I had only come across Henri Bergson recently—a friend had fleetingly mentioned that his text on memory was difficult to grasp, perhaps.
Thanks to Emily Herring, I now know that Bergson was once the most famous philosopher in the world. His popularity peaked at the start of the 20th century. It had once caused a traffic jam on Broadway Street. People flocked from all sections to listen to him. Women mainly.
The New York Times would go on to heap praise on this philosopher. So did other newspapers and periodicals. Within philosophical circles, Bergson’s 1907 book, Creative Evolution (translated into English in 1911), was compared to Immanuel Kant’s Critique.
But, just as quickly as his popularity soared, it faded in no time. And by the start of the Second World War, barely anyone spoke of Bergson. There was no one to take up Bergson’s philosophy. He was resented by the Left and was admonished by the Right.
His staunchest critics called him a poet who does not need to be taken seriously. Bertrand Russell took it upon himself to uproot whatever of Bergson remained in Western tradition. And to one’s dismay or delight (this depends, honestly!), Bergson would go on to win a Nobel Prize in Literature.
What happened?