An illustrated manifesto for creative resilience in dark times, Beethoven's advice on being an artist, Aldous Huxley on science and spirituality 

An illustrated manifesto for creative resilience in dark times, Beethoven's advice on being an artist, Aldous Huxley on science and spirituality, and more. NOTE: This message might be cut short by your email program. [View it in full](. If a friend forwarded it to you and you'd like your very own newsletter, [subscribe here]( – it's free. donating = loving I pour tremendous time, thought, love, and resources into Brain Pickings, which remains free. If you find any joy and stimulation here, please consider supporting my labor of love with a recurring monthly [donation]( of your choosing, between a cup of tea and a good dinner: [Subscribe]( You can also become a one-time patron with a single donation in any amount: [Donate]( And if you've already donated, from the bottom of my heart: THANK YOU. 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[A Responsibility to Light: An Illustrated Manifesto for Creative Resilience and the Artist’s Duty in Dark Times]( “This is precisely the time when artists go to work,” Toni Morrison wrote in her electrifying case for [the artist’s task in troubled times](. “There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear. That is how civilizations heal.” But in such times of civilizational trauma, when the book of life itself seems to have come unbound, where are artists — who are not only human but perhaps the most human among us — to find the fortitude of spirit necessary for rising to their healing task? Illustrator [Wendy MacNaughton]( and writer [Courtney E. Martin]( offer a heartening answer in a collaboration that stands as a mighty manifesto for our time and a testament to the only mechanism by which the creative spirit has ever pulled humanity out of every abyss of its own making. This is your assignment. Feel all the things. Feel the hard things. The inexplicable things, the things that make you disavow humanity’s capacity for redemption. Feel all the maddening paradoxes. Feel overwhelmed, crazy. Feel uncertain. Feel angry. Feel afraid. Feel powerless. Feel frozen. And then FOCUS. Pick up your pen. Pick up your paintbrush. Pick up your damn chin. Put your two calloused hands on the turntables, in the clay, on the strings. Get behind the camera. Look for that pinprick of light. Look for the truth (yes, it is a thing—it still exists.) Focus on that light. Enlarge it. Reveal the fierce urgency of now. Reveal how shattered we are, how capable of being repaired. But don’t lament the break. Nothing new would be built if things were never broken. A wise man once said: there’s a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in. Get after that light. This is your assignment. Perhaps inspired in part by Sol LeWitt’s famous [“DO” letter]( and reminiscent in spirit of the [Holstee manifesto]( and Neil Gaiman’s iconic [Make Good Art]( speech, this vitalizing call for creative resilience began in response to the political turmoil of 2016, which left so many so dispirited. Hungry for a counterpoint to the despair and apathy of the cultural climate, Martin and MacNaughton created one themselves. Written shortly after Leonard Cohen’s death, the manifesto ends with a tender homage to his [famous clarion call for democracy](. Martin, who has advocated beautifully for [reimagining our cultural ethos of success]( and who wrote most of the “FOCUS” piece while walking in the desert of New Mexico with a newborn strapped to her chest, explains: While creating it, we imagined people hanging this poster on their office and studio wall as a reminder that they are not alone in their sadness and fear, and that they must must must keep doing the work. It matters. Three versions of the poster are available online — [red, white, and blue]( [black and white]( and [rainbow]( — with all proceeds donated to [Hedgebrook]( a rural writing residency for women, whose alumnae include [Gloria Steinem]( [Eve Ensler]( [Dani Shapiro]( [Naomi Shihab Nye]( and [Sarah Jones](. An additional limited edition of signed letterpress prints are being given away for free, until they last, at several independent bookstores and cultural centers around the country: - [King Carl’s Emporium]( at the 826 Valencia Tenderloin Center, San Francisco, CA - [The Loft Literary Center]( Minneapolis, MN - [BookPeople]( Austin, TX - [Green Apple Books]( San Francisco, CA - [Point Reyes Books]( Point Reyes, CA - [Bluestockings]( New York, NY - [The Sanctuaries]( Washington D.C. - [Books Are Magic]( Brooklyn, NY - [Creative Mornings]( Oakland, CA [Forward to a friend]( / [Read Online]( / [Like on Facebook]( [Beethoven's Advice on Being an Artist: His Touching Letter to a Little Girl Who Sent Him Fan Mail]( Artist is no other than he who unlearns what he has learned, in order to know himself,” E.E. Cummings wrote in contemplating [what it means to be an artist]( — a sentiment which intimates that the accumulation of learning, an inevitable byproduct of the process of growing up, takes us not closer to but further away from our creative source. Baudelaire captured this perfectly when he [wrote]( “Genius is nothing more nor less than childhood recovered at will.” This, perhaps, is why some of humanity’s most fertile minds have traced the origin of their creative purpose in childhood moments of epiphany — Pablo Neruda in his anecdote of [the hand through the fence]( Patti Smith in her [encounter with the the swan]( and Albert Einstein in his [formative memory of the compass](. In speaking with children, therefore, one might be able to get to the heart of art most simply and directly, unobstructed by the learned assumptions with which the act of living cloaks the act of creation. That’s precisely what Ludwig van Beethoven (December 16, 1770–March 26, 1827) did in his response to a fan letter from a little girl. Beethoven by Joseph Karl Stieler In the summer of 1812, a young aspiring pianist named Emilie sent her hero a beautiful hand-embroidered pocketbook to express her admiration for