Historical Figure: George Bernard Shaw

George Bernard Shaw Nobel Prize in Literature and author of Pygmalion By Antonio Ferrara

A multifaceted, brave, and witty preacher, an artist who educates with irony and entertainment, George Bernard Shaw (Dublin, 1856 – Ayot St. Lawrence, 1950) was a cultural critic, polemicist, and one of the most important playwrights of contemporary theater.

From the first pages of his autobiography, his interest in the forms of education, understood in a broad sense, becomes evident. His parents were not particularly attentive to the care of their children, leaving them somewhat to their own devices. His mother was absorbed in her social interests, and his father lost in his thoughts and alcohol.

In the Social Ego, parents are often experienced as being too engrossed in their own concerns, problems, or commitments, and while children may know they can rely on them, they often feel undervalued or even neglected regarding their own needs.

Shaw believed that regardless of the direction educators take, a child will make their own decisions and do things their own way. His sense of responsibility was strong, and his decision-making principles recall the conceptions of Eric Berne. He deeply desired to identify with his own way of being and noted, with regret yet also pride, that he had to learn many things on his own as an adult that he could not learn as a child.

It is difficult to draw the line between guidance and freedom. In any case, the Social Ego seeks balance: it dislikes extremes. Shaw did not favor official culture—the kind that prided itself on knowing many things, quoting Latin phrases, or focusing on rote knowledge. He understood life’s sense and value very differently. This perspective formed the basis of his nonconformity, eventually making him a skillful polemicist in later stages of life, as was the case with Shaw.

Shaw was a very direct writer who spoke plainly. Even in his youth, he showed great respect for working-class children and thought they should attend their schools, rather than ones that would teach them to become capitalists. He stated: "The old tie of a working-class school should be worn with the same pride as any capitalist tie." He was also very critical of schools for what and how they taught. He claimed to have learned very little in school and even failed "ignominiously." He experienced school as captivity and left it at the age of 15 to work as a clerk in a real estate agency.

Shaw described the tensions he experienced between the Catholic and Protestant worlds and the social weight of belonging to one group or the other. He detested the snobbery of his family, the Shaws, and declared himself to have been an atheist child, proud of it. At the same time, he deeply rejected the miserable environments his nanny took him to while his parents believed she was taking him to the park. What he saw repelled him. "My artist nature, for which beauty and refinement were necessities, refused to accept those poor devils as brothers or consider the slums as suitable refuges for human life."

Shaw possessed an aristocratic soul—not in terms of social status, but in an aesthetic sense, with a special sensitivity for beauty, harmony, and dignity. He soon developed a passion for morality and a particular inclination to view things from highly personal perspectives. A significant example he provided was of a school discipline issue: following a wrongdoing, the teacher sought to identify the culprit and asked the students to confess, questioning them one by one. Shaw refused to respond, arguing that legally no child could be blamed and that the interrogation was merely a temptation to lie. He was not punished, and the questioning ceased. "That was my first reform," he remarked. From then on, he believed in the value of what he called "natural leaders and rulers" rather than democracies based on the power of "untrained nobodies," chosen by "politically ignorant masses"—a reflection of his authoritarian tendencies.

In his twenties, Shaw immersed himself in London life, where he reconnected with his mother. He rejected the rules of proper Protestant behavior and was soon considered an "infidel." He struggled to adapt and lacked the docility seen in his cousins, descendants of Sir Robert Shaw. "No baronet can dominate you if you belong to the republic of the arts," he wrote, though he felt ashamed and saddened that he could not do what he wanted. For the Social Ego, the desire to choose one’s own life is so strong that it causes suffering and

resistance if one cannot act freely. His dignity and sense of being the arbiter of his own life were at stake. This was not rebellion but a deep stubbornness in defense of his self-respect.

