The Art of Polymathy and the Struggle for Worthy Goals

Good evening. Tonight, I invite you to consider a peculiar type of character. Not the spy who eludes capture or the innocent man ensnared by dark forces—though their stories may be familiar to us. No, this is a different breed entirely: the restless thinker, the wanderer of ideas, the one who dares to seek meaning not in the safety of a single pursuit but in the treacherous dance across disciplines.

You see, humans often long for still waters, a life untroubled by tension or doubt. And yet, as Viktor Frankl observed, what we actually need is quite the opposite: struggle, striving, and the weight of a worthy goal.

And so, our story begins—not with a scream or a shadow, but with a question: What makes the struggle worth it? Is it the knowledge gained? The mastery of many skills? Or is it simply the audacity to seek a life not easily lived?

But beware—answers are never so tidy as the questions that summon them. Let us proceed, then, into the dim corridors of polymathy, where every door holds both promise and peril. I trust you’ll find the tension... deliciously unbearable.

There’s a familiar scene in Hitchcock's work: a lone figure stands at the edge of chaos. Perhaps it's a man holding a briefcase, shifting uncomfortably at a shadowy street corner, or a woman descending a staircase that creaks louder with every step. It is not the chaos itself that grips us but the tension. The waiting. The understanding that something, somewhere, is about to shift—irrevocably.

Polymathy lives in that same tension.

Like a master of suspense, the polymath weaves threads of knowledge from seemingly disparate domains, each new pursuit bringing them closer to some hidden goal. But unlike the chilling crescendos of Hitchcock's world, the polymath’s journey is guided by a profound, human question: What makes this struggle worthy of me?

This echoes Viktor Frankl’s assertion:

“What man actually needs is not a tensionless state but rather the striving and struggling for some goal worthy of him.”

Frankl's insight is a rallying cry for those caught in the modern malaise of overstimulation and hyper-specialization. It invites us to resist the comfort of predictability and instead embrace the challenges of becoming something more.

In a world obsessed with efficiency, polymathy is inherently messy. It rejects the tidy narratives of "follow your passion" or "focus on one thing." Instead, the polymath occupies a world of half-open doors and dimly lit corridors. Each new discipline—music, biology, philosophy, or coding—is another step into uncertainty.

Like Hitchcock's protagonists, polymaths face a defining moment: Will they push forward into the unknown or retreat into the safety of convention? The tension is palpable because there’s no guarantee of resolution. But that’s exactly where the worth lies. As Frankl suggests, it is in the struggle itself that we find meaning—not in achieving the goal but in proving the goal worthy of us.

Hitchcock understood that audiences crave tension because it mirrors their lives. No one sits in a movie theater hoping for a character to sip tea uninterrupted for 90 minutes. We want to see them grapple with the forces that threaten their safety, identities, and existence.

Polymathy brings a similar kind of drama to the intellectual world. Every field explored, every skill mastered, becomes a puzzle piece. Yet the picture is never fully revealed, and that’s the point. The polymath’s life is a story of striving, where each new endeavor reframes the question of what it means to live a life worth living.

Speculative fiction, particularly science fiction horror, provides fertile ground for exploring the tension and struggle of polymathy. Take Frankenstein: Victor Frankenstein’s relentless quest for knowledge crosses disciplinary boundaries—biology, chemistry, philosophy—and unleashes consequences he cannot control. His downfall is not the pursuit of knowledge but the hubris of believing it could be complete, static, or tensionless.

In this sense, science fiction horror mirrors the polymath's journey: both operate in the liminal space between what is known and what is possible. Both remind us that the struggle to connect ideas and bridge disciplines is not just a process—it’s the goal.

Frankl's wisdom, framed within the suspenseful lens of Hitchcock, reminds us of an essential truth: to live meaningfully, we must resist the seduction of ease. Actual growth happens in the spaces where tension lingers—in the late nights spent unraveling a new concept, in the quiet humility of starting as a beginner again and again.

For the polymath, the journey is the reward. Each challenge, each discipline mastered, contributes to a richer understanding of the world. In this struggle, we become Hitchcockian heroes in our stories, navigating uncertainty with purpose and daring.

So, ask yourself: What is the worthy goal that calls you? What is the tension you must embrace? What struggle will define you in the Hitchcockian narrative of your own life?

Like a good Hitchcock ending, the answer may not be what you expect—but it will be worth the journey.