his artistic genius. Touched by the gesture, 41-year-old Beethoven wrote back, offering some simple yet profound words of encouragement and advice on the creative life — an exquisite micro-manifesto for what it means to be an artist and what art demands of those who make it. In a letter from July 17 of that year, found in [Beethoven: Letters, Journals and Conversations]( ([public library]( — which also gave us the great composer’s [stirring letter to his brothers about how music saved his life]( — Beethoven writes to Emilie: My dear good Emilie, my dear Friend! […] Do not only practice art, but get at the very heart of it; this it deserves, for only art and science raise men to the God-head. If, my dear Emilie, you at any time wish to know something, write without hesitation to me. The true artist is not proud, he unfortunately sees that art has no limits; he feels darkly how far he is from the goal; and though he may be admired by others, he is sad not to have reached that point to which his better genius only appears as a distant, guiding sun. Although known for his explosive anger, a bout of which [reportedly caused his deafness]( Beethoven was indeed a man of multitudes, capable at times of tremendous tenderness and sensitivity. It is from that soft and human place that he adds, in this letter to a little girl of meager means and no social advantage, a touching note on the artist’s responsibility to humility: I would, perhaps, rather come to you and your people, than to many rich folk who display inward poverty. If one day I should come to [your town], I will come to you, to your house; I know no other excellencies in man than those which causes him to rank among better men; where I find this, there is my home. If you wish, dear Emilie, to write to me, only address straight here where I shall be still for the next four weeks, or to Vienna; it is all one. Look upon me as your friend, and as the friend of your family. Complement this particular fragment of [Beethoven: Letters, Journals and Conversations]( with Einstein’s [advice to a little girl on being a scientist]( Sol LeWitt’s [electrifying letter of encouragement on being an artist]( and Rilke’s timeless wisdom on [what it takes to create]( then revisit Beethoven’s [passionate love letters](. [Forward to a friend]( / [Read Online]( / [Like on Facebook]( [Don Giovanni and the Universe: Aldous Huxley on How the Moon Illuminates the Complementarity of Spirituality and Science]( “The notion that science and spirituality are somehow mutually exclusive does a disservice to both,” Carl Sagan [wrote]( shortly before his death. Two decades earlier, he had found a lyrical intersection of science and spirituality in Diane Ackerman’s [scientifically accurate poems about the Solar System]( which Sagan sent to his pal Timothy Leary in prison. Leary had been jailed for his experiments probing precisely this meeting point of science and spirituality through his experiments with psychedelics, the most famous of which he conducted at Harvard in the early 1960s together with his friend Aldous Huxley (July, 26 1894–November 22, 1963). Long before his collaboration with Leary, thirty-something Huxley began exploring the complementarity of the scientific and the spiritual realms of existence not through psychedelics but through immensely poetic prose, nowhere more beautifully than in his 1931 essay collection [Music at Night]( ([public library]( — the out-of-print treasure that gave us Huxley’s moving meditation on [the transcendent power of music](. Aldous Huxley In an essay titled “Meditation in Arundel Street,” Huxley beings by wresting from the geographic cohabitation of two disparate journals — a religious magazine and a periodical on the science of poultry raising — a metaphor for two radically different ways of looking at the same thing: the universe and our place in it. He writes: A walk down Arundel Street in London remains, after all, the best introduction to philosophy. Keep your eyes to the left as you descend toward the river from the Strand. You will observe that the Christian World is published at number seven, and a few yards further down, at number nine, the Feathered World. By the time you have reached the Embarkment you will find yourself involved in the most abstruse metaphysical speculations. The Christian World, the Feathered World — between them a great gulf is fixed… The values and even the truths current in the world of number seven Arundel Street cease to hold good in that of number nine. Just a few years before the great biologist and writer Rachel Carson extended her pioneering invitation to imagine Earth from the perspective of other creatures, Huxley uses the contrast between these two worlds as the leaping point for illuminating what a tiny sliver of physical reality we perceive through the limited lens of the human mind and spirit. That lacuna between the physical world of science and the metaphysical world of art, he suggests, is where the human consciousness takes shape and takes flight: The world of Christians and the world of the feathered are but two out of a swarm of humanly conceivable and humanly explorable worlds. They constellate the thinking mind like stars, and between them stretches the mental equivalent of interstellar space — unspanned. Between, for example, a human body and the whizzing electrons of which it is composed, and the thoughts, the feelings which direct its movements, there are, as yet at any rate, no visible connections. The gulf that separates the lover’s, say, or the musician’s world from the world of the chemist is deeper, more uncompromisingly unbridgeable than that which divides Anglo-Catholics from macaws or geese from Primitive Methodists. We cannot walk from one of these worlds into another; we can only jump. The last act of Don Giovanni is not deducible from electrons, or molecules, or even from cells and entire organs. In relation to these physical, chemical, and biological worlds it is simply a non sequitur. The whole of our universe is composed in a series of such non sequiturs. The only reason for