培养新想法诞生的思维状态

Cultivating a state of mind where new ideas are born

Henrik Karlsson and Johanna Karlsson

Jul 26, 2023

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Edward Hopper, Cape Cod Morning, oil on canvas, 1950

The Knight: As you know, I am afraid of emptiness, desolation and stillness. I cannot bear the silence and isolation.

Death: Emptiness is a mirror turned to your own face.

— Ingmar Bergman’s workbook, April 5, 1955

In the early 2010s, a popular idea was to provide coworking spaces and shared living to people who were building startups. That way the founders would have a thriving social scene of peers to percolate ideas with as they figured out how to build and scale a venture. This was attempted thousands of times by different startup incubators. There are no famous success stories.

In 2015, Sam Altman, who was at the time the president of Y Combinator, a startup accelerator that has helped scale startups collectively worth $600 billion, tweeted in reaction that “not [providing coworking spaces] is part of what makes YC work.” Later, in a 2019 interview with Tyler Cowen, Altman was asked to explain why.

SAM ALTMAN: Good ideas — actually, no, great ideas are fragile. Great ideas are easy to kill. An idea in its larval stage — all the best ideas when I first heard them sound bad. And all of us, myself included, are much more affected by what other people think of us and our ideas than we like to admit.

If you are just four people in your own door, and you have an idea that sounds bad but is great, you can keep that self-delusion going. If you’re in a coworking space, people laugh at you, and no one wants to be the kid picked last at recess. So you change your idea to something that sounds plausible but is never going to matter. It’s true that coworking spaces do kill off the very worst ideas, but a band-pass filter for startups is a terrible thing because they kill off the best ideas, too.

This is an insight that has been repeated by artists, too. Pablo Picasso: “Without great solitude, no serious work is possible.” James Baldwin: “Perhaps the primary distinction of the artist is that he must actively cultivate that state which most men, necessarily, must avoid: the state of being alone.” Bob Dylan: “To be creative you’ve got to be unsociable and tight-assed.”

When expressed in aphorisms like this, you almost get the impression that creativity simply requires that you sit down in a room of your own. In practice, however, what they are referring to as solitude is rather something like “a state of mind.” They are putting themselves in a state where the opinions of others do not bother them and where they reach a heightened sensitivity for the larval ideas and vague questions that arise within them.

To get a more visceral and nuanced understanding of this state, Johanna and I have been reading the working notes of several highly creative individuals. These notes, written not for publication but as an aid in the process of discovery, are, in a way, partial windows into minds who inhabit the solitary creative space which the quotes above point to. In particular, we’ve found the notes of the mathematician Alexander Grothendieck and the film director Ingmar Bergman revealing. They both kept detailed track of their thoughts as they attempted to reach out toward new ideas. Or rather, invited them in. In the notes, they also repeatedly turned their probing thoughts onto themselves, trying to uncover the process that brings the new into the world.

This essay is not a definite description of this creative state, which takes on many shapes; our aim is rather to give a portrait of a few approaches, to point out possibilities.

Part 1: Alexander Grothendieck

It is as if there existed, for what seems like millennia, tracing back to the very origins of mathematics and of other arts and sciences, a sort of “conspiracy of silence” surrounding [the] “unspeakable labors” which precede the birth of each new idea, both big and small[.]

— Alexander Grothendieck, Récoltes et Semailles

In June 1983, Alexander Grothendieck sits down to write the preface to a mathematical manuscript called Pursuing Stacks. He is concerned by what he sees as a tacit disdain for the more “feminine side” of mathematics (which is related to what I’m calling the solitary creative state) in favor of the “hammer and chisel” of the finished theorem. By elevating the finished theorems, he feels that mathematics has been flattened: people only learn how to do the mechanical work of hammering out proofs, they do not know how to enter the dreamlike states where truly original mathematics arises. To counteract this, Grothendieck in the 1980s has decided to write in a new way, detailing how the “work is carried day after day [. . .] including all the mistakes and mess-ups, the frequent look-backs as well as the sudden leaps forward”, as well as “the early steps [. . .] while still on the lookout for [. . .] initial ideas and intuitions—the latter of which often prove to be elusive and escaping the meshes of language.”

This was how he had written Pursuing Stacks, the manuscript at hand, and it was the method he meant to employ in the preface as well. Except here he would be probing not a theorem but his psychology and the very nature of the creative act. He would sit with his mind, observing it as he wrote, until he had been able to put in words what he meant to say. It took him 29 months.

When the preface, known as Récoltes et Semailles, was finished, in October 1986, it numbered, in some accounts, more than 2000 pages. It is in an unnerving piece of writing, seething with pain, curling with insanity at the edges—Grothendieck is convinced that the mathematical community is morally degraded and intent on burying his work, and aligns himself with a series of saints (and the mathematician Riemann) whom he calls les mutants. One of his colleagues, who received a copy over mail, noticed that Grothendieck had written with such force that the letters at times punched holes through the pages. Despite this unhinged quality, or rather because of it, Récoltes et Semailles is a profound portrait of the creative act and the conditions that enable our ability to reach out toward the unknown. (Extracts from it can be read in unauthorized English translations, here and here.)

First contact with the creative state

Alexander Grothendieck in 1988

An important part of the notes has Grothendieck meditating on how he first established contact with the cognitive space needed to do groundbreaking work. This happened in his late teens. It was, he writes, this profound contact with himself which he established between 17 and 20 that later set him apart—he was not as strong a mathematician as his peers when he came to Paris at 20, in 1947. That wasn’t the key to his ability to do great work.

I admired the facility with which [my fellow students] picked up, as if at play, new ideas, juggling them as if familiar with them from the cradle—while for myself I felt clumsy, even oafish, wandering painfully up an arduous track, like a dumb ox faced with an amorphous mountain of things that I had to learn (so I was assured), things I felt incapable of understanding[.]

Grothendieck was, to be clear, a strong mathematician compared to most anyone, but these peers were the most talented young mathematicians in France, and unlike Grothendieck, who had spent the war in an internment camp at Rieucros, near Mende, they had been placed in the best schools and tutored. They were talented and well-trained. But the point is: being exceptionally talented and trained was, in the long run, not enough to do groundbreaking work because they lacked the capacity to go beyond the context they had been raised in.