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Should free speech be curbed to promote a more inclusive society?

Once, upon being asked to name the most beautiful of all things, Diogenes the Cynic (d. 323  BCE) replied parrhesia, which in Greek means something like “free speech” or “full expression”. In the Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle (d. 322 BCE) says that parrhesia is a trait of the magnanimous or great-souled man, the megalopsychos. The Greeks did not conceive of parrhesia as a right or privilege, but as a virtue or perfection, as well as a moral and social obligation. Living in a much more oral society, and having but one word, logos, for both speech and reason, they understood the close connexion between freedom of speech and freedom of thought.

In Athens, parrhesia underpinned the democracy. For a democracy to flourish, or even merit the name, citizens must be free, able, and willing to speak their mind. Free speech not only enables a democracy, but also legitimizes its laws and protects it from aspiring tyrants. Undermine free speech, and you undermine democracy—which is why free speech is enshrined in the First Amendment to the U.S. Constitution. Undermine free speech, and you undermine human dignity, which is why free speech is enshrined in Article 19 of the United Nations Universal Declaration of Human Rights:

Everyone has the right to freedom of opinion and expression; this right includes freedom to hold opinions without interference and to see, receive, and impart information and ideas through any media and regardless of frontiers.

“Free speech” is something of a misnomer. It includes not only free speech but also other forms of expression, such as writing a book, drawing a cartoon, or burning a flag. Taking inspiration from the French libre expression, we might more accurately refer to “free speech” as “freedom of expression”.

Today, many people, especially younger people, believe that freedom of expression can conflict with minority rights, and ought to be curbed to promote a more inclusive society. Is this argument worth entertaining?

Let’s begin by looking more closely at the benefits of free speech. Often, it is by articulating it to others that we are able to determine what we think on a particular issue. And in arriving at what we think, it helps if we are being encouraged, assisted, and challenged—which is why tutorials and communal meals are (or ought to be) an important part of university life.

Even if an opinion is untrue, it may still serve to clarify or reinforce the truth. Moreover, many misguided opinions contain aspects of the truth. Plato himself doubted his Theory of Forms, which nonetheless remains of immense value. Rousseau, who pushed back against the Enlightenment, may have been wrong to idealise the state of nature, but was right to point out that progress has downsides. Even when securely established, a living truth risks stultifying into a dead dogma if it is not regularly challenged.

So far, we have been talking about the kind of constructive, co-operative discourse that graces academia. But are bitter bigots also entitled to freedom of expression? Or to put it another way, do the intolerant also merit tolerance?

If bigots were unable to air their opinions, or simply denied a platform (“no-platforming”), these and they would go unchallenged. Feeling vindicated and persecuted, the bigots would recast themselves as tellers of uncomfortable truths, and, in time, recruit a following. Feeling unheard and unrepresented, this growing mass may resort to violence and destruction, including sabotage of the political system.

Censoring bigots also risks giving their opinions greater appeal and publicity. Prosecuting David Irving for Holocaust denial put him onto the front pages, and turned him from obscure and discredited historian into something of a free speech martyr. Banning The Satanic Verses and issuing a fatwa to kill the book’s author and publishers turned it into a must-read all-time classic.

Conversely, those who engage in “cancel culture” are likely to invite resentment and, in so doing, harm their cause—to say nothing of the extra-judicial and often disproportionate damage done to the reputations and careers of their targets. In such a climate of fear, self-censorship, even by constructive academics and liberals, makes it difficult to calmly and rationally discuss sensitive topics such as transgender rights.

Of course, we do already police free speech. In the words of Judge Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr., free speech does not include the freedom of shout “Fire!” in a crowded theatre. John Stuart Mill (d. 1873) drew the line at incitement to physical violence.

But beyond this (and a few other cases such as libel and false advertising), where might we redraw the line between the acceptable and the unacceptable? Socrates, Christ, and Giordano Bruno all lost their lives expressing what came to be regarded as seminal ideas.

Once we had redrawn the line, would the temptation not be to keep redrawing it? The Spanish Inquisition began as one thing and ended up as quite another. And it made no difference if some of the inquisitors were well-intentioned.

Today, the public square has moved online, and it is unaccountable tech giants, rather than the church and state, that are being expected to police free speech—when they might simply begin by ensuring that each of their accounts is genuine and accountable.

