My new column — quotations, essays and following a train of thought wherever it leads
Michel de Montaigne invented the essay, and could well be the only person to have ever written one. Plenty of things called essays have been written, of course, and many — Lamb’s, Hazlitt’s, Emerson’s — are justly celebrated. But none are exactly like the ones Montaigne wrote.
In a way, they are just the opposite. Montaigne invented the name, too. It comes from the French word essayer, meaning to try or attempt. You could say that to write an essay about something means just to take a stab at it. Montaigne’s began as brief commentaries on favorite classical quotations, but soon expanded into wide-ranging meditations — the quotations became simply a means of triggering a train of thought, which Montaigne would then follow wherever it led.
This is what makes his essays different from those others, most of which have served as vehicles either for exposition or style or both. To be sure, Montaigne’s writing is stylish enough. He invented the plain style, clear and casual as the best talk. But for him style wasn’t an end itself; like a window, it was meant to be looked through, not at.
Montaigne also doesn’t seem to have arrived at any conclusion before he began to write. The point of his writing wasn’t to advance a position, but to record a process of thought. This is writing as an act, first and foremost, of self-examination, not self-expression (though it is that as well, of course). I have long thought a great opportunity has been missed in the failure to explore the essay as a method rather than a form.
But what about journals and diaries? Aren’t they examples of writing as a method of self-examination? Usually, though some, like Gide’s, are pretty clearly private performances meant for public consumption. The difference, however, between what a diarist does and what Montaigne did lies in the indirectness of his method: Montaigne explores himself strictly in relation to his chosen topic — such as one of those classical quotations. This enables him to get to know himself, not by recounting and pondering his quotidian round, but by seeing how his mind works.
Which brings me to the point of this column, in which I plan to try my hand at Montaigne’s opening gambit by riffing on a quotation every week.
Take that famous motto of his, “Que scais-je?” — “What do I know?”
I don’t think it’s anywhere near as straightforward as it seems. Is he wondering what he knows for sure? Or what he knows best? Maybe he’s just being sarcastic: What do I know? If I were to put the question to myself I think I would have some combination of all three in mind.
I suspect that Montaigne started by assuming that what he was most certain of — and knew best — was what he had experienced directly. That is what he measured those quotations against. After all, he must have realized right at the start that most of what we think we know we take on faith. DNA’s double helix, the structure of the atom, dark matter — these are all things we think are true because we have been told they are on the best of authority, not because we’ve done any research and figured them out for ourselves. Ordinarily, such knowledge proves sound — except, of course, when it doesn’t, and some guy like Einstein comes along and demonstrates that the luminiferous ether, through which electromagnetic waves were supposed to travel, doesn’t exist.
Direct personal experience has its own problems, too, as I can attest. More years ago than I care to specify, my family and I lived in the Germantown section of Philadelphia, in a large, three-story twin. One weekend, the family was away, and I was there by myself. In those days I had to be at the office by 6:30 in the morning, which meant leaving the house at 6, which meant hitting the sack by 10 the night before.
The incident I am about to tell of took place on a Sunday night. There was a steady rain falling, which is important, because it means there was no moonlight. We had just got a puppy and when I turned in I took the puppy with me and plopped her on the bed beside me, where she fell asleep as quickly as I did. Several hours later — it was about 4 AM — I awoke with a need to visit the bathroom. Having met said need, I returned and climbed back into bed.
And then, as I was lying on my back getting ready to doze off again, it happened: The door of the bedroom slowly opened and a short, squat figure clad in black entered the room. The only light was that coming from the hall and I couldn’t make out any details. The figure seemed to be carrying something like a cushion, and when it got to the bed began to lower it toward my face. I reached up to ward this off, but found my hands wouldn’t move beyond a certain point. I could feel the muscles in my forearms tense but it was as if they had encountered an invisible force field. At any rate, the cushion — or whatever it was — kept getting closer. All of a sudden, the puppy woke up, barked, and leaped up and snapped at the cushion. Whereupon figure and cushion alike dissolved into what I can only describe as a lightbulb-sized cluster of blue phosphenes (those colored dots you see when you press your fingers against your eyes).
