[As Phillip Lopate says in the opening words of his article below, a column from the New York Times blog, “Opinionator” on 16 February, I’m an essayist. I can’t help it, I guess: I don’t know how to write anything else. I pretend that my articles for ROT aren’t essays—I call them “reports,” “articles,” “columns,” “profiles,” “pieces,” or “posts,” anything but “essays”—because that label has such a derogatory connotation. Horrors! It’s what we had to write in middle and high school! How awful! But, as Lopate will demonstrate, the poor, maligned essay has its advantages and its strengths unmatched in other forms of writing. For one thing: it’s infinitely flexible, as you’d see if you took a quick tour through the ROT archive. Which, by the way, I invite you to do in any case.]
I am an essayist, for better or worse. I don’t suppose many
young people dream of becoming essayists. Even as nerdy and bookish a child as
I was fantasized about entering the lists of fiction and poetry, those more
glamorous, noble genres on which Nobels, Pulitzers and National Book Awards are
annually bestowed. So if Freud was right in saying that we can be truly happy
only when our childhood ambitions are fulfilled, then I must be content to be
merely content.
I like the freedom that comes with lowered expectations. In
the area of literary nonfiction, memoirs attract much more attention than essay
collections, which are published in a modest, quasi-invisible manner, in
keeping with anticipated lower sales. But despite periodic warnings of the
essay’s demise, the stuff does continue to be published; if anything, the essay
has experienced a slight resurgence of late. I wonder if that may be because it
is attuned to the current mood, speaks to the present moment. At bottom, we are
deeply unsure and divided, and the essay feasts on doubt.
Ever since Michel de Montaigne, the founder of the modern
essay, gave as a motto his befuddled “What do I know?” and put forth a vision
of humanity as mentally wavering and inconstant, the essay has become a meadow
inviting contradiction, paradox, irresolution and self-doubt. The essay’s job
is to track consciousness; if you are fully aware of your mind you will find
your thoughts doubling back, registering little peeps of ambivalence or
disbelief.
According to Theodor Adorno, the iron law of the essay is
heresy. What is heresy if not the expression of contrarian doubt about communal
pieties or orthodox positions? This is sometimes called “critical thinking,” an
ostensible goal of education in a democracy. But since such thinking often
rocks the boat, we may find it less than supported in school settings.
Typically, the exercise of doubt is something an individual has to cultivate on
his or her own, in private, before summoning the courage to air it, say, in an
essay.
Recently, with fiercely increased competition for admission
to the better colleges, the “common app” essay has become an obsessive focus on
the part of high school administrators, parents and students. This part of the
college application requires each applicant to file a personal statement, a
prose reflection conveying individual sensibility, experience or worldview.
Tutors advertise on lampposts for after-school courses to
prep the college aspirant for the most seductive, winning common app. (I am
delighted to see this career path opening for indigent essayists.) The problem
is that, more often than not, the applicant is expected to put forward a
confident presentation of self that is more like an advertisement, a smooth
civic-minded con job, circumventing the essay’s gift for candid, robust
self-doubt.
When my daughter Lily, now a college freshman, was applying
to schools, she wrote what I thought was a perfect common app essay about her
mixed attraction to the idea of melancholy. Her high school counselor, while
conceding it was well written, forced her to abandon it because it might give
schools the wrong impression that she was a “downer.” Earlier, Lily, whom I had
encouraged to wear her ambivalence proudly, was reproved by teachers for
writing papers that failed to support one side of a debate, instead arguing the
validity of both positions.
I got it that they wanted her to sharpen her rhetorical
ability. Argumentation is a good skill to have, but the real argument should be
with oneself. Especially when it comes to the development of young writers, it
is crucial to nudge them past that self-righteous inveighing, that shrill,
defensive one-track that is deadly for personal essays or memoirs, and
encourage a more polyphonic, playful approach. That may be why a classic essay
technique is to stage an inner debate by thinking against oneself.
Doubt is my boon companion, the faithful St. Bernard ever at
my side. Whether writing essays or just going about daily life, I am constantly
second-guessing myself. My mind is filled with “yes, buts,” “so whats?” and
other skeptical rejoinders. I am forever monitoring myself for traces of folly,
insensitivity, arrogance, false humility, cruelty, stupidity, immaturity and,
guess what, I keep finding examples. Age has not made me wiser, except maybe in
retrospect. My wife sometimes complains that I will never admit I am wrong. Of
course I do — granted, less than I should, but it’s not just because I am
stubborn and hate to concede a point in the heat of argument. The main reason is
that a part of me always assumes I’m wrong and at fault, to some extent; this
is so obvious to me that it needn’t bear stating. In any case, I often forget
to say it aloud. But I certainly think it.
Strangely enough, doubt need not impede action. If you
really become friends with your doubt, you can go ahead and take risks, knowing
you will be questioning yourself at every turn, no matter what. It is part of
living, a healthy evolutionary adaptation, I would imagine. The mistake is in
trying to tune out your doubts. Accept them as a necessary (or at least
unavoidable) soundtrack.
The only danger, then, is becoming smug about one’s capacity
for doubt — the essayist’s occupational hazard, to which I periodically
succumb. I have found the exercise of doubt to be an enormous help in writing
essays, because it lets me start out with the knowledge that I may very well
not achieve perfection on the page. Then I can forgive myself in advance for
falling short of the mark, and get on with it.
[One thing that’s always
endeared the essay to me as a form of writing is the origin of its name. Essayer in French means ‘to try,’ ‘to
attempt.’ Un essai is ‘an attempt,’
‘a try;’ ‘an experiment,’ ‘a test,’ ‘an effort’; it’s a testing of an idea, the
try-out for something unknown. It
doesn’t have to be an answer or a solution, just a run up the flagpole, a
working-out of an unfinished thought.
What a great thing to have on hand!
[Phillip Lopate, who
directs the graduate nonfiction program at Columbia University, is the author,
most recently, of Portrait Inside My Head and To Show and to Tell. A
version of this article . . . ummm—essay . . . appeared in print on Sunday, 17 February, on page 8 of
the “Sunday Observer” section of the New York Times.]
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