gentle rereader

. . . rediscovering Jacques Barzun

Archive for the category “Art”

San Antonio scène

After visiting Trinity’s library, I headed for the cleaner’s to pick up my suit.  Though the promised delivery time had arrived, my suit had yet to come back from the dry cleaning plant.

Impatience might have gotten the better of me if I’d just stood there waiting, but I remembered a friend’s request to bring back a chili pepper braid.  I asked the owner if there was a place nearby that might have one.  Advised that it was a tourist item mainly available at the downtown market on weekends, he suggested trying the nearby H-E-B.

What’s the Barzun connection?  H-E-B’s Broadway Central Market displayed a banner that read “Passport France”.  Beret wearing staff members and customers were having fun with model-and-artist cutouts.  Greeted in French as I entered the store, I exchanged kisses with the cheerful stranger.  San Antonio had been primed for “Berlioz and Barzun” … and the concert was now only a couple of hours away.

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American Panorama

Short critical introductions to books recommended in American Panorama, Eric Larrabee, ed., New York: New York University Press, 1957.  Kessinger Publishing Company [reprint], 2010.

This volume’s subtitle summarizes the Carnegie Foundation project:  “Essays by Fifteen American Critics on 350 Books Past and Present Which Portray the U.S.A. in Its Many Aspects”.  Please click on either link above to view more details of the project, Barzun’s contributions to it, and recommendations of his own books included in the set.

amor fati?

There is no place for fiction in the From Parnassus template for Jacques Barzun’s bibliography. Since there are only two examples I am sure of, I won’t add another Part for fiction yet. For the time being, undergraduate Jacques’ short story will remain an orphan, or rather Columbia’s foundling:

Fantastique: ‘Not Poppy nor Mandragora’ But the Hallucinations of La Grippe”, The Columbia Varsity, volume 7, number 2 (May 1926), pages 16–17, 31.

Because the page for this entry is not linked to another part (and this post will gradually sink to the bottom), please either click on the word “Fantastique” above or go to the bibliography’s main page SCANNED for future access.  The Search box will also retrieve Barzun’s short story if you use the short story’s title or keywords like “Chatterton”.

passing remarks

This post announces the addition of another item to this online Barzun bibliography and provides the means to categorize and tag the main page for

Obiter Dicta: A Less Tragic View of the Artistic Puddle and of Some Fish That Swim Therein”, The Columbia Varsity, volume 7, number 2 (May 1926), pages 11–12.

With renewed thanks to Ms. Jocelyn Wilk of the Columbia University Archives.

painters praised

The jacket of Michael Murray’s biography of Jacques Barzun happily presents in color a Cleve Gray post-Cubist portrait from 1950.  The contents of the sitter’s clipboard appear on another plane –  inside the volume – pages 139 recto and 140 verso.  Barzun’s offhand notes start with his low mood at that moment, mention his trusty “large green pen,” and record how literary reflection restores his spirits and then serves his criticism.  (Having completed the monumental labor of Berlioz and the Romantic Century, JB may have been experiencing the letdown he elsewhere describes as common among authors following completion of a major work.)  Barzun’s praise of Gray had inspired his mother-in-law, Isabel Shaw Lowell, to commission the portrait.
Mrs. Lowell then loaned the Barzun portrait to the Jacques Seligmann Galleries for Cleve Gray’s “Youth and Age” exhibition (30 October–18 November 1950). Barzun no doubt visited the New York gallery and appears again in the catalogue. His “Purpose in Paint” first describes contemporary painting’s divided camp:
“The confused subject of modernism in art might perhaps shed a little of its confusion if it were once agreed that the painters of our century fall naturally into two classes—those whose work plays in our culture the role of satirist, sapper, destroyer; and those whose work reasserts the right to build among the ruins. The terms of this distinction should of course be taken in the broadest sense, and with no moral or artistic superiority attached to either category. Both types of artists necessarily ‘construct’ their works, or they would not be deemed artists; both have produced and will produce masterpieces. But one group seems bent on deriding and liquidating the present; the other group, on the contrary, tries to make us see the strength and solidity of things.
“This difference is not to be found purely or even mainly in subject matter. It comes from temperament and conception and it is visible in the plastic forms. The ‘liquidation’ I speak of appears as a direct sense impression from the liquefaction of the line, the disarticulation of the planes, the sought-after disharmony of colors. These manifestations are in fact not limited to painting nor to the graphic arts; they belong to the Spirit of the Age—or rather to his darker half.”
Next Barzun places Gray:
“Now Cleve Gray unmistakably belongs to the constructors, which is to say that he belongs to the lineage of the Cubists. One may verify this from external sources, but this corroboration is needless. All one has to do to see the Cubist inspiration—modified by the passage of time and divers artists’ sensibility, yet lively after forty years—is to look at Cleve Gray’s canvases. Whatever his subject matter, his work proceeds from an analysis of the solids which compose the subject to a reconstruction that proves them solid indeed—real, working, not disintegrating.”
Barzun then praises particulars in the paintings exhibited:
“[O]ne can see not only that the parts hang together, but that they would preserve their relations even if moved. The canvas is not merely decorated with harmonious patches of color but brought to life. … The colors, too, that Cleve Gray uses are evidently chosen in the belief that the world is young, bright, immediately beautiful. The resulting work of art is beautiful also, and for different reasons, but it resembles the world in not requiring us to grant it a technical victory, ‘on points,’ like a cautious boxer; nor—to vary the image—does it win us by appealing to sentimental associations…. [H]ere we have the delicacy of strength rather than of fashionable sensibility.”

