"Imp of the Perverse" Continued...
It would have been wiser, it would have been safer, to classify (if classify we must) upon the basis of what man usually or occasionally did, and was always occasionally doing, rather than upon the basis of what we took it for granted the Deity intended him to do.
If we cannot comprehend God in his visible works, how then in his inconceivable thoughts, that call the works into being? If we cannot understand him in his objective creatures, how then in his substantive moods and phases of creation?
It would have been wiser and safer to classify human impulses, if classify we must, according to what man usually or occasionally did, rather than according to what we simply assumed the Deity intended him to do.
If we cannot comprehend God through His visible works, how then can we comprehend His inconceivable thoughts, the unknowable thoughts that called those works into existence? If we cannot understand Him through His objective creatures, the beings and things He has actually created and made visible to us, how then could we understand His substantive moods and phases of creation, the deeper nature, purposes, and processes behind creation itself?
Induction, a posteriori, would have brought phrenology to admit, as an innate and primitive principle of human action, a paradoxical something, which we may call perverseness, for want of a more characteristic term.
In the sense I intend, it is, in fact, a mobile without motive, a motive not motivirt. Through its promptings we act without comprehensible object; or, if this shall be understood as a contradiction in terms, we may so far modify the proposition as to say, that through its promptings we act, for the reason that we should not.
In theory, no reason can be more unreasonable, but, in fact, there is none more strong. With certain minds, under certain conditions, it becomes absolutely irresistible. I am not more certain that I breathe, than that the assurance of the wrong or error of any action is often the one unconquerable force which impels us, and alone impels us to its prosecution.
Nor will this overwhelming tendency to do wrong for the wrong’s sake, admit of analysis, or resolution into ulterior elements. It is a radical, a primitive impulse, elementary.
It will be said, I am aware, that when we persist in acts because we feel we should not persist in them, our conduct is but a modification of that which ordinarily springs from the combativeness of phrenology. But a glance will show the fallacy of this idea.
The phrenological combativeness has for its essence, the necessity of self-defence. It is our safeguard against injury. Its principle regards our well-being; and thus the desire to be well is excited simultaneously with its development.
It follows, that the desire to be well must be excited simultaneously with any principle which shall be merely a modification of combativeness, but in the case of that something which I term perverseness, the desire to be well is not only not aroused, but a strongly antagonistical sentiment exists.
If phrenologists had used a posteriori reasoning, starting with what people actually do and then drawing conclusions from it, they might have recognized a basic human impulse that is difficult to explain. For lack of a better word, we can call it perverseness.
By perverseness, I mean a mobile without a motive, an impulse that moves us to act even when we have no sensible reason for doing so. Put more simply, sometimes we do something for no other reason than because we know we should not do it.
It sounds completely unreasonable, yet the impulse can be incredibly strong. With certain people and under certain circumstances, it can even become irresistible. I am as certain of this as I am that I breathe: sometimes simply knowing that something is wrong is the very thing that makes us want to do it. There may be no other reason driving us.
This urge to do wrong simply because it is wrong cannot be easily analyzed or explained by some deeper cause. It is a radical and primitive impulse, something basic and deeply rooted in human nature.
Some will argue that when we keep doing something simply because we know we should stop, we are only experiencing another form of what phrenologists called combativeness. But that explanation does not hold up.
In phrenology, combativeness comes from our need to defend ourselves. It protects us from harm and is therefore connected to our desire for our own well-being. If perverseness were simply another form of combativeness, it should also involve some desire to protect ourselves or benefit our well-being.
Usually, even when people are being confrontational or fighting a problem, they still want to heal. But with what I call 'perverseness,' they don't want to get better at all. Instead, they actively work against their own recovery.
An appeal to one’s own heart is, after all, the best reply to the sophistry just noticed. No one who trustingly consults and thoroughly questions his own soul, will be disposed to deny the entire radicalness of the propensity in question. It is not more incomprehensible than distinctive. There lives no man who at some period has not been tormented,
for example, by an earnest desire to tantalize a listener by circumlocution. The speaker is aware that he displeases; he has every intention to please, he is usually curt, precise, and clear; the most laconic and luminous language is struggling for utterance upon his tongue; it is only with difficulty that he restrains himself from giving it flow;
he dreads and deprecates the anger of him whom he addresses; yet, the thought strikes him, that by certain involutions and parentheses this anger may be engendered. That single thought is enough. The impulse increases to a wish, the wish to a desire, the desire to an uncontrollable longing, and the longing (to the deep regret and mortification of the speaker, and in defiance of all consequences) is indulged.
Looking into your own heart is, ultimately, the best way to answer the flawed logic I just mentioned. Anyone who honestly looks inside and questions their own soul will find it impossible to deny that this urge is completely fundamental to human nature. It is as easy to recognize as it is difficult to understand.
