…the house I live in…

Let’s talk about the essays.

Montaigne’s book was titled Essais, meaning, in the Middle French of the day, “tests” or ”attempts.” ^1. The literary form we refer to today as the “essay” did not exist. E.B. White wrote essays for the New Yorker. Susan Sontag wrote essays. Even I write an essay every once and awhile. These literary efforts owe their title and form directly to Montaigne. In the foreword to The Essays of E.B. White (1977), White ponders the task of the essayist and the debt owed to Montaigne:

“The essayist is a self-liberated man, sustained by the childish belief that everything he thinks about, everything that happens to him, is of general interest. […] To write of myself to the extent I have done indicates a too great attention to my own life, not enough to the lives of others. I have worn many shirts, and not all of them have been a good fit. But when I am discouraged or downcast I need only fling open the door of my closet, and there, hidden behind everything else, hangs the mantle of Michel de Montaigne, smelling slightly of camphor.”

“I am myself the matter of my book,” wrote Montaigne, anticipating E.B. White by a few centuries, “you would be unreasonable to spend your leisure on so frivolous and vain a subject.”

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As I’ve read Montaigne this summer I’ve also been reading secondary sources, scholars on Montaigne, biographies, commentaries, and so on. And I’ve noticed that these sources often do not call the contents of his book “essays,” but rather, “chapters.” Consequently, I’ve been rethinking how to approach him.

To consider the book as containing chapters as opposed to essays shifts its profile and suggests a new way of reading. With this in mind, it appears more contiguous, like a tapestry, interwoven and sustaining. This, I believe, is more in the spirit of how Montaigne composed. He did not write essays and send them off like independent children to make their way in the world. Rather, he collected his writings into titled chapters, and made of them a book consisting of three sections (Books I, II, and III) and 170 “chapters.” As the project wore on–he worked on it for over 20 years–he revisited and revised it, such that the weave of the chapters tightened. Ultimately, the book was accepted by the public as a singular testament to a unique vision. It was published four times during his life, in different cities. And, by the way, it was a best seller.

So, I’ll be referring to the sections of his book as chapters going forward. And, as a thought experiment, I am applying the same concept to my life. No more phases, or projects, or one-offs, now only chapters—chapters of a life written, a life being written, and drafts in anticipation of what is to be written, all connected and flowing in unison, a cumulative narrative compliments of the French master.

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One last thing, I’m going to occasionally change the format of these posts to better reflect this more integrated approach to the book. When reading Montaigne one observes his thought going hinter and yon. Sometimes it returns to the topic at hand, sometimes not. Furthermore, important thoughts pop up in various chapters, not always directly related to the stated topic. Consequently, I might sometimes tackle a subject rather than a chapter, a subject perhaps scattered among several of the 170 chapters.

Thanks for reading. I will, with the next post, return directly to “My Summer with Montaigne.” And consider,

“I have seen in my time a hundred artisans, a hundred plowmen, wiser and happier than rectors of the university, and whom I would rather resemble.”

1. “But to Montaigne’s contemporaries, ‘essais’ could also mean ‘tastes’ or ‘tastings’. […] Montaigne, however, never referred to his chapters as ‘essays’, and initially entitled his book Essays de Messier Michel de Montaigne (i.e. not The Essays). What is also interesting is that this increases the reflexivity of the title, giving it the dual sense of ‘Tastes by Michel de Montaigne’, but also ‘Tastes of Michel de Montaigne’–i.e. our tastes or samplings of him.” Saul Frampton, When I am Playing With My Cat, How Do I know That She Is Not Playing With Me? Montaigne and Being In Touch With Life, Pantheon Books, New York, 2011. p. 234/235