Decades later, as he approached age 90, Barzun still had the strength to praise delicacy.  Raymond Han’s “Still Lifes” exhibition at the Hackett-Freedman Gallery in San Francisco (June 1997) included JB’s appreciation in the catalogue:
“The work of Raymond Han attracts by its delicacy.  It enchants by its serenity.  This quality resides in the twilight tones and the placid objects which, although natively disparate, develop a subtle kinship on being brought together.  The variety that Mr. Han achieves by adopting this program shows that a painter’s imagination can manifest itself otherwise than by setting the environment on fire.
“But isn’t it the duty of the artist to ‘reflect his times,’ to ‘criticize society,’ at whatever cost to his feelings and those of his viewer?  Well, to be calm and contemplative these days is criticism itself.  Indeed, it has always been so.  Still-life and genre painting, the scenes of Vermeer and Chardin, the flowers of Fantin-Latour and the apples of Cézanne make up a tradition that runs steadily through troubled times and dispute their primacy by showing the girl sewing, the student reading, while the flowers and fruit also ignore the daily news.  The life of the still life is still Life.”
The painter’s style, selection of objects, and silence regarding theory win Barzun’s praise for the next three paragraphs as he challenges “accepted ideas” of the modern artist’s role.  He then concludes:
“Only when a technique is extraordinary, not to be expected, may the critic draw attention to it at the expense of the whole.  In the duly spacious and beautifully linear works of Raymond Han one might venture to remark on the magic by which his objects are at once transparent and solid.  And one should add: This is the source of our conviction that his delicacy is strong and his serenity anchored deep.”

paradoxes, questions & answers

Publication by giving speeches is another way that Jacques Barzun’s influence spread.  There were many occasions when what began as a lecture soon found it’s way into print.  A dinner at the Institute for the Humanities at Salado (Texas) in the fall of 1988 supplies an example.  Barzun’s address, “The Paradoxes of Creativity,” went from spoken words to printed with the American Scholar‘s Summer 1989 issue (pp. 337–351).  Some of the original atmosphere is recovered when audience questions and Barzun’s answers follow his talk as published in Creativity: Paradoxes & Reflections (Chiron, 1991).

The Institute’s dinner/lecture series had a more inviting title: “Creativity, Alive and Well.”  Barzun’s challenge to complacency is reflected by some responses from the audience during the Q&A session: “Must one be a genius in order to create?”; “I was concerned about your comment that this was an end of an era of creators.”; and “Is it not true that the pedestrian and prosaic individuals end up historically defining who is a genius and who is not?”  Barzun’s replies make this publication of the “The Paradoxes of Creativity” preferable to those versions where the text stands alone, though Jacques has better company in Best American Essays 1990.