At this turning point, Shaw began to develop his literary activity. He corresponded with a former school friend, both of them "geniuses of imagination," as he put it. They destroyed each other's letters upon receipt to ensure no one could read "our souls laid bare." Around the same time, he met Chichester Bell, a cousin of Alexander Graham Bell, the inventor of the telephone. Their conversations were deeply valuable to him, and together they began studying Italian. Through Bell, Shaw was introduced to Wagner’s music, which deeply captivated him. When his mother left the home they shared, Shaw felt lost, as music had been his connection to her world. He started buying sheet music and teaching himself to play the piano, experimenting with various composers until he was eventually able to substitute for a conductor "who had passed away during a performance of *Il Trovatore... and I managed without causing disaster."

Shaw constantly challenged himself, seeking greatness with passion. He often emphasized how much he felt at odds with prevailing cultural norms, having to impose his perspectives instead of adapting to the cultural models of others. "I was a provincial, an obstinate man: I had to change the mentality of Londoners before being admitted and, in some way, integrated among them," he wrote.

He spent nine years failing as a novelist before turning to theater, where he initially met little success. However, he eventually secured work as a music critic before transitioning to theater criticism. His true love was literature, and he began to feel recognized, developing a reputation as a brilliant critic before the age of 40. In a 1898 article, he stated that biographies are deceitful: "One cannot be so wicked as to tell the truth about oneself and one’s family and friends." He added, "I have yet to discover the truth about myself... To what extent am I mad, and to what extent am I wise? My particular talent has allowed me to become a personality... but a man can, like Don Quixote, be so skilled at becoming a personality while being a perfect fool."

Shaw enjoyed presenting himself as an extraordinary individual, playing with his limitations but seizing every opportunity to assert his greatness and difference from others. He recounted a critic's remark that Shaw "feels a gentle disgust for his fellow human beings." "Horror would have been a more appropriate word," he responded: "Man is the only animal I fear truly and morbidly." He became a fierce accuser of social and cultural hypocrisies.

Irish Protestantism, in his view, was not a religion but a political faction, a class prejudice: "The belief that Catholics are socially inferior people... In Ireland, the poor are Catholic... The Protestant church has nothing to do with them... Imagine having to learn to despise a worker and respect a gentleman who dresses in what he steals from the poor... Imagine

learning that there is only one God, a perfect Protestant gentleman, who has reserved heaven for gentlemen and excludes an idolatrous impostor called the Pope."

One day, someone told him they found in his books an intense and disdainful hatred toward society. "It's no wonder," Shaw replied. He was outraged; he couldn't accept what he witnessed, couldn't stand falsehood and such evident hypocrisy. Even in his childhood, he clashed with the world around him, full of groups of Protestants, bankers, doctors, and the wealthy in general, who seemed to constitute an aristocracy. "How can I redeem myself from this abominable desolation?" Only and simply through the power of art. For someone socially inclined, art allows them to break free from pre-established frameworks, providing a unique, original, and creative way of seeing and feeling things. Naturally, this position also carries a great deal of idealism. When one is passionate about their character, it's easy to fall into rejection and devaluation.

And here enters the memory of his mother, whom he may have only learned to appreciate later in life. Indeed, the influences this woman left on her son were many. His mother could only sing when Catholic priests were nearby, and in Catholic chapels, great music could be sung, like Mozart's Mass, where the most beautiful voices could be found—not in churches or salons. "I found my country's religion in its musical genius." Interviewed about who he was and what he thought, Shaw first spoke of his parents. His father taught him to swim and urged him to learn, telling him that knowing how to swim had once allowed him to save his brother from drowning. Then, seeing him moved, he confidentially whispered, "And to tell the truth, there's nothing I regret more in my life." "Then he dived into the ocean, enjoyed a pleasant swim... and kept laughing to himself the entire way home." Shaw links this experience to his theater: "I have no doubt there's a connection between my father's chuckle and the amusement my methods as a playwright produce in the theater."

Irony is a trait of the socially inclined individual, a way of downplaying but also ridiculing people and situations. It can be kind, but it can also be biting—a form of aggression expressed indirectly. Bernard carried the air of an impetuous, confident, and arrogant man. Paradoxically, he described himself as "a terrible and timid coward" who struggled to speak in public. The first few times he tried, intervening in debates, it went so poorly he made a fool of himself. But he trained himself and mastered the art of public speaking, eventually becoming a highly sought-after and famous expert. He spoke in plazas, streets, and parks, dedicating 12 years to this task before audiences numbering in the thousands. He could speak for hours, and his shyness would vanish entirely. He used oratory in his political work to spread socialism. Moreover, he presented himself as an atheist and vegetarian. He claimed to know nothing about marriage. He married at 40, already wealthy, had no children, and it was always art that gave him momentum. Arrogantly, he would proclaim himself "one of the most cultured men in the world." He recalled how, when he became an art critic, his writings became famous and were still being read 60 years later.

