peculations increased, and his conduct became

the scandal of his family, for he stole even from the maids

employed in the house, as well as from guests. In each case the

stealing was apparently motivated to give a good time to himself

and also to certain chums he made here and there in the city. He

would lie to evade punishment, but finally would yield, confess

his guilt, express deepest repentance and accept his punishment

with the sincerity of one fully conscious of deserving it.

 

In school he did poorly. He was bright enough. In fact, he was

somewhat above the average in memory and comprehension and may be

described as keen, but it was difficult for him to keep his

attention consistently on any subject, and the discipline of

school irked him. He ran away several times to avoid school, and

each time, until he was about fourteen, came back after a few

days,—bedraggled, hungry and repentant. The freedom of the

streets appealed to him as offering a life varied enough to suit

his nature, and with excitement and adventure always in the air.

So he mingled with all kinds of boys and men and at the age of

fourteen shocked his parents by being arrested as one of a gang

that was engaged in robbing drunken men in the slum quarters of

the city. It took all kinds of influence to get him released on

probation, but this was accomplished and then the boy disappeared

from home.

 

He was gone three years and despite all search had completely

disappeared. His people had given up all hope of seeing him again

(although certain members of his family were not at all saddened

by the prospect) when they received a communication from the

police of a distant city with a photograph of the boy, asking if

it was true that he was their son. It seems that J. had drifted

from place to place, now working as newsboy, stable hand, errand

boy, messenger, theater-usher, until he had reached this city.

There he was wandering on the streets, hungry and ragged, when a

philanthropic old gentleman noticed him. J. has the good fortune

to be very innocent looking, and no matter what his crimes, his

face might belong to a cherub. A friend once stated that if J.

appeared at Heaven’s gate, St. Peter would surely take him to be

an angel come back from a stroll and let him in. The

philanthropist stopped, the boy and inquired into his history. J.

told him a very affecting story of being an orphan whom a cruel

guardian had robbed of his heritage and exaggerated his

sufferings until the indignant old fellow threatened to have the

police prosecute his betrayer. With a show of great magnanimity,

J. refused to disclose his real name, and the philanthropist took

him home. He had him clothed and fed, and then, taken by the

boy’s engaging manners and bright ways, decided to educate and

adopt him. He was dissuaded from the latter by a friend, but he

sent J. to a private school of good grade. To the surprise of the

old man, J. was continually getting into mischief, and finally he

was accused of stealing. Unable to believe the school

authorities, the old gentleman took the boy home and quizzed him.

He gave an unsatisfactory account of himself and that night

disappeared with a considerable sum of money. The police were

notified, and a week later he was found in a house of the

type—so euphemistically called—of “ill fame.” There he was

spending the money lavishly on the inmates and was indulging his

every desire. One of the women, a police stool-pigeon, identified

him as the boy who was wanted by the law, and he was arrested.

 

Despite the efforts of the parents and the philanthropist, the

boy was given a prison sentence and is still serving it.

Characteristic of this group of personalities are these traits:

(1) an impatience with the arduous, an incapacity or

unwillingness to wait for results in the ordinary way; (2) a

decided dread of monotony, a longing for excitement; (3) an

inability to form permanent purposes and to inhibit the

distracting desires; (4) a desire to win others’ good opinion and

sympathy,—therefore he always lavished his money on those whom

that kind of “good fellowship” wins and told pathetic stories to

those whose sentimentality made them easy victims; (5) a weak

kind of egoism, seeking easy ways to pleasure and position,

restless under discipline, always repentant after wrong-doing,

fluent in speech but lacking the courage to face the difficulties

of life.

 

This under-inhibited type may suddenly reform and apparently

entirely emerge from difficulties. I have in mind a conspicuous

case, a young woman now happily married and the mother of fine

children. When she was thirteen or fourteen the petty pilferings

of her childhood took on a serious character. She began to steal

from the person of strangers and from the homes of friends. She

romanced in the most convincing fashion, told strangers the most

remarkable stories, usually of such a nature as to make her

interesting and an object of sympathy, but which tended to

blacken the reputation of her family. She lost place after place

at work, was sent to a hospital to become a nurse and demoralized

her associates by her lies and her thefts. She was a very sweet

girl in every other way, kindly, generous, self-sacrificing,

studious even, and her character-contradiction made people

reluctant to believe she was not insane. She was discharged from

the hospital, stayed at home for a few months,—and then came the

miracle. She obtained a place in a large business house and

worked there for seven years or up till the time of her marriage.

She was steadily promoted and was accounted the most reliable and

honest employee of the establishment. She handled money and

goods, was absolutely truthful and her earnest efficiency was

noteworthy. Her private life was in complete harmony with this

business career. She helped her parents, who are poor, dressed

modestly, studied nights and