The examples given to amplify or clarify his points after the talk, like much of Barzun’s thought, can jar listeners or readers into reconsidering reputations and “accepted ideas”:  “I read Shelley, but I haven’t a single friend who thinks that Shelley was a good poet.  The whole Academy of Arts and Letters would sign a document saying he was not a good poet.  My good friend W. H. Auden abominated him.  He said there was no poet he detested more than Shelley, unless it was Racine.  Those are the real opinions, but, of course, in the schools and textbooks and conventional talk, Racine and Shelley are great names.  Somehow that doesn’t seem to me good enough.  I think the only real admiration consists of direct enjoyment.  Look at the way Mahler has come out of the ground after an unconscionable time.  I continue to dislike Mahler, but I am glad that he is out in the open to be shot at, as well as enjoyed.”  Dashing expectations in this way may be an impediment to Barzun’s popularity.  Critical conclusions aside, his ability to articulate his views provides me with direct enjoyment.  

Anyone who ponders “The Paradoxes of Creativity” (in any version) will find Barzun’s familiar – but still wondrous – gift for divining intended meanings.  He reviews the history of “creation” and discerns four layers of value in contemporary usage of “creativity.”  An amateur botanist’s hobby and the shortstop play of Ozzie Smith provide illustrations of attitudes that prompt the broader usage.  The consequences of loosely applying the word are significant:  “It has not only diluted the meaning of creative, but it has also glutted the market with innumerable objects and performances arbitrarily called art, thereby making it even more arduous for true creation to find a public.  Still, more generally, creative foolery has been distorting, denaturing, destroying the fund of culture amassed since the Renaissance.”  

Barzun had already come to the conclusion that he would pronounce a dozen years later in From Dawn to Decadence:

The impulse and the clever deeds [putting a mustache on Mona Lisa] are part of an irresistible historical sweep.  Some of us might prefer to live in a time of construction, which has a different kind of excitement.  Let no one repine, however.  Rebuilding is bound to come, because true creative power is a phoenix, and the forces of destruction are clearing the space for its new flight, none can tell when or where.  Meantime, if we are to recognize the bird when it appears, let us not forget that creation means making something new and making it out of little or nothing.

father and son

Last year an unsuspected bit of Barzuniana flickered into view.  Fairly often in the past it has taken the self-interest of used booksellers to reveal that a piece by Jacques Barzun has been anthologized.  Their willingness to list the contents of a book improves their prospects for a sale, and affords me an opportunity to discover an editor’s reasons for choosing a particular Barzun work.  One of the most satisfying examples came from the introduction to Barzun’s “The Romantic Ethos” (a 30-page slice from Berlioz and the Romantic Century) given by editors Norman F. Cantor and Michael S. Werthman in The Making of the Modern World, 1815–1914.

The latest find came under similar circumstances.  Another used bookseller advertised a title from the Orpheus series of Henri Martin Barzun that listed an essay by his son Jacques.  Since there was no mention of the piece in Virginia Xanthos Faggi’s selected bibliography (From Parnassus, 1976), I asked the seller for confirmation.  The affirmative reply included the title and a promising length of 10 pages.  The contents proved to be even more substantial, with 11 double column pages needed for a three part critical survey of modern poetics.

Henri Barzun’s 34th volume of Orpheus is dedicated “To ANNA ROSA and JACQUES” – his wife and son.  Choric Education: A Record of Labors and Achievements, 1920–1945, was published the same year as his son’s first bestseller, Teacher in America (Little, Brown, 1945).  Jacques Barzun was vested as a full professor that year, too, so omission of his “Transition or Creation? An Essay on Modern Esthetics” from the 1976 bibliography presented a puzzle.  The title alone sounds significant.

