Real post for the day imminent. In the meantime, I think this quotation deserves a post of its own:
The essayist is a self-liberated man, sustained by the childish belief that everything he thinks about, everything that happens to him, is of general interest. He is a fellow who thoroughly enjoys his work, just as people who take bird walks enjoy theirs. Each excursion of the essayist, each new “attempt,” differs from the last and takes him into new country. This delights him. Only a person who is congenitally self-centered has the effrontery and the stamina to write essays. There are as many kinds of essays as there are human attitudes or poses, as many essay flavors as there are Howard Johnson ice creams. The essayist arises in the morning and, if he has work to do, selects his garb from an unusually extensive wardrobe: he can pull on any sort of shirt, be any sort of person — philosopher, scold, jester, raconteur, confidant, pundit, devil’s advocate, enthusiast.
[…]I think some people find the essay the last resort of the egoist, a much too self-conscious and self-serving form for their taste; they feel that it is presumptuous of a writer to assume that his little excursions or his small observations will interest the reader. There is some justice in their complaint. I have always been aware that I am by nature self-absorbed and egoistical; to write of myself to the extent I have done indicates a too great attention to my own life, not enough to the lives of others.
That’s E.B. White, talking to me (and maybe you) across the decades — about blogging.
And if White’s not talking to you, maybe the inimitable xkcd is:
Sara says
“he can pull on any sort of shirt, be any sort of person — philosopher, scold, jester, raconteur, confidant, pundit, devil’s advocate, enthusiast.”
I love E.B. I do. We are all by nature self-absorbed. Some writers, like E.B. just admit it more than others. And make even that self-absorption interesting.
John says
Sara: Hi! And what you said, about White and writers in general…
I have great difficulty blogging in such a way that I’m simply, y’know, throwing it up online. (Blog comments are a different matter!) The Missus and I laugh about something I said once about my writing, in a moment of weakness: that I’m not really satisfied with a writing session unless it’s produced at least one phrase or sentence that just tickles the hell out of me. I want to say something worth saying, sure, but I can’t resist trying to say it with flair (as the people in Office Space would say). It’s me, after all — every post online, or every page offline. Me. Me. Me. (At which point I imagine the man in that photo up there rolling his eyes.)
Kate Lord Brown says
John – enough about me. Let’s talk about me? ;)
John says
Kate: Ha! (I have a dim memory of a book about yuppies, back when that was a fresh subject, whose title was something like But Enough About You… Ah, yes. It’s by the master of great titles — When Your Phone Doesn’t Ring, It’ll Be Me, If You Can’t Live Without Me, Why Aren’t You Dead Yet?!, et al. — Cynthia Heimel.)
marta says
I don’t want to talk about me anymore. I’ll let you do it.
ha.
John says
marta: Ha ha, right — very clever way to avoid blogging altogether!