February 15, 2025
for the past few months i have been reading frame’s translation of montaigne’s essays; in the creation of these montaigne sought to record a reflection of his character and thoughts, in other words, a portrait of himself. and what a fine portrait.
on a technical basis montaigne practically invented the essay as a form. he touches on and plays around with thoughts idly, shifting from point to point as to record his thoughts by example, covering that which crosses his mind. with a narrator, it is always difficult to tell, but he seems to approach the reader as a friend and fellow interlocutor; a casual address as you join him on a pleasant walk. and i did feel a loss at having finished his essays – it felt like a farewell to a friend who i had come to know well.
in its own right, the essays began with the loss of a friend. early in his life, montaigne struck a rare bond with etienne de la boetle, a poet in bordeaux, cut short by illness, and all that they had shared gone like ash in the wind. given such a loss he sought to preserve himself in some way, though, as he would readily admin, in a partial way – life is a preparation for death.
to completely illustrate one’s character requires flitting through thoughts; summarizing his essays in totality would reduce them of their intended quality. rather, his essays are an in-depth self study, and given Terence’s maxim “i am human; i consider nothing human alien to me,” the specific reflection of a self transforms into a depiction of humanity. reaching across six hundred years he captures a universality of spirit which i too found myself embroiled in. his contemplations on death not very far from my own, he captured with great detail, and furthermore led me by the hand to those little comforts. his other insights into character and self-knowledge too launch the reader to greater heights.
aside from his detail of character, his skepticism is well-suited for the modern day. day in and out our opinions are demanded of us by the spectacle of media; there is not a single object or event which does not require comment. to this he has a suggestion: one need not form an opinion. following pyrrho in this tradition, our senses are fallible – thus, any facts we make of them will be. following that to today, any sensation we receive second hand must be moreso. instead of being tossed by waves of opinion one can simply let them pass. we ought to limit that which affects us to the bare minimum – after all we can only control ourselves.
while reading these essays i was in a relationship in which we would start most days with coffee and conversation. this is no longer the case. for the last month of reading, i have awoken, gone for a run, made coffee, and sat with this book and a pen. it has not been the same as talking out loud; regardless, these morning readings began to feel as if i were talking to an old friend strolling down a path. the depth to which he recorded his innermost thoughts withstand the test of time. in these quiet mornings we covered religion, the self, death, children, delightful qualities of food, and every topic under the sun. more than anything else, these essays distinguish themselves in their humanity. i would do myself well to capture my thoughts as well as him.