But now suddenly it occurs to me that by far the main protagonist of twentieth century literature must be the chattering mind, which usually means the mind that can’t make up its mind, the mind postponing action in indecision and, if we’re lucky, poetry.
[T]he reason for this indeterminacy is an excess of intellectual activity; so the cause for failure is also a source of self-esteem[.]
Seeing the pros and cons of every possible move, this modern man is paralysed, half-envying those less intelligent than himself who throw themselves instinctively into the fray[.]
I suspect our destiny is to pursue our literary sickness for years to come. It is hard not to congratulate oneself on the quality of one’s unhappiness. “Every word,” Beckett told us “is an unnecessary stain on silence[.]”
A Contemplation of Chattering Minds by Ferris Jabr:
Although I enjoyed Parks’s post overall, I take issue with aspects of his analysis. Twentieth century novels certainly feature many chattering minds—minds that converse with themselves page after page in a mixed language of traditional narration and interior monologue.
Twentieth century literature—in fact, literature from every age—is interested in suffering minds, but no era of literature is exclusively interested in mental agony. Woolf, Joyce and Proust penned many painful thoughts—contemplations of suicide, loneliness, self-pity—but they also honored the mind’s moment of triumphs.
Psychologists, too, have discovered the benefits of mental chatter, which they call self-talk, private speech or inner voice. Mental rumination is the tendency to mull over one’s frustrations. People who ruminate a lot seem to be especially susceptible to depression, but some psychologists have proposed that a certain level of rumination is advantageous—if we focus on a problem, we are more likely to find a solution. Private speech also plays an important role in the way children learn language and we all rely on self-talk to psych ourselves up before the big game, the job interview or the first date.
More fundamentally, many neuroscientists and psychologists think that without our constant interior monologue—or the mind’s obsessive need to construct self-narrative, as Parks puts it—we would have no sense of self, or at least not the same sense of self most of us understand.
For me, the choice Parks sets up at the end of his post—the choice between quietness and Roth, between well-being and David Foster Wallace, between mental health and “literary sickness”—is a false choice. I realize Parks might intend a little humor and hyperbole here, but this subject means too much to me to treat so lightly. We should not conflate the narrative mind with suffering, nor quiet with health. Yes, we talk to ourselves—our minds chatter incessantly—and we are all the saner for it.