As they say, sunlight is the best disinfectant. The best response to a bad opinion is not censorship, but good argument and rhetoric. And yes, this might sometimes include mockery and derision and causing offence—although we should not go out of our way to cause offence, as with “hate speech”. Our focus ought to be on the facts, and not on the characteristics (although maybe the character) of our opponent.

In a society in which suffering is medicalized, there is a tendency to assimilate psychological offence with physical violence, with an implication or suggestion that retaliatory physical violence might be justified. But “free speech” includes the right not to listen. Taking offence, as the Stoics taught, is always a choice. Offence exists not in the insult but in our reaction to it, and our reactions are completely within our control. It is unreasonable to expect a boor to be anything but a boor; if we take offence at his bad behaviour, we have only ourself to blame.

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A man’s worth is no greater than the worth of his ambitions. —Marcus Aurelius

Ambition might be defined as a striving for some kind of achievement or distinction, and involves, first, the desire for such, and, second, the willingness to work towards it even in the face of adversity or failure.

To be ambitious is to achieve first and foremost not for the sake of achievement itself (which is to be high-reaching) but for the sake of distinguishing oneself from others. Were we the last person on earth, it would make little or no sense to be ambitious.

Ambition is often confused with aspiration. But unlike mere aspiration, which has a particular goal for object, ambition is a trait or disposition, and, as such, is persistent and pervasive. Having achieved one goal, the truly ambitious person soon formulates another at which to keep on striving.

Ambition is often spoken of in the same breath as hope, as in ‘hopes and ambitions’. If hope is the desire for something to happen combined with an anticipation of it happening, ambition is the desire for achievement combined with the willingness to work towards it. The opposite of hope is fear, hopelessness, or despair; the opposite of ambition is ‘lack of ambition’, which is not in itself a negative state.

East and West

Perhaps it is even the preferable state. In the East, ambition is seen as a vice or evil that, by tying us down to worldly pursuits, holds us back from the spiritual life and its fruits of virtue, wisdom, and tranquillity. In contrast, in the West, ambition is lauded as a precondition of success, even though the Western canon broadly falls against it.

For instance, in the Republic, Plato says that, because they are devoid of ambition, good people shun politics, leaving us to be ruled by bad people and their petty ambitions. Even if invited, good people would refuse to rule, preferring instead to hide in their libraries and gardens. To force them out, Plato goes so far as to advocate a penalty for refusing to rule.

Healthy Ambition

Aristotle had a more nuanced take on ambition. In his Ethics, he defines virtue as a disposition to aim at the intermediate between the excess and the deficiency, which, unlike the excess or the deficiency, is a form of success and therefore worthy of praise. For example, those who run headlong into every danger are rash, while those who flee from every danger are cowards, but courage is indicated by the mean or intermediate.

To this day, we speak of ambition after Aristotle, as ‘healthy ambition’, ‘unhealthy ambition’, and ‘lack of ambition’. Healthy ambition can be understood as the measured striving for achievement or distinction, and unhealthy ambition as the disordered striving for such. While healthy ambition is constructive and enabling, unhealthy ambition is destructive and inhibiting, and, thus, more akin to greed.

The Psychology of Ambition

The highly ambitious are sensitive to failure, and experience almost constant dissatisfaction or frustration. As with Sisyphus, their task is never accomplished, and, as with Tantalus, their prize is always out of reach. Just like Tantalus had a rock dangling over his head, so the ambitious have the noose of failure hanging about their neck.

The fear of failure checks the ambition of all but the most courageous, or rash, of people. For just as mania can lead into depression, so ambition can lead into anguish and despair. To live with ambition is to live in fear and anxiety, unless, that is, the weight of our ambition can be alleviated by gratitude, which is the feeling of appreciation for all that we already have. Although gratitude is especially lacking in future-focused people, ambition is much less toxic if even without it life can still seem worth living.

We are not ambitious unless we are willing to make sacrifices—even though the end of our ambition may not be worth our sacrifices, and not just because it may never be attained or approached. It could even be argued that with pure, naked ambition, the end is never worth the sacrifice. Fortunately, ambition is rarely pure but usually admixed with unselfish aims and motives, even if these may be more incidental than deliberate and determining; and it may be that our greatest achievements, that man’s greatest achievements, are all, or almost all, accidents of ambition.

