In my
novel ‘The Fractured Man’, the protagonist, Elliot Taverley, is a
young psycho-analyst in 1920’s London who is using the new and
controversial field of graphology in the psychological diagnosis and
treatment of his patients. When he receives a visit from a man who
seems to change personality when he copies others’ handwriting,
Elliot is intrigued and soon becomes obsessed with the man and his
mysterious disorder. But the patient is not quite what he seems, and
dark and disturbing things follow …
Graphology – the study and analysis of handwriting –
assumes that certain aspects of the psyche, or specific personality
traits, are projected onto a person’s handwriting. Closed “e’s”
signify secrecy, large capital letters in a signature imply
self-importance, handwriting sloping to the right indicates
extroversion etc. More sophisticated graphological theory looks at
clusters of stroke formations or symbolism within the handwriting. In
the case of the mysterious patient in my novel, the opposite appears
to be happening: the personality traits displayed in the writing are
absorbed by the patient when he writes in the handwriting of others.
The idea that a person’s handwriting is unique dates
back to Aristotle, who remarked that “all men have not the same
writing”. And the notion that handwriting might be linked to
character can be traced to the 17th-century
physician Camillo Baldi. But it was only with the emergence of
psychology as a science in the late 19th/early
20th century that
a professional interest in graphology began to spread through Europe
and the United States.
Graphology was just one of a whole number of
schools of psychology and was a very popular technique for
personality assessment in the 1920s, with several profitable
graphology practices located in London at that time.
I was interested in exploring two aspects surrounding
graphology: firstly, the belief that the technique possesses a
mysterious ability to see through individual pretences and
posturings, enabling one to discover the “true” nature of the
writer. Much like astrology, most people know that it has no
scientific grounding, but there is plenty of anecdotal evidence to
give it an inkling of validity (“he is a typical
Gemini!”).
I was also fascinated by
the interaction between the development of society and of science,
and the idea that particular forms of medical/psychological treatment
must be socially accepted in order to work. In the words of one of my
characters: “It
is not enough to cure the sick. One must cure them with methods that
have been endorsed, accepted, understood
by the
community.” In
1924, the New Statesman magazine claimed, “We are all
psycho-analysts now!”, indicating the general flavour of popular
interest (and putative lay expertise) in psychoanalysis.
It is not
surprising that the popularisation of psychoanalysis coincided with
Europe’s struggle to come to terms with the aftermath of the Great
War and the damage to society and individuals. During
the time the novel is set, there was an increasingly sophisticated
understanding of the fact that human beings can suffer not just
physical injury, but also psychological injury (shell shock – today
known as post-traumatic stress disorder – was first described by
doctors and psychiatrists in WW I).
In ‘TheFractured Man’, graphology proves a useful tool for Elliot Taverley
to come closer to discovering the truth about his strange patient.
But that’s fiction. In reality, graphology never quite made it.
For any new idea
to become scientifically acceptable, it has to be in the right place
at the right time, as was the case for psychoanalysis. Graphology
just wasn’t that lucky. It failed to gain a foothold in mainstream
psychology, and although there are a number of groups and
associations that still practice it today, it is generally restricted
to the occult sections of bookshops or quirky quizzes in magazines.
For more
information on my novel or the story behind it, visit
www.julietconlin.com.
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