Sometimes we meet people that understand a great deal about the world. Their experiences, education and strength of memory give them an advantage that seems numinous in its depth. If you are a renaissance type person with a commensurate intellectual curiosity, such company can be quite fun. Verbal frolicking and tangential mind play for some can be both fun to participate in and to witness. But sometimes our egos can get in the way of such jest. The company we keep in our quotidian lives might be of a different nature. Our regular friends might be less animated. We might even be the center of attention as a rule. So when we encounter people that challenge us with amplified levels of erudition and/or acumen (amplified is a relative term), they might frustrate us. Or even if we happen to enjoy their company, too much exposure might exhaust us.
For some, it is as if they are propelled by a force of their own, an anthropomorphized version of a perpetual motion machine. For example, try watching old interviews between talk show hosts and Robin Williams. While moving at a certain speed the hosts will appear to enjoy Robin. But when he really unleashes his whirlwind talent, you'll see most of his hosts exhibit a mixture of frustration, bewilderment and exasperation. They won't verbalize it, but you'll see it in their faces. No one would assume that Jay Leno, an experienced comedian himself, couldn't keep up with Robin's bantering, but alas it happens to this best of us.
And so our intriguing counterparts are a double-edged sword. On one side of the blade they are sharp enough to amaze us, and on the other they can pierce our sense of pride. Especially when we privately and falsely cause us to feel inferior. Nobody likes to feel as a lesser, but we don't have to. Instead of taking their differences as a grievance against our sense of self-worth, we can cherish their flourishes (at least from time to time) and watch with bemused astonishment at the variety in our human counterparts.
History is replete with cases of our ancestors vexed with the same dilemma. In fact, we used to attribute the mystical powers of those with such gifts. The etymology of the word genius gives us a clue:
genius (n.) late 14c., "tutelary or moral spirit" who guides and governs an individual through life, from Latin genius "guardian deity or spirit which watches over each person from birth; spirit, incarnation; wit, talent;" also "prophetic skill," originally "generative power" (or "inborn nature"), from PIE *gen(e)-yo-, from root *gene- "to produce, give birth, beget" (see genus). Sense of "characteristic disposition" of a person is from 1580s. Meaning "person of natural intelligence or talent" and that of "exalted natural mental ability" are first recorded 1640s.
In other words, some people appeared so preternaturally gifted that we attributed their powers to an invisible entity. Obviously, no one could be so gifted naturally. Socrates was one such person. He claimed to have a daimon that he communicated with on a regular basis. You would be right to note the similarities between the word daimon and demon, but wrong to contextualize it in the same way. (The word demon was a Christianization of the Greek term)
daimon (n.) transliteration of Greek daimon "lesser god, guiding spirit, tutelary deity," 1852; see demon. Employed to avoid the post-classical associations of that word.
Here again we have the now familiar tutelary deity reference, except that in the Greek context it was meant as a literal interpretation. Surely we can dismiss such notions today as a misunderstanding of anomalous dexterity (or as psychological aberration.) The definitions above illustrate examples of how our language and history reflects our contention with such outliers.
So, if you happen to run into a genius and are feeling frustrated, know that you are not alone. Double-edged swords can be fun to play with.... once you know what to expect.
Comments