He certainly believed in himself, expressed himself with poise and confidence, and proclaimed it clearly and defiantly. He was an exceptionally gifted person, a genius, and accepted it, proclaiming it with little modesty. He was sincere to the point of provocation. In his autobiography, he emphasized that at 92 years old, he was still learning. He had never sought happiness. "Like Einstein, I am not happy and do not wish to be. I have never had the time or taste for those comatose states achieved with a puff of opium or a glass of whiskey." In dreams, he said, he had experienced far better qualities. But he had moments of ecstatic happiness as a child when he would close his eyes and see "pictures no painter could paint for me. I couldn’t believe such skies could exist anywhere else in the world." He spoke of a place he had gone to live, images he never forgot.

For Bernard Shaw, it was difficult to define himself by adhering to one movement or another. He declared himself an atheist, then refined the definition. He spoke of religions, discovered their limits, and ultimately left the topic open. "I am neither white nor black but a classic gray since I am very ignorant. All cats are gray in the dark." He also said he was Catholic because he was a communist, and the two words, Shaw said, meant the same. "Civilization could not exist for a single week without its vast communist base of roads, bridges, water supply, public lighting, courts, schools, statutory laws, customs, armies, and so on with a long list."

He didn’t like people. In fact, he detested them and thought they should be replaced by more sensitive animated beings if civilization was to be saved. His criticism was broad, finding something to correct on every side. Finally, he described himself as a "creative evolutionary." He used a lot of logic and dialectics and took pleasure in feeling different and even elusive. On the other hand, he was direct and forceful in proclaiming his views. It makes sense when he calls himself a proponent of vitalism "for whom vitality, despite being the most concrete fact of all, remains a mystery."

His autobiography continues to correct inaccuracies made by his biographers. At various points, he does so with caustic irony and uses harsh expressions against those who have written falsehoods or interpretations of his work with which he disagrees. He spares no criticisms, judgments, or expressions of displeasure. He does not accept having been educated as a "little dissident." His family was one of "freethinkers," and when he decided to become an atheist, he stopped reciting the prayers he had composed for himself with great difficulty. "Giving them up seemed like a fair sacrifice to my principles."

He was a great scholar and expert on Marx, even though he acknowledged limitations in Marx’s work due to the thinker's lack of administrative experience. Invited to Russia, he was not, as one commentator put it, greeted by crowds of demonstrators waving red scarves and flags. Shaw corrects this, saying, "They treated me as if I were Karl Marx himself and

gave me an impressive reception." During his meeting with Stalin, Shaw was struck by his sense of humor: "Stalin knows how to laugh."

Shaw does not mince words. He is sharp and precise in pointing out what is untrue or clarifying the meaning of facts about himself or his family members. He wants the unvarnished truth. Of his family, he says, "The Shaws were necessarily as snobbish as all Irish Protestants... When I was told that all Catholics were going to hell, I couldn’t help but deduce that they were an inferior race with whom the Protestant Shaws could not associate with dignity. No Shaw could befriend a shopkeeper or a Catholic... The Shaw parents instilled this principle in their children, thus making them incorrigible snobs."

This trait, snobbery, is a typical characteristic of the social instinct. And Shaw, despite revising the principles he learned in his family, always does so with an air of superiority, seeking to appear better than them and positioning himself as the bearer of absolute truth. He does this more vehemently than others with the social instinct, perhaps due to his culture, his religious tradition, or his Irish heritage. Some of his expressions convey a force that might be associated with a sexual subtype, his probable second instinct. To another gentleman with whom he disagrees, Charles Duffin, he says, "It’s a point in your favor that where you are intelligent, you are very intelligent, but where you are foolish, you are exceedingly foolish."

