I just finished reading a book I wanted to love more than I did. This got me thinking about how we interact with art during our lives and how those relationships evolve.

            We react to art as we do to people, for they are one. We meet a living person through appearance, words, society, reputation, appetite, the mores of our moment. We admire or loathe or love “according to taste,” as recipe books put it. Sometimes our responses are stark and easily analyzed: that person stinks, is a jerk, is gorgeous, etc. At other times, our responses may be murky; we’re not sure what we think. We may be simultaneously enticed and repelled, we can hardly say why.

            Artists depend on their medium to express who they are. Their medium is a response to their moment and the expectations of their intended audience. The better we understand the conditions of creation, the better we can sense the maker behind what they’ve made. William Blake and Jane Austen responded to the same historical instant in the same nation using the same language, yet their responses could not be more dissimilar; neither could have discerned the other’s genius. How and why? How disentangle the moment from the maker? Why was the work of each necessary, perceptive, honest, and so opposed in topic and tone? The more potent the artist, the more peculiarly themselves, and (paradoxically) the more they seem to embody their hour.

            Superimpose on these complexities the temperament and education of the decoder of these signals. My Jane Austen or William Blake will only dimly resemble yours, for our experience, awareness, and appetites differ; mine today may not even resemble my responses from decades or months ago. I love artists whom I once couldn’t abide and vice versa, as if like wine, they’d sweetened or soured on the shelf. How come?

            I remembered reading this book as a young man and meaning to read it again. The book was the book I remembered but my reaction differed. This time, while I found much to admire, the story left me cold. This puzzled and saddened me. As a young man, flailing for my voice, I delighted to find fault with forebears so I could slough them, much as sons struggle to supersede their dads. If all worth saying has been said, why bother making new? Now, on the nervous edge of old, I want to fall in love with old books, because hating is fatuous and love feels fine. Alas, long immersion and reflection have made me finickier, less liable to infatuation. An oldster’s grumpiness may be attributable to expanded experience, not diminished susceptibility.

            When we say we’ve “finished a book,” we mean we’ve read the last page. Our consumer culture wants us to plunge into our next purchase, not dawdle pondering. Heaven forbid we read a title thrice!

            I’ve never finished a book I’ve admired. I’ll likely (pace publishers) purchase a fresh copy for my old one’s distractingly scribbled – I’ve amassed seven or eight copies of Pride and Prejudice by now – but no matter how familiar, I open the book with eager eyes. Sometimes my younger impressions impress me; at other reactions, I cringe.

            I no longer diss past masters in public (though my journals may howl). Same goes for my parents. Empathy is a gift of age: since we all fail one way or other, it behooves us to forgive. How I wanted to embrace this maker as I once I did; but since I can’t, I revere him for having lit me along my way.