Comedy Madness
My downstairs neighbor has a split personality. I can hear him arguing with himself through the floor. His outbursts occur at all hours of the day and night. His monologue can be heard AND be seen on the sidewalk outside his apartment. The fact it takes place outdoors is important because I was not, at first, certain if the heated arguments I heard indoors were, in fact, between two people -or just one.
When the outbursts spilled-out onto the landing outside his door, and I discreetly looked through my window, I was able to verify that it was, in fact, only one person, not an argument between two different people. The rhetoric escalates to conflict levels, at times. At such times I have considered calling the police. I hesitate, because what would I say? That I fear he might harm himself?
Eventually, one himself may kill the other, himself. I feel sorry for him but there's really nothing I can do. That, in itself, causes my conscience discomfort. It has got to the point where I have to admit to finding it amusing, even entertaining. There's enough material in his frequent outbursts for a weekly show. Without knowledge of his condition, he could pass for a provocative, new, stand-up comedian -in the right cabaret.
I had misgivings about the notion of a schizoid personality-as-comedian until I placed it in the broader context of treating insanity. I'm not a psychologist, but I have a grasp of the concepts, and the immediate situation brings to mind the work of the great 19th Century French psychologist Jean-Martin Charcot, and his practice at Salpêtrière hospital treating hysterical women and girls.
Charcot's great contribution to psychology was his use of photographs of hysterical patients for diagnosis. To Charcot, photographs of patients were iconographic documents of the malady's symptoms. I am indebted to Charcot for the use of iconography as symptomatic of neurosis in art. And now, thanks to the madman in the apartment below mine, I perceive a stand-up comedy routine in the raving of a schizoid neighbor.
Charcot was famous for his theatrical lectures, in the course of which he demonstrated his hysterical patients' symptoms, their répertoires, so to speak. A girl named Augustine, and a religious adult named Genevieve are recorded. In his lectures, Charcot would present a case of hysteria to his audience. The lectures were open to the public, and were visited by many important figures of the time. In this way Charcot's theories gained exposure beyond the medical profession.
One famous case was that of Jane Avril, familiar to art historians from the poster designs of Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec. She had been treated for hysteria by Charcot at his clinic at the Salpêtrière mental hospital before commencing a career as a dancer in nightclubs of the Left Bank, and Montmartre, at the legendary Moulin Rouge. Cabaret was the after-hours amusement of the avant-garde.
It may be unkind, but to laugh at madness also may be forgiven. Unlike the interpretation of dreams, the schizoid's outpouring of verbiage is useless for analysis. What might actually help the schizoid personality is an appreciative audience, by expressing himself in front of others, thus making him feel less alone in his delusion. Nothing is more frustrating than convincing people that the world is out to get you.
The listener resists getting sucked into the schizoid personality's delusions. The hearer cannot effectively empathize if made implicitly to blame for the schizoid personality's woes. And yet he listens, curious, fascinated. How deep does the imagined conspiracy go? It's the Alice in Wonderland syndrome. Don't go down a rabbit hole from which you are not certain of return.
When is laughter—laughter at what is said by a person—humor, and when is it ridicule of the person? One of my mad neighbor's comments stands out from all his ravings: "Why did this have to happen to me?" I admit I have asked myself the same question before. On second thought, I cannot even be certain he said it. It may be a projection of my own mind, the mind seeking order in disorder, the fallacy of cognitive bias.
It is true I feel sorry for him. I am embarrassed. At the same time I find the ravings of a schizoid personality funny. Depending on how it is played, it can show tender regard for human folly, or ridicule at farce. My conscience urges tolerance. I tell myself, if it does not help, it does no harm. Regrettably, it is not a tragedy. Tragedy is cathartic. It promises a conclusion. Comedy is episodic. It avoids a conclusion—a final episode—which would be tragic, like death.