For example, everyone alive has experienced the agonizing urge to annoy a listener by intentionally beating around the bush. The speaker knows he is being annoying. He truly wants to be pleasant, and normally he speaks in a brief, precise, and clear way. In fact, the most direct and perfect words are right on the tip of his tongue, and he has to actively fight the urge to just say them.
He genuinely fears and wants to avoid making the listener angry. Yet, a random thought pops into his head: if he rambles, loops his sentences, and goes off on tangents, he can purposely trigger that anger. That single thought is all it takes. The sudden impulse grows into a wish, the wish turns into a deep desire, the desire becomes an uncontrollable craving, and finally, despite feeling intense regret and embarrassment, and completely ignoring the consequences,he gives in to the urge anyway.
We have a task before us which must be speedily performed. We know that it will be ruinous to make delay. The most important crisis of our life calls, trumpet-tongued, for immediate energy and action. We glow, we are consumed with eagerness to commence the work, with the anticipation of whose glorious result our whole souls are on fire.
It must, it shall be undertaken to-day, and yet we put it off until to-morrow; and why? There is no answer, except that we feel perverse, using the word with no comprehension of the principle.
To-morrow arrives, and with it a more impatient anxiety to do our duty, but with this very increase of anxiety arrives, also, a nameless, a positively fearful, because unfathomable, craving for delay. This craving gathers strength as the moments fly. The last hour for action is at hand.
We tremble with the violence of the conflict within us, of the definite with the indefinite, of the substance with the shadow. But, if the contest have proceeded thus far, it is the shadow which prevails,we struggle in vain. The clock strikes, and is the knell of our welfare.At the same time, it is the chanticleer-note to the ghost that has so long overawed us. It flies, it disappears, we are free. The old energy returns. We will labor now. Alas, it is too late!
Imagine we have a task that must be done immediately. We know perfectly well that putting it off will ruin everything. The absolute most important moment of our life is practically screaming at us to take action right now. We are bursting with energy, totally consumed by the desire to start, and our entire soul is fired up thinking about the amazing results we'll achieve.
We tell ourselves it absolutely must and will happen today. Yet, we push it off until tomorrow anyway. Why do we do this? There is no real answer, other than the fact that we feel unexplainably stubborn, acting against our own interests without understanding why.
When tomorrow arrives, we feel an even more desperate anxiety to do what we're supposed to. But right alongside that growing panic comes a nameless, terrifying, and completely illogical urge to stall. This craving to delay gets stronger with every passing second. Finally, the absolute last hour to take action arrives.
We literally shake from the brutal internal conflict between what we know we should do (the reality) and our urge to avoid it (the shadow). But if the battle goes on this long, the shadow always wins, and our struggles are useless. The clock strikes the final deadline, sounding the death knell for our success.
Strangely, that same clock chime acts like a morning rooster calling away the terrifying ghost that held us back for so long. The urge to stall suddenly vanishes, and we are finally free. Our old motivation rushes back, and we are ready to work. But tragically, it's far too late.
We stand upon the brink of a precipice. We peer into the abyss, we grow sick and dizzy. Our first impulse is to shrink from the danger. Unaccountably we remain.
By slow degrees our sickness and dizziness and horror become merged in a cloud of unnamable feeling. By gradations, still more imperceptible, this cloud assumes shape, as did the vapor from the bottle out of which arose the genius in the Arabian Nights. But out of this our cloud upon the precipice’s edge, there grows into palpability, a shape, far more terrible than any genius or any demon of a tale, and yet it is but a thought, although a fearful one, and one which chills the very marrow of our bones with the fierceness of the delight of its horror.
It is merely the idea of what would be our sensations during the sweeping precipitancy of a fall from such a height. And this fall, this rushing annihilation, for the very reason that it involves that one most ghastly and loathsome of all the most ghastly and loathsome images of death and suffering which have ever presented themselves to our imagination, for this very cause do we now the most vividly desire it. And because our reason violently deters us from the brink, therefore do we the most impetuously approach it.
There is no passion in nature so demoniacally impatient, as that of him who, shuddering upon the edge of a precipice, thus meditates a plunge. To indulge, for a moment, in any attempt at thought, is to be inevitably lost; for reflection but urges us to forbear, and therefore it is, I say, that we cannot. If there be no friendly arm to check us, or if we fail in a sudden effort to prostrate ourselves backward from the abyss, we plunge, and are destroyed.
Imagine standing on the absolute edge of a cliff. We look down into the deep drop, and we instantly feel sick and dizzy. Our immediate reaction is to step back from the danger, yet for some unexplainable reason, we stay right there.
