I ponder how to be.

Encountering the outrage du jour, each day’s more distressful, how to respond? With abomination, fulmination, tears, sighs, a shrug, a joke, change the subject? I can make the case for any reaction: none is involuntary like a yelp or guffaw. Any stance precludes others. Enraged we can’t also snark or whistle ditties.

The calculus is complex. Mostly it occurs invisibly, beneath our notice. Our reactions, we may insist, are natural, instinctive, invariable. This is true of infants only – and the infantile. From toddlerdom on, objectives craft our expression. With expression no less than dress, we define ourselves in relation, seeking to impress – with ferocity, decorum, humor, you name it – pleasing those we admire, alerting those we deplore – playing our part, hoping for applause.

I ponder this because I show up – and show off – daily. You and I are simpatico, q.e.d. – you wouldn’t be here otherwise; but how can I yoke us nearer? I tell the truth, yes – that’s our deal – but seasoned for your delectation. I dread boring, offending, rankling you, wearing out my welcome. If I weep (as weep we must), let me weep in the right key.

I envy authors whose attitudes immediately declare themselves, defining yet endearing. Recently, having finished my retrospective of Dickens, I’m revisiting Trollope. Where Dickens is a showman, Trollope is a clubman, chortling over his characters’ foibles affectionately, just between us mates. With loping sentences he sidles into our presence, a gent we really like, casual, affectionate, tolerant, tut-tutting but neither aghast nor aggrieved. Oh, to be as cozy one day as Trollope seems every!

I’m rarely comfortable – in person or prose. It’s how I was raised – to “make a good impression.” Famished for affection, I come on too strong, then retreat into self-deprecation. In print, it’s easier to control my affect, which is why I prefer it. Many makers, I suspect, are shy this way.

I try to be whom I like being with. Our relation is companionable, I hope, not didactic or judgmental; I mean never to speak de haut en bas. If I use big words or strained locutions, it’s for the joy of frolicking together in the playground of language. Reading for pleasure means reading for manner no less than matter. I can’t waste a nanosecond on a writer whose tone grates.

I want to be to you the pal I’ve sought all my days. Growing up pampered and alone, I panted for bromance. I hated being prince or boss, it was so lonely, but I never developed the amiable knack. Awkwardness with schoolmates made me seem stand-offish, when the opposite was meant. Locker-room conversations seemed to change when I showed up.

I want to be a pal, yes, but not just a pleasant bloke, easy to ignore. I want to stand out, not daunt or dominate but delight, to contribute something to your moment which you’d miss were I gone. It comforts me to keep my favorite authors within easy reach. I don’t often consult Montaigne but smile at him daily to say hi.

I want to be remarkable for grace – grace of expression and grace of spirit: to emanate passion, compassion, affection, joy, like a brazier in the howling dark. I want you to smile in anticipation of reading, then smile after. Our moment horrifies, beset by a moral plague – this one boobonic, not bubonic – but I want you to feel, as I do, we’re in this together, holding hands, tousling each other’s hair, bucking each other up. It’s not easy being human nowadays – or heartening – but it’s all we’ve got.