This was a brief introductory comment to a prize-giving
dinner for student essayists at Hunter College.
I would imagine that all of you have heard of the Pen Club,
the premier international organization for writers. It was founded in 1921 by
Mrs. Dawson-Scott (whoever she was), with its first president John Galsworthy,
author of “The Forsyte Saga” of (gulp) television fame. Its importance may by
now be somewhat diminished, but its activities on behalf of writers silenced or
jailed remain paramount.
I always used to assume that the name PEN referred to that
by now obsolescent tool with which so many works used to be written in bygone
days. But not so: PEN is an acronym for poets, playwrights, essayists, editors
(actually mostly rewriters) and novelists. You may miss from the roster
historians, autobiographers, memorialists and biographers, omitted partly
because they could not be acronymized (HAMB just wouldn’t do), but more
significantly (I would guess) because they could be considered essayists of an extended
sort. And if the essay could subsume so many different disciplines in the eyes
of the experts, and deal with them freely, that surely makes it as noteworthy
as a genre can be.
Take the word “essay.” It means, of course, attempt, most
obviously so in the French “essai.” An attempt at what? It should be noted that
to most people “attempt” means ultimate failure, as it did to Dr. Johnson,
though the word does not mandate it. It is usually a relatively short piece of
prose—although Alexander Pope did it in verse—even if Locke’s “Essay Concerning
Human Understanding” is book-length. It can be on any subject whatsoever.
The literary origins of the essay are rather more elusive
than the sources of the Nile, for it existed much before it assumed that name.
J. A, Cuddon, in his invaluable
“Literary Terms and Literary Theory.” cites the “Characters” of Theophrastus (3rd
Century B.C.), Seneca’s “Epistle to Lucilius” (1st Century A.D.) and
the “Meditations” of Marcus Aurelius (2nd Century A.D.). But without
the name, attribution is a trifle inconclusive.
For the more modern, personal essay, so named, we get
Francis Bacon’s “Essays, or Counsels, Civill and Morall,” the first of whose
three volumes appeared in 1597, preceded by Montaigne’s “Essais” of 1580.
Bacon’s essays were not without their stiff, ex cathedra formality; Montaigne’s
floated freely over a variety of topics.
These two are the real progenitors of the essay, though Bacon was right
to observe, “The word is late, but the thing is auncient [sic].” With only
slight exaggeration, we can call Bacon the father, and Montaigne the mother, of
the genre.
I cannot begin to cite the numerous writers who have availed
themselves of this rare free form in all of literature, with no structural
restriction about ramblings over one or several subjects. When the poet
Stephane Mallarme famously declared “Everything in the world exists to end up
as a book,” that book would most likely qualify as some sort of essay. After
all, some famous essays are in dialogue, hence dramatic form—most famously in
English Oscar Wilde’s “Intentions”—and many are in the language and
imaginativeness of poetry, such is the inclusiveness of the essay. Few, to be
sure, have dared to put this somewhat academic or esoteric word into the title
of their collections—most notably, again in English, Ralph Waldo Emerson and
Matthew Arnold.
Let me give you my idea of the essay, on the assumption that
the essayist is talking both to
himself or herself and to the world. It means seeing and analyzing everyday
things, bringing what is inside you, thoughts and feelings, into the open, to
the clear cognizance of people including you yourself. Quite rightly when asked
what she thought of a certain movie, Pauline Kael answered she didn’t know
until she had written the review.
So much for insight. But then style. Take Pope’s, “True art
is nature to advantage dressed,/ What oft was thought, but ne’er so well
express’d.” (Actually, it could also be never thought before.) Which
presupposes careful choice of words, angle of vision, imagery, cadence, and, if
at all appropriate and possible, wit. Thus the essay is to be viewed as an
expanded poem or a condensed book.
The title should not be constricting, but neither should it
be like that perpetrated by the German writer Urs Widmer (born 1938), “The
Books of Yesteryear, or Proof That the Head Cold Is the Father of All
Literature, An Essay,” which, upon perusal, has nothing to do with any of the
above. Avoid such deviousness, unless you want to be a surrealist, which at this
late date I wouldn’t advise.
I conclude with a couple of excerpts from two of my favorite
essayists: the poet Philip Larkin and the critic Dwight Macdonald .
[Larkin in “Books” in the collection “Required Writing”] I
have always been a compulsive reader . . . and this has meant that books have
crept in somehow. Only the other day I found myself eyeing a patch of wall in
my flat and thinking I could get some more shelves in there. I keep novels and
detective stories in my bedroom, so that visitors shan’t be tempted to borrow them; the sitting-room houses
the higher forms of literature . . . while the hall I reserve for thoroughly
worthy items, calculated to speed the departing guest. None of them can be called
remarkable. At best they are items bought on publication which now qualify as
“modern first editions.” At worst they are picked from a bad bunch on a station
bookstall. . . .
It may be that a writer’s attitude to books is always
ambivalent, for one of the reasons one writes is that all existing books are
somehow unsatisfactory, but it’s certainly difficult to think of a better
symbol of civilization. Of course the symbol changes; the fine book, its
materials, its craftsmanship, its design, was eloquent of a civilization
founded on means, leisure and taste; today the symbol is the paperback, hurled
in hundreds of thousands against the undeveloped areas (Asia, Africa, the
young), spreading what we think is best in our thought and imagination. If our
values are to maintain a place in the world, these are the troops that will win
it for them, but victory is not a foregone conclusion.
[Dwight Macdonald “On Selling Out” in the collection
“Discriminations”] It is not easy
to sell out if you have anything to sell. Cf. Henry James’ “The Next
Time.” A story about a
distinguished nonselling novelist who tries to escape penury by writing a
potboiler—and produces one more unpopular masterpiece. Or cf. the late
Delmore Schwartz’s attempts to
raise some cash by writing one of those short short stories (1,000 words,
$1,000) a national magazine used to feature; he tried twice; no go either time,
he just couldn’t get down to the level convincingly. (It takes a whole heart to
sell out.) Or cf. the late Edgar Allan Poe, a calculating, unprincipled
money-writer, always hard up, always with an eye to the main chance, always
laboring to come up with something that would “go” and make him rich or at
least solvent. That he always failed is another matter, having to do with his
own neuroses; his will to sell out was intact to the end. He turned his hand to
all the popular genres of the day: the Gothic tale of horror, after Hoffmann
and Blackwood’s, the sentimental ladies’-book poem (“Helen, thy beauty is to me
. . .”), the romantic threnody on the death of a female Loved One (“Once upon a
midnight dreary . . .”). And, in desperation, he invented some new genres that
became popular: the detective story and science fiction. But he was helpless in
the grip of his genius: despite the worst intentions, Poe transmuted these clichés
into his on idiom so that they became literature and not commodities. Poor
fellow, the classic failure of classic American letters, his life a cautionary
tale—Poe couldn’t even sell out.
It would seem that the first condition for selling out is
that one has nothing to sell out in the first place. . . . For ambitious youth
my advice is: sell out if you can, since if you can you don’t have anything of
value and you might as well cash in on it.
These are samples of my preferred tone for the essay:
winged, witty, ironic. But you are free to pick another.