I lay there for a few moments, then said out loud to myself, “What the hell was that?” I didn’t know then, and I don’t know now. I only know it happened.
I also know that on the rare occasions when I tell someone about it, the person invariably offers some speculative explanation designed … to explain away the experience, because — let’s face it — it doesn’t conform to our usual understanding of reality. This leads me to conclude that one thing I am pretty sure of is that people don’t necessarily seek explanations in order to understand something. They’ll settle for one in place of understanding.
That’s What He Said by Frank Wilson is published each Tuesday.
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Here’s one possible explanation I’ve encountered recently: sleep paralysis. Oddly enough, just this week an acquaintance was telling me about several close friends with similar experiences, sometimes repeated. Here’s the Wikipedia link:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sleep_paralysis
Frank,
Good luck with your new column. One of my consistent and irresolvable “differences” with my editors at The Inquirer during those happy years when I was allowed to speak the closest thing to my own mind on Page 2-B of the Metro section six days a week was the notion that I could, would and should tell them what the column was about before I had written it. Writing is a constant process of discovery. It’s where “the best laid schemes of mice and men” meets “shit happens.” It’s where conventional wisdom meets the leap of faith, that terrible chasm between cliche and insight. Up the airy mountain, down the rushy glen, fearful little men and women gather in hopes of tripping writers on a walkabout inside their own thoughts. “But what’s it about?” I’d be asked by an editor in mid afternoon about the topic of my next day’s column. “About sixteen inches,” I’d answer. “By deadline.”
Clark DeLeon
Thanks, Clark, for the encouragement. It is much appreciated. And yes, trying to do something different can often confuse a certain type editor.
And thanks for the tip, Lee, though I don’t think it applies in the case I have recounted. First, I could obviously lift my arms. And the dog reacted to the same thing I did. Also, believe me, I wasn’t asleep.
Actually I think there is a lot that isn’t known about “DNA’s double helix, the structure of the atom, dark matter “. I think people find that the closer they look at something, the more intangible it seems!
Interesting dream, Frank – if that is what it was!
I hate that feeling of wanting to be able to move or shout out and not being able to do it. That’s happened to me many times before… and usually I am dreaming — but sometimes I feel like I am just in a kind of half-sleep. Do you think it was all a dream? If only there were bits of cushion in puppy’s teeth….
In the past I have frequently suffered sleep paralysis, but the “figure” didn’t try and suffocate me with a cushion, he/she would sit on my chest and hold my arms down so that I couldn’t move. It is terrifying and perplexing… until you have the condition explained to you. I was often too frightened to go to sleep because the things I experienced were very real and very scary.
Hi Kimbofo:
That’s very interesting – and it doesn’t sound pleasant. I should perhaps have mentioned that I wasn’t frightened at the time – but that’s because I’m one of those people who gets scared after the event. While things are happening I’m just alert and playing defense (or offense, if the opportunity presents itself). There is still the detail of the dog’s reaction – she did not jump at my hands, but at what my hands were trying to reach. Also, my hands and arms were in no way paralyzed. And I am absolutely certain that I was not asleep. But, as I said, I have no explanation of it to offer. I just serve it up as something that happened.
When I was a kid, we lived in a very creepy old house. Three of 5 family member had “dreams” or events similar to what you describe. We still don’t know if it’s some shared genetic material that predisposed us to a certain experience, or if it was “something” in the house, or some combination thereof. I try not to think about it.
I look forward to reading your column. I know only that I know very, very little. And that others know far more than I do.
Hi Isabella,
Sounds creepy indeed. What I am finding interesting is that lts of us have had experiences that are, shall we say, quite outside the range of the routine. As for how much any of us know, we all know a lot less than we think we do, and vastly less of what there is to know.
Yep, sleep paralysis, I’ve had it many times, and so have many I know. I’m not sure I buy the explanation the neurologists have come up with.
I’ve written about similar experiences. Have a look if you’re interested. http://brooklynometry.blogspot.com/2007/10/castaway-ghost-boy.html