On the forty-second page of “Learned Optimism: How To Change Your Mind”
author
Martin Seligman
wrote (emphasis added):
Judy Garber had dropped out of a clinical psychology program at
a southern university during a time of personal crisis. Putting her
life back together, she had volunteered to work in my lab unpaid for
several years. She'd told me she wanted to show the world she could make
a real contribution to psychology there, so she could eventually apply
to a first-rate graduate program. The people in the lab always did
a double take when they saw this fashionably dressed young woman with
long, painted fingernails feeding white rats their daily chow. But
Judy's ability, like Lyn's, soon became manifest, and before long
she was involved in more advanced matters. That spring of 1975 Judy too was
working on helplessness in animals. When the callenge from Teasdale
came along, both Lyn and Judy dropped their own projects and began to
work with us on reformulating the theory so it would apply better
to people.
Throughout my career, I've never had much use for the tendency
among psychologists to shun criticism. It's a longstanding tradition
acquired from the field of psychiatry, with its medical
authoritarianism and its reluctance to admit error. Going back at
least to Freud, the world of the research psychiatrists has been
dominated by a handful of despots who treat dissenters like
invading barbarians usurping their domain. One critical word from
a young disciple and he was banished.
I've preferred the humanistic tradition. To the scientists of
the Renaissance, your critic was really your ally, helping you
advance upon reality. Critics in science are not like drama critics,
determining flops and successes. Criticism to scientists is just
another means of finding out whether they're wrong, like running
another experiment to see if it confirms or refutes a theory.
Along with the advocacy principle of the courtroom, it is one of
the best ways human beings have evolved to get closer to the truth.
I had always stressed to my students the importance of welcoming
criticism. "I want to be told," I had always said. "In this lab,
the payoff is for originality, not toadyism." Now Abramson and
Garber, not to mention Teasdale, had told me, and I was not about
to bristle with hostility. I promptly enlisted the three of them
as allies in making the theory better. I argued with my two brilliant
students, sometimes for twelve hours without a break, working to
make my theory incorporate their objections.
I launched into two sets of conversations. The first, in
Oxford, was with Teasdale. John's commitment was to therapy,
and so, as we discussed how to change the theory, we explored the
possibility of treating depression by changing the ways depressive
people explained to themselves the causes of bad events. The second,
with Abramson and Garber back in Philadelphia, took its character from
Lyn's strong interest in the etiology—the causes—of
mental illness.
Teasdale and I started writing a manuscript together, on how
therapy
More information about “Learned Optimism How To Change Your Mind” (and the
book itself) is available from:
(Free Press, March 1998.
Paperback, 336 pages.
ISBN: 0671019112; EAN: 9780671019112.)