A sliver of ice in the heart

Graham Greene once wrote that writers needed to have a sliver of ice in the heart in order to produce their best work. He was prompted to this thought by a spell in hospital. In the bed next to him, someone was dying. He watched as relatives came and went, and found himself scrupulously observing their varying reactions, looking at their faces, remembering clips of their conversations. Then he wondered if he was weird doing that; if most people would have simply empathised with the tragedy, felt sorrow. And that, he concluded, was why writers need a sliver of ice in their hearts: they need to be able to focus on the details of human existence if they are to write about them, and sometimes - often - that means standing back from the fray while they observe. Greene made this observation in his usual calm, measured and entirely self-hating tone: as though it were yet one more item of evidence he was handing the prosecutor to demonstrate what a foul human being he was. (I suspect he was a fairly difficult human being actually, but I'd have loved to have met him. I did once get drunk in Antibes when he was still alive and living in a flat there, and I called out to him from the street. Oddly, there was no response.)

But I think what Greene failed to consider is that the sliver of ice in the heart is the requirement of all of us who are trying to make some kind of difference, and to make that difference well. The surgeon who operates, the social worker who counsels, the car mechanic who fixes, the fisherman who catches, the business person who creates: all at some point need a sliver of ice in the heart to allow the process of standing back and evaluating objectively. Writers need to be able to observe if they are to write about other people, and that can appear to be cold, standoffish. But if you're not a surgeon, or a social worker, or a car mechanic, or a fisherman or a business person, then you will think the same thing sometimes: how can they be so ruthless, cold, mechanical about their decisions? And if you are a surgeon, or a social worker, or a car mechanic, or a fisherman or a business person, then every so often you will ask yourself: should I not have cared more, persevered in trying to save a soul or an engine or a business instead of taking the decision my experience and training told me was the right one for the future? It's the same sliver of ice.