The contents reflect Jacques’ panoramic vision and familiar concern with synthesis.  Part I describes “Contemporary Chaos,” finding parallels in other periods of turmoil and launches the question, “Is there, at the present moment, a constructive force strong enough to create order out of chaos?”  Dissatisfied with the scouting of other critics, Jacques searches for visionaries among young English and American poets and closes with expatriate Ezra Pound’s disclosure of a French innovation.

Part II, “Problem and Solution,” resumes with quotations from Pound’s 1913 announcement in Poetry: A Magazine of Verse of a new form which he thinks may be “the true medium for democratic expression, the fitting method of synthesis.”  The innovator Pound spoke of was Henri Martin Barzun, whose creation of “simultaneity” (also called orchestral or polyphonic poetry) would be curtailed by the Great War’s cataclysm.

Part III, “Men and Works,” sees Jacques reviewing early performances of simultanist poetry by French pioneers and American practitioners without losing his critical balance, or opening himself to accusations of gratuitous nepotism.  Reversing the usual order, Jacques concludes his essay with “the founder,” his father.  That arrangement of parts falls beautifully into place – with the puzzle of bibliographic omission solved – by the attribution that follows:

Reprinted from The Columbia Varsity
Part I—February, 1927
Part II—April, 1927
Part III—June, 1927

 

Henri Martin Barzun sketched in the Columbia Varsity

Henri Martin Barzun sketched in the Columbia Varsity

Nineteen-year-old Jacques Barzun, Varsity editor, had honored his father as Columbia University’s June 1st commencement arrived.  Henri Barzun honored his son eighteen years later by seeking permission to reprint the undergraduate essay that elucidates his creation.  Full professor Jacques acquiesced in 1945.  Three decades later he chose not to include it with the only two Varsity essays in his selected bibliography:  “Textbooks and Tediousness” and “Irrelevant Maturity.”

Henri Martin Barzun, 1942

Henri Martin Barzun profile sketch by Clayton Spicer appears in Orpheus XXXIV, Choric Education: A Record of Labors and Achievements, 1920–1945, New Rochelle, NY: French Forum Publications, 1945.

Jacques Barzun drawn by Polly Thayer 1945

Jacques Barzun, drawing by Polly Thayer from dust jacket of Teacher in America, 1945

Barzun’s women

Jacques Barzun’s historical insight – original with him – conveys one of our time’s predicaments: “The one thing that unifies men in a given age is not their individual philosophies but the dominant problem that these philosophies are designed to solve.”°  The revelation may slip by unnoticed if the distracting question arises, What about women?

Readers of From Dawn to Decadence discovered more women than they might have expected in a cultural history that sweeps over five centuries.  That may explain why the Women’s Independent Forum asked to interview Barzun.  His sketches of historical figures are tantalizing, whether of women, men or adolescents.  Their firm lines reveal character, and populate a thematic narrative more ambitious than the mere chronicle of an era.

Cynics reflexively disagree, and may suspect Barzun of placating female readers by salting his bestseller with scores of women.  That would miss his point entirely.  The Woman Question is one of those that unifies our age, with “answers” ranging, for example, in a single decade, from Gloria Steinem’s to Phyllis Schlafly’s.  Barzun discerns it as part of a larger pattern and traces the theme of EMANCIPATION back through the ages, tracking the progress of women as well as the common man (of all genders).  He anticipates possible objections to the historical usage of “man” and addresses them early in From Dawn to Decadence (pp. 82–84); a brief reprise also appears in the interview noted above.

Barzun’s historical account necessarily records misogyny, but the man does justice to women – virtuous and villainous as revealed by events.  The same holds true for his criticism, and not just recently.  Over six decades ago, Barzun was Harper’s chief book critic.  His essay-review in the January 1948 issue focuses on current fiction: “Knee-Deep in Novels, or Death by Mis-Adventure.”  He sees through the stories and spots the authors’ silhouettes as intellectual, moralist, or sociologist, and resumes his search for “The Novel as Life Force Embodied.”  Recusing himself from a full review of The Middle of the Journey by his friend and colleague Lionel Trilling, Barzun finds just two new novels worth remembering.  The first is A Quiet Neighborhood by Anne Goodwin Winslow.

