What Makes a Genius?
At work, we’ll be playing with someone who is sometimes described as a genius. A discussion ensued about what makes a genius, which compelled me to put down some thoughts.
Given that genius is extraordinary, it would be arrogant of me to try to slap on a definition from my vantage point. This is, of course, subjective—but I find it meaningful to at least try to put into words some of the qualities surrounding it. In our conversation the other day, someone said a genius is a person who can do things that nobody else can. But the human race is eternally evolving. Paganini’s supposed technical wizardry is probably nothing special nowadays; people are running faster and doing more difficult things as time passes. There are many particularly talented individuals who help push the natural progress of the human race forward. Genius has got to be more singular than that.
A point was made that genius means having a distinct voice: how Mozart created his own language, how Schubert always sounds like Schubert, and Mendelssohn likewise. I feel that is certainly a mark of genius. You can’t fake having an individual voice; what is unrecognizable will stay unrecognizable. It is even worse when something sounds like a copy-and-paste amalgamation of many different personalities, dotted with self-conscious gestures that the composer believes will make others think they’re brilliant, too—something “clever.” It becomes a pretense of sophistication and a convolution of non-expression. I ask, what’s the point?
It’s the same with any other form of expression. When writers construct complicated sentences and use big, hollow words just to impress, they only muddy actual communication—obliterating any possibility of a signature voice in their pretension.
Does having a distinct voice alone make a genius? After all, if one tries hard enough to be outrageous, one could indeed be plenty distinct. (If you write clunkily and pretentiously often enough, that alone can become an identifying signature.) Instead, I feel that genius lies in where this distinct voice comes from: a profound inner vision that is somehow linked to a quality of connectedness, in an infinite multitude of ways. A genius uniquely sees possibilities of what being human is and what it could mean—possibilities that few others have seen—through the lens of their work. I feel Einstein is a genius not just because of his (albeit revolutionary) scientific achievements, but because of his vision of a much grander humanity, without which he would not have been able to achieve what he did. His genius lies not in cleverness and innovation, but in the vision behind that innovation. Innovation alone improves; but innovation stemming from an unselfconsciously lofty and singularly insightful vision inspires (not to mention taking the innovation to a whole different level).
In the end, genius and its effects evade strict definition precisely due to their nature. It wouldn’t be genius if it fit a preconceived notion, was predictable, or had bounds. That is why it offers hope and elevates us: it provides visions of humanity beyond the utilitarian. It births possibilities beyond ordinary sight.