Shaw concludes his autobiographical work by rewriting what his friend Frank Harris had written about him. Harris had dedicated "a pitifully grateful eulogy that made me laugh." Shaw wrote how it should have been told, "dramatizing myself from an objective point of view." Shaw wants to assert his truth, even if no one likes it. He writes as if it were Harris talking about him: "I find it necessary... to give the fullest assurance of his extraordinary virtues... Shaw is the just man made perfect... In all disputes, with me or with others, he has always been and will always be right." With this exaggeration, Shaw’s social nature emerges fully: "If I cannot assert that Shaw touches nothing without making it more beautiful, I can attest that he dusts and polishes everything he touches." This reflects another strong trait of the social instinct: the desire to improve everything, feeling that more can always be done.

Then, without hesitation, he quotes Oscar Wilde: "He has not a single enemy in the world, but none of his friends like him." Often, this aspect, which is profoundly true, does not receive the attention it deserves—it would be too bitter. Shaw himself has moments of great popularity in which he makes no attempt to "resist or oppose the current of public opinion," but this is not always the case: "I often risk being lynched for saying some unpleasant truth." Unpleasant, yes, but to him, there is no doubt that it is a truth, and as such, it must be said firmly. As a result, he is often regarded as "an unpleasant-looking man with brusque manners and an impatient temperament."

It is said that Shaw irritated people because he always wanted to reason his way, against the opinions of others. He fiercely defended his positions and left no room for anything else. He wanted to be right. Someone said of him: "No man can catch us off guard better than Shaw, but he is with us; he does not retreat when he throws us into a sea of ridicule, among laughter and mockery," continuing to identify with what Harris "should have" written about him.

All of Shaw’s friends agree that his vanity was truly ridiculous. His vanity manifested in "hyperbolic boasting about his wit." He says he does this because the audience enjoys it: people like Cyrano, not "the modest cough of the lesser poet." Certainly, Shaw has a strong sense of theater and craves applause. He wants recognition. His vanity is not so much about his image as about his depth, his worth, his ability to understand and feel things better than others. He denies being vain: "He never claimed to be better than Shakespeare, though he proclaimed himself his successor," he continues to write about himself. While asserting his modesty, he sought to leave messages and images of himself for posterity. "He posed for monuments sculpted by the greatest artists of his time."

Shaw is a pedant, and he demonstrates this in various ways, such as wearing a London-cut jacket of utmost elegance. Every word he utters is of "exasperating clarity," making him a great orator. He does not like washing but takes a "plunge in fresh water" every morning, in both summer and winter. "He is not a sociable man and never goes to a place unless he has something to do there." He did not approve of wasting money, even if he wasn’t the one paying, to eat "a plate of macaroni" at a fashionable place rather than a simpler, cheaper one. He disliked dinners with other men who told risqué stories and behaved like "wild schoolboys." "Anyone can approach him, but... no one truly knows him." "He possesses a sharp blade that everyone fears."

At a dinner party, the dress of an Indian prince’s wife caught fire, and the poor woman quickly turned to ashes. The prince, without batting an eye, told the servants, "Sweep up your mistress and bring the roasted pheasant." That prince is an Eastern Shaw. On various occasions, Shaw displays an inhuman mastery. In his family, there is no crying at funerals. He defines himself as "devoid of envy, but how could I envy when I can weep for all other men because they are not George Bernard Shaw?" Clearly, he has a strong sense of ridicule but also self-parody. He is a subject who drives others to despair, and he says of himself: there is nothing more to say about him than what he has already said. Shaw is entirely unpredictable. And again, he quotes Wilde, with whom he compares himself: "He is as violently detested and hated as he is loved and adored."