Who?  Readers then were as unlikely to know her name as we are now.  Two collections of her poetry had been published in the 1920s.  Almost two decades later she resurfaced with a new volume of poetry and another of short stories, but A Quiet Neighborhood was her first novel.  Barzun performs the critic’s role of midwife by presenting the qualities of her work to the public, and goes on to scold her publisher.  The book’s jacket copy transforms her setting into a cliché – “serene and gracious Southern life” – which Barzun calls, “language hardly fit to describe a cookbook, quite apart from its critical innaccuracy.  How can a work of art find its proper readers if it is misrepresented on its very wrappings by those most interested in distributing it?”

His admiration for Anne Goodwin Winslow’s work was not a passing fancy.  She published two more novels:  It Was Like This (1949) and The Springs (1950).  When Barzun served as editor of the third issue of Perspectives (Spring 1953), he paid her the compliment of introducing her short story “Mr. Rochester’s Wife” to European readers (along with a Wallace Stevens poem, Eric Bentley’s criticism of Shakespeare theater, and W.H. Auden’s review of Short Novels of Colette).  Robert Lowell also mentions in his April 29, 1957 letter to Elizabeth Bishop (Words in Air, p. 202) that Barzun planned to nominate Anne Goodwin Winslow for membership in the American Academy and Institute of Arts and Letters.

Jacques Barzun’s “Editor’s Commentary” in Perspectives points to many reasons for the contemporary confusion regarding western culture’s direction, including that “the artist has to die before we learn that he was born.”  Anne Goodwin Winslow did not go unnoticed, and when she died in 1959 Barzun remembered her with “On the Death of an American Artist” (The Mid-Century, No. 8, January 1960, pp. 22–23).

Delivering the President’s address on the 75th anniversary of the National Institute of Arts and Letters (then convened with the American Academy of Arts and Letters, now merged), Jacques Barzun joked about the “the criminal chapter of our history” during Prohibition, preparing his audience for the quick transition to their concerns in 1973:

One of our present preoccupations, for example, is to make sure that enough women are elected.  I mean, of course, to represent fairly the artistic scene.  Our past record on this score is deplorable, but it betokens socially induced weakness of will, rather than a positive vice.

Recalling that Henry Adams had argued in 1909 that “Edith Wharton and a dozen more” deserved recognition ahead of inductee Julia Ward Howe, Barzun points to the heart of the matter:  “There is a great deal in our history, despite its mere 75 years, that would illustrate the permanent difficulties, peculiarities, and benefits inherent in the relation of art to society.”  Barzun’s sparkling address at the banquet also drew laughter as he cultivated the Academy’s future, just as he had done in the past.  His nominee in 1955 was poet Phyllis McGinley.

Barzun’s attentions were not limited to those two American women.  English author Dorothy L. Sayers gets higher praise, but that will have to wait for another occasion.  Before publishing this post, however, I should satisfy the curiosity of those who may wonder about his other recommendation in Harper’s.  The young talent Barzun heralded was Saul Bellow, whose next book would be The Adventures of Augie March.

_______________________________________________________

° Romanticism and the Modern Ego (Little, Brown, 1943, p. 21); Classic, Romantic, and Modern (Anchor, 2nd ed., revised, 1961, p. 14), (Univ. of Chicago Phoenix reprint, 1975, p. 14).

My thanks to Mr. Leo Wong for turning up the archived link to the Autumn 2000 Women’s Independent Forum interview of JB.

Ping-Pong with Mortimer Adler

Michael Murray’s splendid new biography of Jacques Barzun recounts an unexpected instance of frivolity in a Columbia University psychology course taught by young Mortimer Adler.  Although working on a Ph.D. in psychology, the inexperienced instructor (a philosopher by predilection) had trouble filling class hours with appropriate content.  Teenaged Jacques one day proposed that the class step down the hall to finish the hour by playing ping-pong.  Adler acquiesced, and the lark turned into a frequent amusement.