supposing that there is in fact any connection between the logically and scientifically unrelated fragments of our experience is simply the fact that the experience is ours, that we have the fragments in our consciousness. These constellated worlds are all situated in the heaven of the human mind. Some day, conceivably, the scientific and logical engineers may build us convenient bridges from one world to another. Meanwhile we must be content to hop. Solvitur saltando. The only walking you can do in Arundel Street is along the pavements. Craters of the moon, one of [Étienne Léopold Trouvelot’s stunning 19th-century astronomical drawings]( Huxley picks up the question of reconciling the scientific and the spiritual dimensions of reality in another essay titled “Meditation on the Moon.” With a skeptical eye to the exclusionary either-or mindset which marked his intellectual epoch and which has scarred our own, he writes: Materialism and mentalism — the philosophies of “nothing but.” How wearily familiar we have become with that “nothing but space, time, matter and motion,” that “nothing but sex,” that “nothing but economics”! And the no less intolerant “nothing but spirit,” “nothing but consciousness,” “nothing but psychology” — how boring and and tiresome they also are! “Nothing but” … lacks generosity. Enough of “nothing but.” It is time to say again, with primitive common sense (but for better reasons), “not only, but also.” It is with this inclusive, reconciliatory disposition that he turns to one of humanity’s oldest companions, the Moon — at once an ancient source of myth and legend, and the fulcrum by which science ejected humanity from the center of the universe once astronomers pointed their telescopes at our nightly companion and began observing its motions. Huxley writes: Outside my window the night is struggling to wake; in the moonlight, the blinded garden dreams so vividly of its lost colours that the black roses are almost crimson, the trees stand expectantly on the verge of living greenness. The white-washed parapet of the terrace is brilliant against the dark blue sky… The white walls of the house coldly reverberate the lunar radiance… The moon is full. And not only full, but also beautiful. And not only beautiful, but also… Socrates was accused by his enemies of having affirmed, heretically, that the moon was a stone. He denied the accusation. All men, said he, know that the moon is a god, and he agreed with all men. As an answer to the materialistic philosophy of “nothing but” his retort was sensible and even scientific. More sensible and scientific, for instance, than the retort invented by D.H. Lawrence [in [Fantasia of the Unconscious](. “The moon,” writes Lawrence, “certainly isn’t a snowy cold world, like a world of our own gone cold. Nonsense. It is a globe of dynamic substance, like radium or phosphorus, coagulated upon a vivid pole of energy.” The defect of this statement is that it happens to be demonstrably untrue. The moon is quite certainly not made of radium or phosphorus. The moon is, materially, “a stone.” Lawrence was angry (and he did well to be angry) with the nothing-but philosophers who insist that the moon is only a stone. He knew that it was something more; he had the empirical certainty of its deep significance and importance. But he tried to explain this empirically established fact of its significance in the wrong terms — in terms of matter and not of spirit. To say that the moon is made of radium is nonsense. But to say, with Socrates, that it is made of god-stuff is strictly accurate. For there is nothing, of course, to prevent the moon from being both a stone and a god. The first modern moon map, from Johannes Hevelius’s [revolutionary 17th-century star catalog]( Huxley considers the source and nature of the Moon’s perceived divinity, which has haunted humanity for as long as we have had eyes to turn toward the night sky: Numinous feelings are the original god-stuff, from which the theory-making mind extracts the individualized gods of the pantheons, the various attributes of the One. […] The moon is a stone; but it is a highly numinous stone. Or, to be more precise, it is a stone about which and because of which men and women have numinous feelings. Thus, there is a soft moonlight that can give us the peace that passes understanding. There is a moonlight that inspires a kind of awe. There is a cold and austere moonlight that tells the soul of its loneliness and desperate isolation, its insignificance or its uncleanness. There is an amorous moonlight prompting to love — to love not only for an individual but sometimes even for the whole universe. With this, Huxley returns to his central defense of the dual existence of the scientific and the spiritual as a counterpoint to that neo-Cartesian “nothing but” exclusionism: There the stone is — stony. You cannot think about it for long without finding yourself invaded by one or other of several essential numinous sentiments. These sentiments belong to one or other of two contrasted and complementary groups. The name of the first family is Sentiments of Human Insignificance, of the second, Sentiments of Human Greatness. […] The universe throws down a challenge to the human spirit; in spite of his insignificance and abjection, man has taken it up. The stone glares down at us out of the black boundlessness, a memento mori. But the fact that we know it for a memento mori justifies us in feeling a certain human pride. We have a right to our moods of sober exultation. Art by Maurice Sendak from [We Are All in the Dumps with Jack and Guy]( [Music at Night]( is an exultant read in its entirety. Complement this particular portion with Primo Levi on [the spiritual value of science]( Arthur Schopenhauer on [the essential difference between how art and science reveal the world]( and Hannah Arendt on [how each illuminates the human condition]( then revisit Huxley on [the two types of truth artists must reconcile]( [how we become who we are]( and his [little-known children’s book](. 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