Art is conversation. “Here’s what I see,” a depiction declares. “How do our visions compare?”

Too often art is treated as a comestible. “Did you like it?” Yay or nay – and the babble bubbles on. Three stars, no stars, are awarded without a second thought. What a waste of experience! “The unexamined life is not worth living,” said Socrates. Likewise the unexamined story isn’t worth reading. The final page of a novel or chord of a chorus should commence, not conclude an exchange. This maker’s telling me something – what? How to respond? Art is an SOS in a bottle. If the appeal isn’t urgent, why bother?

This is not how we’re taught. We’re taught to consume art, not contemplate it, to render a verdict, not wrestle with thoughts. A museumgoer may say of a painting, “I saw that.” My impolite (unuttered) riposte is, “Really? What did you make of it?”

Life is what we make of it, not what happens. We’re assailed by impressions from the moment we open our eyes – an infinitude more numerous than raindrops or grains of sand. We are taught not to pay attention to this abundance; to concentrate, stick to our task, keep our eyes on the road. Success in America means getting where you’re going, ignoring distractions. I was schooled not to dawdle, to practice so I could win. Winning meant beating the other guy, coming in first.

That’s why Thoreau gobsmacked me in college. For Thoreau, perception not possession was our proper purpose: dawdling – feeling – how we win. Life was being, not having. Think you’ve seen that flower? Look again!

I aimed to amass possessions. Knowledge and experience I treated as possessions: seen that play, read that book, been there, done that. I mistook knowledge as cumulative: what I’d learned, I’d earned, a deposit in my mental bank. I would be rich in wisdom – and disposable wealth, too, if I got lucky!

I was all wrong, a hamster on the wheel dreaming he’s getting somewhere. Feeling was a distraction, love a luxury I might one day afford. I loved to read – if only I could read faster! I aced a speed-reading course, whizzing through Huckleberry Finn in ninety minutes, without cracking a smile.

How stupid! – not because I was stupid, only too busy to be wise. Art spoke to me, sure, but in a hurry: “Sorry, gotta book.”

The exorbitant success of my career is the silence I’m lolling in now. A fly buzzes my reading lamp, driven indoors by winter. My dog-pal Henry droops from his chair (he sleeps a lot). A vivid essay by Hazlitt, “On Actors and Acting,” prodded me to my pen. I feel you here warm beside me. Four hours till dawn. How much richer can you get?

Hazlitt’s not my favorite essayist. He can flaunt like a turkey-cock, flay like a know-it-all. He delights in needling. But his eloquent passion for art got me thinking about my own. I read, listen, see to meet souls from whose pain and experience I might learn; amble among makers as others through red light districts, yearning to be seduced. Love takes time. If I love a work of art, I pause, look again, wonder why. I’ve read Hamletmaybe a hundred times but would never say I’d read it; I’m only beginning to. The greatness of Hamlet or Hazlitt or any art is how great it makes you. Art is immersion, not diversion; conversation, not possession, not what’s been made but what you make of it.

This obvious lesson has taken me a lifetime to learn.