In that much, ambition is like the carrot that goads the donkey that pulls the cart. Studies have found that, on average, the ambitious attain higher levels of education and income, build more prestigious careers, and, despite the nocuous effects of their ambition, report higher levels of overall life satisfaction. Owing to bad luck and poor judgement, most ambitious people sooner or later fall short of their ambitions, but that still lands them far ahead of their more unassuming peers.

Psychoanalytic theories

Why are some people more ambitious than others? To cut a long story short, ambition is a complex construct borne out of a host of factors including but not limited to: parental role models and expectations, birth order and sibling rivalries, fear of failure and rejection, feelings of inferiority or superiority, intelligence, past achievements, competitiveness, envy, anger, revenge, and the instinctual drives for life and sex.

From a purely psychoanalytical perspective, ambition can be thought of as an ego defence, which serves, like all ego defences, to enforce and uphold a certain idea of the self. Rather than ambition, which is a sophisticated defence, those who lack what it takes to put themselves out there are more likely to respond with less mature defences, for instance, by rationalizing that ‘life is unfair’ or that they are ‘less of a leader and more of a team-player’. If their ego is much bigger than their courage, they may become dismissive or even destructive, the latter also being a means of drawing attention or sabotaging themselves to provide a ready excuse for their lack of success: “It’s not that I failed, it’s that…”

A defence that merits exploration in the context of ambition is sublimation, which is among the most mature and successful of all defences. If a man is angry at his boss, he may go home and kick the dog, or he may instead take the dog out for a shared run. The first instance (kicking the dog) is an example of displacement, the redirection of uncomfortable feelings towards someone or something less important, which is an immature defence. The second instance (taking the dog out for a shared run) is an example of sublimation, the channelling of unproductive or destructive forces into socially condoned and often constructive activities, which is, of course, a much more mature defence.

Another example of sublimation, more pertinent to ambition, is the person with sadistic or even homicidal urges who joins the military to provide an outlet for these urges, or who, like Justice Wargrave in Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None (1939), becomes a judge who doles out the death penalty to murderers. In the novel’s postscript, a fishing trawler dredges up a bottle just off the Devon coast. The bottle contains the confession of the late Wargrave in which he reveals a lifelong sadistic temperament juxtaposed with a fierce sense of justice. Although he had longed to torture, terrify, and kill, he could not bring himself to harm innocent people: so instead he became a hanging judge and thrilled at the sight of convicted (and guilty) people trembling with fear.

Final thoughts

In life, few things are either good or bad. Rather, their good and bad depend on what we are able to make out of them. People with a high degree of healthy ambition are those with the insight and strength (strength that is often born out of insight) to control the blind forces of ambition, that is, to shape their ambition so that it matches their interests and ideals, and to harness it so that it fires them without also burning them or those around them. The highest understanding, born out of humility, is perhaps that it is not necessary to be ambitious to be high-reaching, or indeed to feel alive.

People shrink or expand into the degree and nature of their ambitions. Ambition needs to be cultivated and refined, and yet has no teachers.

Adapted from Heaven and Hell: The Psychology of the Emotions.

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Sadomasochism can be defined as the taking of pleasure, often sexual in nature, from the inflicting or suffering of pain, hardship, or humiliation. It can feature as an enhancement to sexual intercourse, or, less commonly, as a substitute or sine qua non.

The infliction of pain incites pleasure, while the simulation of violence can serve to express and deepen attachment. Indeed, sadomasochistic activities are often instigated at the behest, and for the benefit, of the masochist, who orchestrates the activities through subtle cues.

Consensual sadomasochism should not be confused with acts of aggression. While sadomasochists seek out pain in the context of love and sex, they do not do so in other situations, and abhor uninvited aggression or abuse as much as the next person.

Sadomasochistic practices are very diverse, although one study identified four distinct patterns or clusters: hypermasculinity, infliction and reception of pain, physical restriction, and psychological humiliation. Interestingly, the study found that homosexual males tended more to hypermasculinity, whereas heterosexual males tended more to humiliation.

