I seem to be thinking rationally again in the style that is

“I seem to be thinking rationally again in the style that is characteristic of scientists. However, this is not entirely a matter of joy as if someone returned from physical disability to good physical health.” Thus spoke John Forbes Nash, Jr., the brilliant yet tormented mind who walked the boundary between genius and madness. His words are a whisper from the edge of reason itself—a reflection of the fragile balance between the light of logic and the shadows of the mind. To understand this saying is to glimpse into the soul of a man who knew both the splendor of intellect and the terror of its unraveling.

In this utterance, Nash confesses a truth deeper than science: that rational thought, though precious, is not the whole of human wholeness. His return to it, after years of delusion and inner torment, was not met with unmingled triumph but with solemn understanding. For he had seen another realm—the realm of dreams, fears, and visions that reason cannot measure. He knew that to think rationally again was not the same as to be whole again. The mind may be healed, yet the heart remembers its fracture. The intellect may return to order, yet the soul still trembles from its storms.

John Nash, whose life inspired the tale of A Beautiful Mind, was not only a mathematician but a seeker of truth in its most abstract form. His Nash Equilibrium reshaped the world’s understanding of economics, strategy, and human behavior. Yet even as he reached intellectual heights that few could comprehend, his own mind turned against him. He descended into years of schizophrenia, hearing voices that were not there, seeing patterns where none existed. And when clarity returned after decades of darkness, he did not greet it with the easy joy of one healed. He knew that sanity and madness were not enemies but companions—that genius and fragility often share the same flame.

His words recall the wisdom of the ancients who spoke of the dual nature of the soul. Plato wrote that reason is the charioteer guiding two horses—one noble, one unruly—both necessary for motion. Nash’s life was the living embodiment of that struggle. His rational mind, restored, was his noble horse once more, but he could not forget the wildness that had carried him into madness. Thus, his return to reason was tinged with sorrow, for he had known both the ecstasy and the agony of thought unbound. To him, the healing of reason was not a resurrection, but a reconciliation—a peace brokered between order and chaos.

We see this pattern throughout history. Vincent van Gogh, too, lived between the beauty of creation and the torment of instability. His art, born from visions others could not see, burned with a truth beyond mere reason. And yet, his brilliance was shadowed by despair. Like Nash, he might have understood that the line between rational thought and divine madness is perilously thin—that both can bring insight, and both can destroy. To recover from the latter is a gift, but it is not without cost; it is to live forever aware of the abyss that once gazed back.

In this way, Nash’s reflection is not only personal but universal. It speaks to every soul that has emerged from darkness—be it mental illness, grief, or loss—and found that recovery is not pure joy, but a quieter kind of wisdom. When one returns from suffering, one no longer sees life as before. The healed are never the same as the unbroken. Healing, whether of the mind or spirit, carries with it the memory of pain, and that memory becomes part of one’s truth. Nash, in his humility, understood this: that to think clearly again is not to forget what it means to be lost.

So, my children, take this lesson from his words. Cherish your reason, but do not scorn the depths of feeling and imagination from which it sometimes strays. For the human soul is not meant to live by reason alone; it breathes through wonder, sorrow, and love as much as through logic. When you suffer, do not despise your brokenness—it may yet teach you compassion. And when you heal, do not expect only joy; expect wisdom, expect gratitude, expect peace.

In the end, John Nash’s life reminds us that the path to clarity often winds through darkness, and that the return to reason is not a victory over the heart, but a harmony restored between the two. His words are both confession and benediction—a message to all who have wandered through the storm: that even after madness, even after despair, one can return to light. But the light, once regained, will always carry the memory of the night.