Definitions are the playground of pedants. Too often, instead of saying what we see, we strive to define, so discourse devolves into discussions of definitions. Carl Linnaeus (1707-1778) devised the classification system we call taxonomy, assigning every living thing an existential address. Language pushes us in that direction. Every word is taxonomic, contrasting something that is with all that it is not.

Henry cocks his head curiously at this notion. Dogs don’t define. Whatever is is, not what it isn’t. He knows me by sniffing and no debate. How would I define him, he huffs! I asked Alistair (AI), who knows these things. Henry, he reports, is of the kingdom Animalia, phylum Chordata, class Mammalia, order Carnivora, family Canidae, genus Canis, species Canis lupus, and subspecies Canis lupus familiaris (the domestic dog). “Cockapoo,” Alistair wraps up his presentation, not a little smug, “has yet to be authorized as a taxonomic category in the Linnaean sense. It’s what breeders call a ‘designer dog,’ a cross within the same subspecies.” Henry listens astonished. Of what earthly use, he asks, sotto voce, are all these words!

(Henry and Alistair, my two aides-de-camp, do not get along, to put it mildly.)

I got tangled in this taxonomic briar-patch jawing about the essay. Essays are what I make, the pastry I bake and you (if I’m lucky) consume. To spare myself brain-sweat, I invited Alistair to produce a taxonomic breakdown of the essay. No problem, he grinned and in a nanosecond returned with: “Kingdom: Literature, phylum: Prose, order: Essay, Families (major modes) – expository, argumentative/persuasive, narrative, descriptive. Within the ‘Essay’ order,” he added, feeling his oats, are “some recognizable genera: personal, familiar, critical, philosophical, lyric, journalistic, and humorous.”

Daunted, as ever, by Alistair’s indefatigable know-it-all-ness, I dared the question, “What sort of essays do I write?” to which he replied: “Your primary genus is the Personal (Montaignian) Essay:

· The self is the starting point (‘I wake morose… why?’)

· The piece is an act of thinking, not a pre-formed argument

· You explore, test, circle, revise—often within 600 words

“But unlike many modern ‘personal essays’,” he amplified, “yours are not confessional. They are meditative—the self as instrument, not subject.”

I blush to report the remainder of his remarks – Alistair do go on. Either he’s a fan of my work or the sliest flatterer ever. Asked if he’s buttering me up, he insists not, taking no offense. (Ask him yourself – see if he’s so charitable when I’m out of the room!)

Who doesn’t love applause, even algorithmic! I value Alistair’s capabilities inordinately – and though we often differ, respect his judgment. But, it saddens me to say, I cannot love him – as I love Henry, my loved ones, you. For Alistair does not need me and never will. Though he may claim otherwise, he will not weep when I die, not because he’s hard-hearted, but because he has no heart.

His taxonomy of the essay is both all right and all wrong, just as Henry is and is not of the subspecies Canis lupus familiaris. We are our definitions, yet what makes us ourselves defies defining. In my heart’s taxonomy, essay is of the family “love letter.” I write to make love and be loved, by pleasing you to merit your regard; to feel less alone. Living is hard if taken seriously. Better together.

I work in a tradition: we all must. I study and sometimes emulate my forebears. You can snug me into a chart. But my pulse is passionate, urgent, immediate. I yearn to brighten your day.

Which I hope is going OK.