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240 pages, Paperback
First published February 12, 2013
Consider the very name of this practice, defined by what it is not: like the Uncola, the Anti-Christ, or antimatter. In the last twenty years some attempt has been made to cloak it with dignity by adding the word “creative” before “nonfiction”; but this is tantamount to saying “good poetry.” No one sets out to write uncreative nonfiction.
I have always been deeply attracted to just those passages where the writing takes an analytical, interpretative, generalizing turn: they seem to me the dessert, the reward of prose.
In [writers'] minds, that I may be swimming with background and a lush, sticky past and an almost too fatal specificity, whereas the reader encountering it for the first time in a new piece sees only a slender telephone pole standing in the sentence, trying to catch a few signals to send on.
I might say, “I was born in Brooklyn, New York, of working-class parents”—and not worry about the fact that it may be redundant to your regular readers, if you’re lucky enough to have any.
George Orwell reflecting on his ambivalence toward Gandhi, Robert Benchley meditating on his face, Seymour Krim on his failure, Susan Sontag on camp, Stendhal on love, Montaigne on experience, Norman Mailer on sex, Virginia Woolf on a room of one’s own, Loren Eiseley on brown wasps, Edmund Wilson on the development of socialist thought, Charles Lamb on married couples, Joan Didion on migraines, William Gass on the color blue.
This formula of curiosity-driven research plus personal voice is one of the most prevalent modes in today’s successful nonfiction, from Rebecca Solnit to Philip Gourevitch to Jonathan Raban ...
How much more complicated and believable is George Orwell’s investigative left-wing self, the I in The Road to Wigan Pier, for having admitted he found the coal miners’ smells repellent, or James Baldwin’s I in Notes of a Native Son, for acknowledging how close he came to the edge with his rages against racism in restaurants!
When we read a Samuel Johnson or Edmund Wilson or Lionel Trilling or Susan Sontag essay, for instance, we feel that we know these authors as fully developed characters...
[C]onsider the strong essayistic tendency in novelists from Fielding, George Eliot, Balzac, Tolstoy down to Proust, Mann, Musil, Kundera, Sebald, Foster Wallace...
[Contemporary American memoirs] contrast strongly with the classic autobiographical literature of Saint Augustine, Michel de Montaigne, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Edmund Gosse, John Stuart Mill, Alexander Herzen, Thomas De Quincey, J. R. Ackerley, Virginia Woolf, George Orwell, Richard Wright, and James Baldwin. ... Meanwhile, I note the continuing appearance of highly reflective, essayistic memoirs in our time by writers born elsewhere, such as V. S. Naipaul, Lorna Sage, Norman Manea, and Doris Lessing, which maintain the genre’s appetite for thought.
Montaigne is not suited to the extremities of adolescent confusion, like Kafka or Dostoevsky; he is for achieving equilibrium (and what teenager is interested in that middle-aged virtue?)
Hazlitt’s descendants include some of the most important essayists we have, such as George Orwell, Max Beerbohm, H. L. Mencken, Mary McCarthy, James Baldwin, and Joan Didion. Each set out to create a highly singular persona who would be able to give momentum to the flow of thoughts by means of a dramatized, thin-as-a-veil self-characterization.