Slowly, our feelings of sickness, dizziness, and fear blur together into a strange, unnamable sensation. Bit by bit, this feeling starts to take a definite shape in our minds, much like the magical spirit rising out of the smoke from a bottle in the old fairy tales. But the shape forming in our minds at the edge of this cliff is far more terrifying than any fictional monster or demon. Even though it is just a thought, it is so terrifying that it freezes us to our very bones, yet there is a strange, thrilling pleasure in that horror.
The thought is simply this: wondering what it would actually feel like to plummet down from such an immense height. And this fall, which represents absolute destruction and the most gruesome, horrifying image of death and suffering our minds could possibly conjure up, becomes the exact thing we suddenly crave to experience. Because our rational mind desperately screams at us to stay away from the edge, we feel an even more violent urge to step closer to it.
There is no urge in human nature as wildly impatient and dark as the feeling of someone who stands shivering on a cliff edge, thinking about jumping. To pause and try to logically reason through it means you are completely lost. Logic tells us to stop, and because it tells us to stop, our stubborn, perverse nature forces us to do the opposite. If there isn't a friend nearby to grab us, or if we can't instantly force ourselves to throw our bodies backward onto safe ground, we jump and are destroyed.
Examine these similar actions as we will, we shall find them resulting solely from the spirit of the Perverse. We perpetrate them because we feel that we should not. Beyond or behind this there is no intelligible principle;
and we might, indeed, deem this perverseness a direct instigation of the Arch-Fiend, were it not occasionally known to operate in furtherance of good.
No matter how closely we study actions like these, we will always find that they stem entirely from this same spirit of perverseness. We commit these acts simply because we feel we are not supposed to. There is absolutely no logical explanation, or deeper underlying reason, behind it.
In fact, we might easily conclude that this perverseness is a direct trap or temptation from the Devil himself, if it weren't for the fact that this very same urge sometimes unexpectedly leads people to do something genuinely good.
I have said thus much, that in some measure I may answer your question, that I may explain to you why I am here, that I may assign to you something that shall have at least the faint aspect of a cause for my wearing these fetters, and for my tenanting this cell of the condemned.
Had I not been thus prolix, you might either have misunderstood me altogether, or, with the rabble, have fancied me mad. As it is, you will easily perceive that I am one of the many uncounted victims of the Imp of the Perverse.
I have explained all of this to you so that I can finally answer your question and explain why I am here. I wanted to give you something that provides at least a faint explanation for why I am wearing these heavy chains, and why I am living inside this death row prison cell.
If I hadn't gone into such long-winded detail, you might have completely misunderstood my point, or, like the rest of the unthinking crowd, you might have simply assumed I am insane. But now that you understand this psychological phenomenon, you can easily see that I am just one of countless hidden victims destroyed by the Imp of the Perverse.
It is impossible that any deed could have been wrought with a more thorough deliberation. For weeks, for months, I pondered upon the means of the murder. I rejected a thousand schemes, because their accomplishment involved a chance of detection.
At length, in reading some French memoirs, I found an account of a nearly fatal illness that occurred to Madame Pilau, through the agency of a candle accidentally poisoned. The idea struck my fancy at once. I knew my victim’s habit of reading in bed. I knew, too, that his apartment was narrow and ill-ventilated.
But I need not vex you with impertinent details. I need not describe the easy artifices by which I substituted, in his bed-room candle-stand, a wax-light of my own making for the one which I there found. The next morning he was discovered dead in his bed, and the coroner’s verdict was,“Death by the visitation of God.”
It is impossible for any crime to have been planned with more absolute care and calculation. For weeks, even months, I obsessed over how to commit the murder. I threw out a thousand different plans simply because carrying them out carried even a slight risk of getting caught.
Finally, while reading some French memoirs, I came across a story about a woman, Madame Pilau, who almost died because a candle was accidentally poisoned. The idea immediately captured my imagination. I knew my victim always read in bed, and I also knew his bedroom was tiny and lacked good airflow.
I won't bore you with irrelevant details or describe the simple tricks I used to swap out his normal candle with a poisoned wax candle I made myself. The very next morning, he was found dead in his bed. The coroner officially ruled his passing as "Death by natural causes."
Having inherited his estate, all went well with me for years. The idea of detection never once entered my brain. Of the remains of the fatal taper I had myself carefully disposed. I had left no shadow of a clew by which it would be possible to convict, or even to suspect me of the crime.
It is inconceivable how rich a sentiment of satisfaction arose in my bosom as I reflected upon my absolute security. For a very long period of time I was accustomed to revel in this sentiment. It afforded me more real delight than all the mere worldly advantages accruing from my sin.