Origins

‘Sadomasochism’ is a portmanteau of ‘sadism’ and ‘masochism’, terms coined, both of them, by the psychiatrist Richard von Krafft-Ebing. In Psychopathia Sexualis (1886), a compendium of sexual case histories and sex-crimes, Krafft-Ebing spoke of basic tendencies to sadism in men, and to masochism in women. Modern surveys suggest that sadistic fantasies are just as prevalent in women, although it remains that men with sadistic urges tend to develop them at an earlier age.

Krafft-Ebing named ‘sadism’ after the Marquis de Sade, author of Justine, or The Misfortune of Virtue (1791) and other erotic novels; and ‘masochism’ he named after Leopold von Sacher-Masoch, author of Venus in Furs (1870):

Man is the one who desires, woman the one who is desired. This is woman’s entire but decisive advantage. Through man’s passions, nature has given man into woman’s hands, and the woman who does not know how to make him her subject, her slave, her toy, and how to betray him with a smile in the end is not wise. —Leopold von Sacher-Masoch, Venus in Furs

The terms ‘sadism’ and ‘masochism’ may be of the nineteenth century, but the activities they denote are as old as the rocks. In his Confessions (1782), the philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau admits to the pleasure that he derived from childhood beatings, adding that ‘after having ventured to say so much, I can shrink from nothing’. And shrink he did not: ‘To fall at the feet of an imperious mistress, obey her mandates, or implore pardon, were for me the most exquisite enjoyments…’

The Kama Sutra, which probably dates back to the second century, contains an entire chapter devoted to ‘blows and cries’. ‘Sexual relations’ according to this Hindu sacred text, ‘can be conceived as a kind of combat… For successful intercourse, a show of cruelty is essential.’

Early theories

The physician JH Meibom formulated the first theory of masochism in his Treatise on the Use of Flogging in Medicine and Venery (1639). According to Meibom, flogging a man’s back warms the semen in the kidneys, which then flows down into the testicles, leading to sexual arousal. Other early theories of masochism centred upon the warming of the blood, or the benefits of sexual arousal in mitigating physical pain.

Krafft-Ebing never connected sadism and masochism, because he understood them as stemming from different sexual and erotic logics. But in Three Papers on Sexual Theory (1905), Freud observed that sadism and masochism often come together (no pun intended), and, accordingly, combined the terms. Freud understood sadism as a distortion of the aggressive component of the male sexual instinct, and masochism as a form of sadism directed against the self—and a graver ‘aberration’ than simple sadism. He remarked that the tendency to inflict and receive pain during intercourse is ‘the most common and important of all perversions’ and ascribed it (as much else) to arrested or disordered psychosexual development. He paid scant attention to sadomasochism in women, either because he thought of sadism as a problem of men, or because he thought of masochism as the normal and natural inclination of women.

In Studies in the Psychology of Sex (1895), the physician Havelock Ellis argued along similar lines that there is no neat divide between sadism and masochism. By restricting the use of the term ‘sadomasochism’ to the sphere of eroticism, he severed the historical link with abuse and cruelty.

The philosopher Gilles Deleuze pushed back against Freud and Havelock Ellis. In his essay Coldness and Cruelty (1967), he contended that sadomasochism is an artificial term, and that sadism and masochism are in fact separate and distinct phenomena. Deleuze provided fresh accounts of sadism and masochism, which, despite being fluent in French, I struggled to comprehend.

Explanations 

And I could say the same for sadomasochism more generally. Sadomasochism is hard to understand, one of those great mysteries of the human condition. Here, I propose a number of explanations, none of which are mutually exclusive.

Most obviously, the sadist may derive pleasure from feelings of power, authority, and control, and from the ‘suffering’ of the masochist.

The sadist may also harbour a conscious or unconscious desire to punish or desecrate the object of sexual attraction (or a stand-in for the object of sexual attraction, or for an original object of sexual attraction) for having aroused his desire and thereby subjugated him, or for having frustrated his desire or aroused his jealousy.

Sadism can also serve as a defence. By objectifying a partner, the sadist does not need to handle his or her emotional baggage, and is able to discount the sex as next to meaningless: a mere act of lust rather than an intimate and pregnant act of love. The partner becomes a trophy, a mere plaything, and while one can own a toy and knock it about, one cannot fall in love with it or be hurt or betrayed by it. In some cases, sadism might also represent a species of displacement, or scapegoating, in which uncomfortable feelings such as anger, shame, and guilt are discharged onto a third party.

