“The
essay-writer is a chartered libertine, and a law unto himself. A quick ear and
eye, an ability to discern the infinite suggestiveness of common things, a
brooding meditative spirit, are all that the essayist requires to start
business with. Jacques, in As You Like It,
had the makings of a charming essayist. It is not the essayist’s duty to
inform, to build pathways through metaphysical morasses, to cancel abuses, any
more than it is the duty of the poet to do these things.”
“The
essay is the only literary form which confesses, in its very name, that the
rash act known as writing is really a leap in the dark. When men try to write a
tragedy, they do not call the tragedy a try-on….an essay, by its very name as
well as its very nature, really is a try-on and really is an experiment. A man
does not really write an essay. He does really essay to write an essay.”
“An
essayist is an amateur, in two primary senses of the word. He is, first,
distinctly not an expert; and he is, second, a lover. Unlike the critic, or
even the novelist or poet, there is nothing professional about the essayist. He
comes to the world dazzled by it. The riches it offers him are inexhaustible.
Subjects on which he may scribble away are everywhere. The essayist need not be
an optimist, but a depressed essayist—and I can provide names of some now at
work on request—is badly miscast.”
In
case you failed the blindfold test, only the first writer is somewhat obscure,
though surely a minor master of the form, and worthy of greater renown:
Alexander Smith (1829-1867), a Scottish poet of the charmingly named Spasmodic
School who also produced a splendid collection of essays, Dreamthorp: a Book of Essays Written in the Country (1863). The one
excerpted here is “On the Writing of Essays,” in which, a little archly, he
calls the essayist “a kind of poet in prose, and if questioned harshly as to
his uses, he might be unable to render a better apology for his existence than
a flower might.”
The
second writer, the one who explicitly insists on the form’s Montaignean
origins, is perhaps its most prolific practitioner: G.K. Chesterton
(1874-1936), who published “The Essay” in 1932. An industrious journalist and
dedicated pro, he produced thousands of essays, often rooted in his pet themes:
the wonder of the commonplace, the interleaving of the serious and humorous,
and the liberating nature of form (“The most beautiful part of every picture is
the frame”). In “The Essay” he says: “The perfect essay has never been written;
for the simple reason that the essay has never really been written.”
The
third sample is by a contemporary master, Joseph Epstein, from the introduction
to his new collection, A Literary Education
and Other Essays (Axios, 2014). Like Smith and Chesterton, Epstein revels in
the freedom of the essay, its absence of prescribed form itself a new
sort of form, at least in the right hands. This sense of liberation should not be
confused with the Bakunin-esque impulse to blow up things. An essay calls for sensibility,
a mingling of brains, learning, memory, maturity, discipline and a point of
view. An essayist needs something worthwhile to write about, a seemingly tautological
reality routinely ignored. Bitching does not make an essay, nor do great big
hugs.
Don’t be put off by reviewers who dismiss Epstein as “curmudgeonly” or “negative.”
They’re not reading the essays I’m reading. Epstein is no headhunter. To
celebrate you need to be able to recognize what’s worth celebrating. A lover
unable to make a fist is no lover. Most of the books produced during any period
of history are, at best, mediocre, and many are irredeemably awful. Epstein understands this and is not shy about
calling crap precisely what it is – crap. In a 1978 piece about the odious Paul
Goodman, he describes Growing Up Absurd
as “the purest psychobabble overlaid by sociological barbarism,” and Goodman’s
novel The Empire City as “ambitious
if not very readable.” If you’ve read the books, you already know this, but Epstein’s
essay earns our respect because he details his own enthusiastic review of a Goodman
volume in 1968: “If truth-in-advertising laws were enforced in the publishing
business, I should be, if not in jail, then under heavy fine, for the fact is I
no longer believe anything of the kind about Paul Goodman.” How many writers
would admit their youthful indiscretions so matter-of-factly?
No,
though good as a take-down artist, Epstein is even better at singing praises.
Old Epstein hands will not be disappointed when he breaks out his roll call of
favorites, whether in passing or as the ostensible focus – Willa Cather, Henry
James, Santayana, Beerbohm, Valéry, Mencken, Larkin, Proust, the Duc de
Saint-Simon and Dreiser (“probably America’s greatest novelist of the past
century”), among others. The new collection is not strictly literary, and is
less unified in theme than his earlier volume published by Axios, Essays in Biography (2012). Epstein says
A Literary Education represents his “interests
and preoccupations”: “education, language, the arts, magazines, intellectuals,
the culture.” And he manages to turn what might have been boilerplate reviews
or “articles” into Chestertonian experiments; that is, essays. He writes in the
introduction:
“…the
essayist ought to be skeptical if not gloomy in outlook. He should distrust
large ideas, and especially idea systems. He should view all theories as
mistaken until proven true, which over the centuries not all that many have.
Life for the essayist is so much richer, so much more various, than any theory
or even idea can hope to describe. The best essayists, in my reading, are the
laughing skeptics.”
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