I’ve been reading essays to compare myself. What are these writers up to? What was their purpose setting pen to paper? To amuse? Persuade? Parade? Comfort? Confound? Banish loneliness? Forestall despair? Sell their words? Perhaps that. But revenue is a result, not a reason to write.
Writers are seducers. They intend their words to wrangle you into their lairs. Which readers are they after? Thinkers? Dreamers? Jokers? What effect do they expect. An eruption of emotion? Quiet conversation? Infatuation? Revulsion?
The essay, of all forms of communication, most resembles schmoozing. Neither a report, sermon or brief, it seeks to make a connection, not a case. Its art is studiously artless, like amiable talk. Poetry and fiction are objects to assess; an essay is a convivial moment, its spirit that of Robert Frost in “The Pasture”: “I sha’n’t be gone long – you come too.”
Too many essayists are show-offs. They may write capably but they’re trolling for your regard without regarding you. The most attractive essayists seem concerned for our well-being, not just our applause. We can feel their glance as we read, like a chef peering from the kitchen while his patrons sup.
We feel urgency in the best essays. We all have things to say, but these writers have to say, for their sake and ours. They are not filling the time but fulfilling it. Their manner may be jaunty but their matter is imperative. In the midst of many a well-wrought essay I find myself wondering, “Why is the writer telling me this?” If they’re just gassing to charm or impress, I grow impatient. My time is precious, dammit – don’t snag it for no good reason!
A memorable essay conveys a notion that feels fresh. As Pope put it:
Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedTrue wit is Nature to advantage dressed;What oft was thought, but ne’er so well expressed.
There are few new notions, of course, but the way they’re put makes them feel new. The moment I feel I’m being lectured or explained to, I lose sympathy with the author, though I may keep paying attention. Much we read because we must – to find out. An essay should be read because we want to, we enjoy this speaker’s company. I enjoy hanging out with the best essayists, no matter their matter.
The most effective essayists are democratic – small d – fellow wayfarers, neither grander nor meaner. We relax in their presence, untroubled by any discrepancy of status. They talk with not at us. Much as I marvel at Sir Francis Bacon’s aphoristic concision – he thrusts his quill like a rapier – he will always be a lord and I a commoner, so I remain formal in his presence, on my best behavior.
Memorable essayists risk revealing themselves. The element of risk is essential. These days way too many writers spill their guts without assessing readers’ receptivity to their disclosures. They inundate you with their traumas, so you feel like fleeing. Other writers confide nothing intimate to their readers, so you feel like you’re talking with a wall. The trick – in essays as in conversation – is to share as much of oneself as is welcome. Thoreau – my favorite essayist – tells us loads about himself yet remains mysterious, his resolute cheer masking a secret sorrow.
An essay sounds nice. Its diction conveys affection, sincerity, respect. If it gets fancy with its vocabulary or tidy aphorisms, it does so with a conspiratorial wink. It never condescends or bludgeons. Dr. Johnson, whom I revere almost as fiercely as Thoreau, arrays his vast vocabulary in the grandest grammar, but never without a chuckle: “We’re just playing at pomposity here.”