For the masochist this time, taking on a role of subjugation and helplessness can offer a release from stress or the burden of responsibility or guilt. It can also evoke infantile feelings of vulnerability and dependency, which can serve as a proxy for intimacy. Moreover, the masochist may derive gratification from earning the approval of the sadist, fulfilling his fantasies, commanding his undivided attention, and, in that sense, controlling him.

For the couple, sadomasochism can be seen as a means of intensifying normal sexual relations (pain releases endorphins and other hormones), leaving a mark or memory, testing boundaries, rebelling against social norms and expectations, giving form and expression to psychological realities, building trust and intimacy, or simply playing.

Et tu

And what about you, dear reader? It’s easy to think that this sort of stuff only applies to a handful of ‘deviants’, but the truth is that we all harbour sadomasochistic tendencies. Just think, for example, of casual, ‘normal’ behaviours such as love-biting, tickling, or teasing. In the words of the playwright Terence (d. 159 BCE), ‘I am human, and consider nothing human to be alien to me.’

Sadomasochism can also play out on a psychological level. In every relationship or almost, one partner is more attached than the other. Characteristically, the more attached partner is ‘the one who waits’. Thus, the philosopher Roland Barthes (d. 1980): 

Am I in love? —yes, since I am waiting. The other one never waits. Sometimes I want to play the part of the one who doesn’t wait; I try to busy myself elsewhere, to arrive late; but I always lose at this game. Whatever I do, I find myself there, with nothing to do, punctual, even ahead of time. The lover’s fatal identity is precisely this: I am the one who waits.

The likely outcome of this asymmetry of desire is that the less attached partner (A) becomes dominant, while the more attached partner (B) becomes submissive in a bid to please and seduce. Sooner or later, A feels stifled and takes distance, but if he or she ventures too far, B may threaten to go cold or give up. This in turn prompts A to flip and, for a time, to become the more enthusiastic of the pair. But the original dynamic soon re-establishes itself, until it is once again upset, and so on ad vitam æternam. 

Domination and submission are elements of every relationship or almost, but that does not mean that they are not tedious, sterile, and, to echo Freud, immature. Instead of playing at cat and mouse, lovers need to be able to rise above that game, and not just by getting married. By learning to trust each other, they can dare to see each other as the fully-fledged human beings that they truly are, ends-in-themselves rather than mere means-to-an-end.

True love is about respecting, nurturing, and enabling, but how many people have the capacity and maturity for this kind of love?

And, of course, it takes two not to tango.

Adapted from For Better For Worse

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narcisse

I have long been fascinated by the myth of Echo and Narcissus, and may finally have cracked its meaning.

First, let’s remind ourselves of the myth. In Ovid’s version, the nymph Echo falls in love with Narcissus, a youth of remarkable beauty. As a child, Narcissus had been prophesied by Teiresias, the blind prophet of Thebes, to ‘live to a ripe old age, so long as he never knows himself’.

One day, Echo followed Narcissus through the woods as he hunted for stags. She longed to speak to him but dared not utter the first word. Overhearing her footsteps, the youth cried out, “Who’s there?”—to which she responded, “Who’s there?” When at last she revealed herself, she leapt out to embrace Narcissus, but he scorned her and cast her off.

Echo spent the rest of her days pining for Narcissus, and slowly withered away until there was nothing left of her but her voice.

Some time after his encounter with Echo, Narcissus went to quench his thirst at a pool of water. Seeing his own image in the water, he fell in love with it. But each time he bent down to kiss it, it seemed to disappear. Narcissus grew ever more thirsty but would not leave or disturb the pool of water for fear of losing sight of his fine features. 

At length, he died of thirst, and there, on the very spot, appeared the narcissus flower, with its bright face and bowed neck.

So what could this myth mean? 

On one level, it is an admonition to treat others as we would ourself be treated—and in particular to be considerate in responding to the affections of others, which, as with Echo, are often so raw and visceral as to be existential.

Poor Echo had no self and no being outside of Narcissus, and after being rejected by him ‘slowly withered away until there was nothing left of her but her voice’.

Even her voice, the only thing that remained of her, was his rather than her own.

On another level, the myth is a warning against vanity and self-love. Often, we get so caught up in our being, in our little ego [Latin, ‘I am’], that we lose sight of the bigger picture and, as a result, pass over the beauty and bounty that is life.