Shaw brought his inclination to observe the social aspects of the world to the theater: for him, theater was "a commentary on social conscience." His writing is "paradoxical and brilliantly satirical." In Mrs. Warren’s Profession, the protagonist is a former prostitute who,

with the financial support of a wealthy man, has established a chain of brothels across Europe and sent her young daughter, Vivie, to study at prestigious schools. When Vivie learns about her mother’s past, she demands consistency. She also rejects marriage proposals and the promises of wealth from her mother’s much older partner. Vivie, with little life experience and fresh out of school, finds herself surrounded by people who immediately pay attention to her but are already set in their ways, adhering to their visions and roles. These people have little at stake and could make her life easier, yet Vivie insists on asserting herself, doing things her way, and succeeding through her own efforts. She is the character most akin to Shaw himself. At the time of writing, in the late 19th century, Shaw values women and their autonomy. Regardless of traditional feminine traits, Vivie’s characteristics align with the social instinct: a sense of pride in not asking for help, wanting to do everything independently, and proving to the world her worth and capabilities.

Through his plays, Shaw critiques a world where money and social relationships are precisely the things he has fought against since his youth. His socialism, initially preached in streets and squares and later through theater, led his admirer Bertolt Brecht to describe Shaw as "a terrorist who uses humor as a weapon." For Shaw, humor could be seen as an expression of his social instinct—a form of anger conveyed aristocratically by someone who, though mismatched with this world, desires to live in it.

In Pygmalion, his most successful work, Henry Higgins embodies this essence—a Pygmalion who falls in love with the human statue he has created and then brings to life. Higgins, a phonetics expert, is passionate about his work. In the opening scenes, he is "the man with the notebook," a sort of Sherlock Holmes of language who investigates speech, picks up on every subtle nuance, and can determine a person’s origin, region, or neighborhood from their pronunciation alone. Phonetics is the most important thing in his life. This keen instinct, typical of the social instinct, enables him to identify subtle elements, make quick connections, and uncover hidden truths about the people he studies, turning him into an expert in his areas of interest and passion. Shaw himself is reflected in Higgins, albeit theatrically exaggerated.

Higgins's challenge—his determination—is a typically social fantasy: to educate others. In this case, he transforms Liza, a flower girl with "street English," into someone who can pass for a duchess at an embassy reception within six months. Higgins enjoys reshaping people according to his vision of perfection, elegance, and harmony in behavior and speech. Shaw describes him as follows: "He appears as a robust, vigorous, handsome man of about forty, dressed in a professional-looking black tailcoat, with a white shirt and black silk tie. He is the energetic type, a lover of science... interested, even exasperated, by anything that can be studied, indifferent to himself and others, even their feelings... Were it not for his age and stature, he could be mistaken for a noisy and impulsive child who constantly needs supervision to stay out of trouble. His manners range from tyrannical joviality when in a

good mood to tempestuous petulance when things go wrong; but he is so open and free of malice that he remains likable even at his worst moments."

Higgins often reacts in ways that are difficult to explain, appearing eccentric as he follows his mysterious, self-determined path. In his initial interactions with Liza, he is far from kind; she asks him to transform her into a lady. Higgins evaluates whether to accept her request, responding harshly to her complaints: "Shut up," he says, "stop whining." Then, with a softer gesture, he hands her his silk handkerchief. Liza exclaims, "What’s this for?" "To dry your eyes," he replies. "Remember: this is your handkerchief, and this is your sleeve. Don’t mix them up if you want to be a lady." Higgins is ironic but also protective in his brusque way. His friend Pickering proposes a challenge: to introduce the girl at an embassy reception after six months of reeducation. Higgins, tempted by the challenge, tactlessly remarks in her presence: "She’s almost irresistible. So delightfully poor, so horribly dirty..." He adds, "What is life but a series of splendid follies?... Never miss an opportunity... I’ll turn this sewer rat into a duchess... Yes, in six months, I’ll take her everywhere. I’ll make her pass for anything."

Later, when Liza is already living in Higgins's house to receive her lessons, Mrs. Pearce, a sort of housekeeper, points out that some of his behaviors are inappropriate in the girl’s presence, such as showing up in his dressing gown or eating different foods from the same plate. These habits set a poor example for Liza. Higgins acknowledges this but immediately justifies himself, downplaying the reproach as mere distraction. However, he feels wounded and eventually vents to his friend Pickering, who also lives in the house: "That woman has the strangest ideas about me. I’m a reserved type, I keep to myself... Yet she’s firmly convinced that I’m terribly, unbearably bossy."

