Let’s start with a paradox.
If this column has any contemporary value, any relevance for readers/writers of today, it’s because it will be stubbornly old-fashioned. It’s written by someone who has a Romantic, head-over-heels, nineteenth-century kind of appreciation for literature, and, for that matter, an atavistic regard for well-chosen words, well-crafted sentences, well-designed paragraphs, and the men and women who can write them.
I fell in love with writing in the l960’s, deciding that the writing of books was the finest career a young person could choose—or be chosen by. This was probably the last moment this sense of calling, in the religious sense of the word, was still possible; it was in the twilight, the lingering afterglow, of the first half of the century, when serious literature had a remarkable flowering in this country—an afterglow that was still palpable enough, alluring enough, it could enchant a young Baby Boomer growing up in the blandest of bland suburbs with no connection whatsoever to anyone or anything even remotely connected to the arts.
It’s always restorative and refreshing to hear a voice from the past—it acts as a counterweight to the trendy and ephemeral—and it can seem new and revolutionary just because it’s so rare.
So that’s one thing to keep in mind reading these posts. Another is that the man writing them is not an academic, not a critic, not a writing teachers, not anyone’s mentor or guru. What I am is an Isolato, to use Melville’s self-applied label—a man who believes the best way to write is to sit alone at your desk and write.
A statement of belief before we begin.
Writing, good writing, is an art form, and I offer no apologies for taking this as a given. The writers I love are artists, and the one thing I’ve been conscious of in many decades worth of writing is that I’m struggling to master an art form. In this respect, I’m part of an old tradition, writers who, starting our as ardent young aspirants, were prepared to devote 40 or 50 years of unremitting energy and patience, all their time, all their money, all their courage, to the pursuit of their vocation.
These essays will fall under three general themes: matters of craft, writers famous and forgotten, thoughts on the writing life. If sometimes they speak to you directly it’s because I had the sense, writing them, that I was speaking to you directly. Reading is a collaboration—I do my part, you do yours—and hopefully we can wallow in great writing together.