The Geography of Genius: A Search for the World's Most Creative Places From Ancient Athens to Silicon Valley by Eric Weiner Page B

accomplishments and the prominence of “achievement themes” in the literature of the day. The greater the amount of such inspirational literature, the greater their “real-world” achievements. Conversely, when the frequency of inspirational literature diminished, so did their accomplishments.
    At first, this might seem odd. Backward. We believe that thought shapes language, and not the other way around. First we have a thought, then we express it. Or do we?
    Consider the color blue. In English, we have one word for blue. We can modify it by describing something as light blue or dark blue or sky blue or baby blue. But with the exception of artsy hues such as cobalt and ultramarine, blue is blue. Not so in Russian. That language has two distinct words for blue: goluboy for lighter blues, siniy for darker blues.
    Something interesting happens if you show a group of Russians andAmericans flash cards with colors on them. Not only can the Russians describe more shades of blue, they can actually see more shades. In the 1930s, linguists Benjamin Whorf and Edward Sapir advanced a theory first suggested by nineteenth-century thinkers called linguistic relativity. Language, the theory claims, determines not only how we describe the world around us but also how we perceive that world. Language doesn’t merely reflect our thinking, it shapes it as well. The Greeks used words not only to record greatness but to manufacture it as well.
    So perhaps it’s not surprising that Robert, a lover of languages, dead or otherwise, chooses Thucydides, “the Shakespeare of his day,” as the historical figure he would most want to meet. “He was a genius,” Robert says with quiet certitude. “He’s literally inventing language. He’s a linguist and a psychologist. He’s not only describing events, he’s looking at why they happened. He’s really the first to investigate why people do the things they do and what are the patterns, what are the relationships between words and deeds. He basically invented this entire field and did it in such a way that even today, after being studied for two thousand years, we still see books and articles written about him, and you go, ‘Oh, God, absolutely. Here’s another whole layer of genius beneath all these other layers.’ ”
    Thucydides, like so many geniuses, was a tragic figure. Exiled from Athens, he died, unsung, his masterpiece, A History of the Peloponnesian War , unfinished. It’s brilliant nonetheless, Robert assures me, and recommends a translation.
    Enough sitting. We resume our trek up the Hill of the Muses, climbing higher and higher. As we finally reach the summit, Robert says slyly, “You wanted to know what made Athens Athens. Well, there it is.”
    Spread below us like a blanket of blue is the Aegean Sea, glimmering in the bright afternoon light. Some twelve miles away, the waters meet a spit of land. The port of Piraeus.
    Without that port, there would be no classical Athens, says Robert, and quotes Pericles: “Because of the greatness of our city, the fruits of the entire earth flow in upon us.” Athens was the world’s first global city. The Athenians, master shipbuilders and sailors, journeyed to Egypt,Mesopotamia, and beyond and brought back every good imaginable. Embedded in those goods were some stowaways: ideas. This happens often. Ideas insert themselves into the fiber of merchandise and lie dormant until a careful observer unlocks them. This is why authoritarian regimes that believe they can open their economies but not their politics are fooling themselves. It may take a while, but eventually these subversive ideas, embedded in a can of tomato soup or a pair of Crocs, squirm free.
    The Greeks readily “borrowed” these foreign ideas, if you’re feeling generous, “stole” them if you’re not. Here I find myself staring down an uncomfortable but unavoidable conclusion: The ancient Greeks didn’t invent much at all. They were, in fact, tremendous moochers.