By being too wrapped up in ourself, we actually restrict our range of perception and action and, ultimately, our potential as human beings. And so, in some sense, we kill ourself, like so many ambitious or self-centred people.

Treating other people badly, as Narcissus did, is a sure sign of still being trapped in ourself.

Teiresias prophesied that Narcissus would ‘live to a ripe old age, as long as he never knows himself ’, because to truly know ourself is also to know that there is nothing to know. Our self, our ego, is nothing but an illusion, nothing more substantial than the unstable reflection that Narcissus tried in vain to kiss. 

Narcissus’s ego boundaries only dissolved in death, when he merged back into creation in the form of a daffodil—which, like us, flowers too early and too briefly, and often too brashly, if it flowers at all.

Echo had not enough ego, and Narcissus far too much. The key is to find the right and dynamic equilibrium, to be secure in ourself and yet to be able to dissociate from the envelope that we happen to have been born into.

In Greek myth, the hero has to die and travel through the underworld before re-emerging as a hero. He has to conquer himself, to die to himself, to become more than merely human. For nothing is harder than to come back from hell.

Neel Burton is author of The Meaning of Myth.

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And why our approach to depression may be misguided.

As many as one in four Americans will at some time in their lives suffer from a mental illness called “Major Depressive Disorder”. Despite the growing concerns about their effectiveness, sales of antidepressant drugs continue to grow, and, in England, have more than doubled since 2008. Clearly, the approach to depression that we as a society are taking is not working. But why?

The concept of depression as a mental illness may be helpful for the more severe cases treated by hospital psychiatrists, but probably not for the majority of cases, which, by and large, are mild and short-lived, and readily interpreted in terms of life circumstances, human nature, or the human condition. Indeed, for many people, the concept of depression as a mental illness is likely to be positively harmful. How?

By pushing us towards doctors and drugs, the belief that we are suffering from a mental illness or chemical imbalance in the brain can prevent us from identifying and addressing the important real-life problems or psychological issues that are at the root of our distress, and that are, quite literally, crying out for our attention. To treat this cry out of the depths as a simple biological problem is effectively to ignore and suppress it, while ever more people join the legions of the depressed.

Depression as a signal

Crushing though it may be, depression, or the depressive position, can present a precious opportunity to come to terms with deep-seated life problems.

Just as physical pain evolved to signal injury and prevent further injury, so depression may have evolved to remove us from distressing, damaging, or futile situations, situations that do not serve us well as human beings. The time and space and solitude afforded by depression can enable us to reassess our needs, reframe our perspectives, and round up the resolve to break with established patterns. In other words, the depressive position may stand as a signal from our unconscious to our conscious that something is seriously wrong and needs working through and changing, or, at the very least, processing and understanding.

In the normal run of things, we may become so immersed in our daily life that we no longer have the opportunity or perspective to think and feel about our self. The adoption of the depressive position invites or compels us to shed our defences, stand back at a distance, re-assess our needs and priorities, and formulate a modest but realistic plan for fulfilling them.

At a deeper level, the adoption of the depressive position can enable us to develop a clearer understanding and appreciation of our self, our life, and life in general. From an existential standpoint, the adoption of the depressive position obliges us to become aware of our mortality and freedom, and challenges us to exercise the latter within the framework of the former. By meeting this ultimate challenge, we are able to break out of the mould that has been imposed upon us, discover who we truly are, and begin to give deep meaning to our lives.

Light at the end of the tunnel

Looking at it like this, it can be no surprise that many of the most creative and insightful people in history suffered from depression, or a state that might today be diagnosed as depression.

The roll of names includes the politicians Winston Churchill and Abraham Lincoln; the poets Charles Baudelaire, Elizabeth Bishop, Hart Crane, Emily Dickinson, Sylvia Plath, and RM Rilke; the thinkers Michel Foucault, William James, JS Mill, Friedrich Nietzsche, and Arthur Schopenhauer; and the writers JK Rowling, Agatha Christie, Charles Dickens, William Faulkner, Graham Greene, Leo Tolstoy, and Evelyn Waugh, among many, many others.

To quote Marcel Proust, who himself suffered from depression, “Happiness is good for the body, but it is grief which develops the strengths of the mind.”

Neel Burton is author of The Meaning of Madness and Growing from Depression.