But there arrived at length an epoch, from which the pleasurable feeling grew, by scarcely perceptible gradations, into a haunting and harassing thought. It harassed because it haunted. I could scarcely get rid of it for an instant. It is quite a common thing to be thus annoyed with the ringing in our ears, or rather in our memories, of the burthen of some ordinary song, or some unimpressive snatches from an opera. Nor will we be the less tormented if the song in itself be good, or the opera air meritorious.
In this manner, at last, I would perpetually catch myself pondering upon my security, and repeating, in a low undertone, the phrase, “I am safe.”
After I inherited his estate, everything went perfectly for years. The thought of getting caught never even crossed my mind. I had personally and carefully destroyed the leftover remains of the poisoned candle. I didn't leave a single trace or shadow of a clue that could ever convict me, or even cause anyone to suspect me of the murder.
You can't imagine the deep sense of satisfaction I felt whenever I thought about how absolutely safe I was. For a very long time, I loved indulging in that feeling. It gave me far more genuine pleasure than all the wealth and worldly advantages I gained from my crime.
Eventually, though, a moment arrived where this pleasant feeling slowly began to morph into a haunting, relentless obsession. It was exhausting because it simply wouldn't leave me alone; I could barely get it out of my head for a single second. It’s a lot like getting an annoying, ordinary song lyric or an uninspired opera tune stuck on repeat in your head. It doesn't matter if the song is actually good, it still tortures you.
In that exact same way, I constantly caught myself obsessing over my own safety, whispering to myself over and over under my breath, "I am safe."
No sooner had I spoken these words, than I felt an icy chill creep to my heart. I had had some experience in these fits of perversity (whose nature I have been at some trouble to explain), and I remembered well that in no instance I had successfully resisted their attacks. And now my own casual self-suggestion that I might possibly be fool enough to confess the murder of which I had been guilty, confronted me, as if the very ghost of him whom I had murdered, and beckoned me on to death.
One day, while strolling down the street, I caught myself whispering those usual words out loud. Irritated with myself, I rephrased the thought: "I am safe, I am safe, yes, as long as I'm not stupid enough to openly confess!"
The moment I said those words, a freezing chill gripped my heart. I already knew what it was like to suffer from these fits of perverseness (since I've taken so much time here to explain them to you), and I remembered vividly that I had never once been able to successfully resist their power. Now, my own random thought, that I might actually be foolish enough to confess to the murder, loomed over me like the actual ghost of my victim, signaling me toward my own death.
At first, I made an effort to shake off this nightmare of the soul. I walked vigorously, faster, still faster, at length I ran. I felt a maddening desire to shriek aloud. Every succeeding wave of thought overwhelmed me with new terror, for, alas! I well, too well understood that to think, in my situation, was to be lost.
I still quickened my pace. I bounded like a madman through the crowded thoroughfares. At length, the populace took the alarm, and pursued me. I felt then the consummation of my fate. Could I have torn out my tongue, I would have done it,
but a rough voice resounded in my ears, a rougher grasp seized me by the shoulder. I turned, I gasped for breath. For a moment I experienced all the pangs of suffocation; I became blind, and deaf, and giddy; and then some invisible fiend, I thought, struck me with his broad palm upon the back. The long imprisoned secret burst forth from my soul.
At first, I tried desperately to shake off this mental nightmare. I walked aggressively, faster and faster, until finally, I broke into a full run. I felt a crazy, overpowering urge to scream out loud. Every new wave of thought hit me with a fresh surge of terror because I knew, far too well, that letting myself think about it meant I was completely doomed.
I ran even faster, sprinting like a maniac through the packed city streets. Eventually, the crowd got spooked by my behavior and started chasing me. At that moment, I knew my fate was sealed. If I could have ripped out my own tongue to keep quiet, I would have done it on the spot.
Suddenly, a loud voice shouted in my ear, and an even rougher hand grabbed me by the shoulder. I spun around, gasping for air. For a second, I felt like I was literally suffocating; I couldn't see or hear, and my head spun violently. Then, it felt as if some invisible monster struck me hard on the back, and the secret I had locked away for so long exploded right out of my soul.
Having related all that was necessary for the fullest judicial conviction, I fell prostrate in a swoon.
But why shall I say more? To-day I wear these chains, and am here! To-morrow I shall be fetterless!—but where?
Witnesses told me that I spoke clearly, but with an intense, frantic rush, as if I was terrified someone would interrupt me before I could finish the short, heavy sentences that doomed me to the hangman's noose and to hell.
Once I blurted out everything the police needed to legally convict me, I collapsed straight to the ground and fainted.
But what else is there left to say? Today I am wearing these heavy prison chains, locked inside this cell. Tomorrow, my execution will take place, and I will finally be free of these shackles, but where exactly will my soul go?
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