Higgins is an aristocrat, though not in his social interactions. On the contrary, he tends to be quite distant and disrespectful, disliking the ceremonious behavior of social gatherings. Instead, he often appears overbearing. What matters to him are his studies and achievements, not the idle chatter of his social class. His mother comments, "You manage to offend all my friends: they stop visiting me after meeting you." But Higgins dismisses her concern: "Nonsense! I know perfectly well that I ignore salon conversations, but people don’t pay attention to me." He tends to downplay what others tell him, unwilling to acknowledge or concede. Meanwhile, he moves restlessly, jingling coins and keys in his pockets.

The story is centered on the emotion George Bernard Shaw experiences from the experiment with Liza. "This is the greatest venture I’ve ever undertaken, it’s true, mother. But you have no idea how interesting it is to take a human being and turn them into a completely different individual by giving them a new language. It means bridging the deep gap that separates class from class and psyche from psyche.”

Finally, after six months, Liza, filled with anxiety and anticipation, presents herself to the grand world at an embassy event, and she is truly marvelous. She dazzles everyone, and the comments about her exceed expectations. A splendid young woman, royal blood, speaks English perfectly... Someone says, "She must be at least a princess." The experiment is a success. The humble flower girl, with her street English, is welcomed into high society.

When they return home, while his friend enthusiastically discusses the experience of the party and its result, Higgins begins to devalue everything: it seems nothing matters to him anymore, and all that enthusiasm ends in ruthless criticism. He does not enjoy the result. He is fully immersed in his character. He focuses on trivialities: "What a night!... What nonsense! It was a stupid idea, a bore from beginning to end. For me, it’s the last time. No more fake duchesses." It becomes clear that he cannot tolerate being in salons and despises the speeches of polite society. He experiences the party as something intolerable. The journey he embarked on with Liza loses all value. Now, he only knows how to criticize. Nothing from the last six months seems to remain, except fatigue and effort, as he himself points out.

Liza feels devalued, as if she doesn’t exist, as if he is the center of everything. She feels sick. She feels mistreated, as if she doesn’t count or have value, and when she finally reacts, it is with strength. But Higgins doesn’t give her any credit, believing all the work was his: "You helped me win a bet, you arrogant beast." It’s too much—Liza explodes and, in an impulsive gesture, tries to scratch his face. He grabs her arms and throws her into a chair. Higgins' arrogance surpasses all limits. He leaves no room for anyone else.

"What will become of me, what will become of me!" Liza continues to protest. After some time, her anger subsides, and Higgins becomes more understanding. He invites her to calm down, reassuring her that he got carried away with the tension. Liza insists that now, with the experiment over, she must leave, though she doesn’t know where to go. Higgins responds, "I suppose it won’t be too hard for you to settle somewhere, although I hadn’t realized you wanted to leave. You’ll get married, obviously. You see, Liza, not all men are confirmed bachelors like me and the Colonel. Most men marry, poor devils! And you’re no joke: in fact, sometimes it’s a pleasure to look at you—not right now, of course, because you’re crying and a monstrous worm, but when you’re in good spirits, when you’re yourself, I’d say you’re really quite attractive.”

In reality, Higgins had included Liza in his life, had gotten used to her presence, but the next step, which might have been expected, does not fit in his heart. In a sense, although the play continues, the story between Higgins and Liza ends here. He is not the marrying type, too absorbed in his own affairs, aspiring to a model of womanhood that only aligns with his mother. Although Liza is clearly attracted to this eccentric man, she desires a full relationship with a man with whom she can share her life. So, the young woman quickly

finds a boyfriend. However, her relationship with Higgins will endure forever; he will remain a point of reference for her, someone she can turn to in times of need, and Liza will never forget him.

In 1925, Bernard Shaw received the Nobel Prize in Literature. In 1938, he became the first man to also win an Oscar, for the film adaptation of Pygmalion. Before that, he generated widespread antipathy by criticizing both sides during World War I, promoting eugenics, criticizing vaccination and organized religion, and eventually publicly expressing his admiration for both Stalin and Mussolini, and, in general, for autocracies over democracies. A genius and a figure until the end…