When Marie Stopes died in 1958, archivists were confronted with an extraordinary task: collecting and cataloguing the sheer amount of material she had produced in her lifetime. A ten-ton truck was sent to collect her papers — an astonishing cache of letters, pamphlets, scientific writings, manuscripts, poetry and personal reflections.

Stopes’ production was staggering by any measure of output, even that of prolific scribblers. It was at once too much and not enough, and sorting through it became a Sisyphean task that took years and tested the patience of the archivists who worked to distil the sublime from the mundane. Some argue that the work was never finished; Stopes’ relentless correspondence, unprinted drafts and obsessive paperwork eluded any precise categorisation.

Marie Stopes did almost certainly have hypergraphia, a compulsive compulsion to write, which is usually connected with temporal lobe epilepsy, bipolar disorder or other neurological illnesses. Other remarkable figures throughout history have experienced this malady. The painter Vincent van Gogh is believed to have suffered from hypergraphia, as indeed did Fyodor Dostoevsky, whose work was steeped in his fight against epilepsy.

Lewis Carroll, who wrote Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, also showed signs of hypergraphia, filling reams of notebooks with intricate wordplay, mathematical puzzles, and stories. Another key subject is Isaac Newton, whose compulsive note-taking—everything from alchemy to biblical prophecy—implies an overwhelming desire to document and organise his work. These figures, like Stopes, were motivated by an inextinguishable inner drive to make the world, in writing, a witness to their ideas.

But Stopes was more than just a compulsive writer. But she was also a propagandist and cultural force, helping shape public discourse in ways that continue to inflame debate. As Britain’s most prominent advocate of birth control, she was a radical and contentious agent. Her trailblazing Married Love (1918) caused a scandal, smashing Victorian sexual taboos and promoting women’s sexual pleasure and family planning. Her pamphlets, speeches and relentless letter writing helped jolt attitudes toward contraception and women’s control over their bodies. She opened Britain’s first birth control clinic against Opposition from the Church and the medical profession in 1921.

Stopes’ eagerness to promote her cause had its drawbacks, however. Often framed in stark, unyielding terms, her writing embodied a deep conviction that bordered on authoritarianism. She was best known for her eugenicist views, arguing that birth control was a way to engender a superior human race by preventing reproduction among those she described as “unfit.” This shadowy aspect of her legacy also complicates her legacy, placing her alongside other figures in whom scientific advancement came thrumming with morally troubling ideals.

Be it through scientific texts, poetry or political tracts, Stopes fuelled a life-changing movement. And yet, as those poor archivists found out, when it came time to sort through that truckload of material, there’s a fine line between genius and excess, between vital advocacy and an all-consuming obsession. Indeed, much like her voluminous writings, Stop’s legacy is a matter of endless contention.

One of the few surprises is that Stopes is featured in my new book, Conversations with Remarkable Women, which is now on Amazon.

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