Their rallies became more purposeful during the decades ahead.  By the time Adler moved on to the University of Chicago in 1930, Barzun was himself a Columbia graduate student and instructor.  Ten years later, Adler published How to Read a Book and Barzun drew attention to it with a critique in the Saturday Review, “Read, Do Not Run” (March 9, 1940, p. 6).  While praising Adler’s effort to make the riches of literature more accessible to the public – which turned the manual into a bestseller – Barzun finds the author inconsistent:

Curiously enough, what Dr. Adler rejects as a possibility for the living, namely, “two or more sides to a question,” he accepts for the great  dead of the European tradition, since he asks us to read with sympathy a grand list of great books from Homer to William James—a list that expounds at least half a dozen irreconcilable views of the world.

Adler’s capitalized “Great Books” would stir up trouble later, but his original goal was to include more people in what Jacques’ former teacher Mark Van Doren called the “great conversation.”  Barzun was a colleague in 1940, and in his sixth year of team teaching with Lionel Trilling a Columbia honors seminar with the more accurate, less contentious, even modest title of “Colloquium on Important Books.”

Three years later Adler conceived the idea of compiling Great Books of the Western World.  The 54-book set debuted in 1952 and also merited a Barzun review, this time in The Atlantic Monthly (December 1952, pp. 79–80, 82, 84).  He gives highest praise to the unifying Syntopicon, the first two volumes that cross-reference the rest of the collection, calling that pair “miraculous” and “a stupendous achievement.”  The Aristotelian Adler’s classification system permits readers to quickly find what the assembled authors have to say on a particular topic.  Those come from 102 “Great Ideas” (also parsed into thousands of subdivisions) which bring the authors to grips with each other.  The contents were another matter.

Barzun concludes – after presenting varied, ample and humorous evidence – that “the great books here gathered with so much love and care and public spirit betray a high-minded axe-grinding in the direction of intellectualism.”  The future author of The House of Intellect did indeed write those words, but only after regretting that the first edition of Great Books missed the opportunity to “unite a great variety of intellectual interests by choosing from the recent times not only Freud but Shaw.”  Barzun considers the collection unbalanced in a rationalistic direction:  “Shouldn’t we have had … Balzac and Henry James—instead of Hippocrates on Hemorrhoids and Archimedes on Spheroids?”

Barzun recalls Pascal’s distinction between “the spirit of geometry and the esprit de finesse” before offering these closing words on the first edition of Great Books:  “The search for geometrical propositions is admirable, but it would be disastrous if the unchecked desire for a canon of truth were to give us neither Montaigne’s humanist, ‘ondoyant and divers,’ nor Emerson’s American Scholar or ‘man thinking,’ but some sort of joyless, dehydrated western man in canonicals.”

Lesser men might have become sworn enemies after such a review.  Yet Adler would call Barzun a lifelong friend, with good reason.  Instead of abandoning Great Books of the Western World, Barzun worked to improve the second set (1990).  Editor-in-Chief Mortimer Adler later recognized the new edition’s Board of Editors – “especially Jacques Barzun” – who “made many recommendations of authors and works to be included or eliminated.”  Which works those were might be quickly determined by someone with access to the University of Chicago’s Mortimer J. Adler Papers (try boxes 26, 46, and 128).  But why let the mere likelihood of those letters’ existence spoil the fun of speculation?

Barzun almost certainly championed Balzac’s Cousin Bette, most likely for its portrayal of an artist’s life – and the conditions of making great art – woven into the story of unlovely Bette’s loss of him followed by vengeful machinations against her extended family.  Barzun’s pairing of the great French novelist with Henry James in the 1952 review hints that he would campaign later for William’s younger brother.  And I feel sure that Barzun pushed for Alfred North Whitehead’s Science and the Modern World.  Barzun’s reply to a National Book Award Foundation query about books that have influenced his work names Whitehead’s Science with four others, including Berlioz’s Memoirs and Mark Twain’s Life on the Mississippi.

Certainty, that elusive prize, does attach to at least one Barzun service to the second edition of Great Books of the Western World.  His 1952 review criticizes the first edition’s “conspicuous absence of any concern with the fine arts.  Except for misleading references among the ancients, one would not know that the west had seen the tremendous development of music and initiated the art of discussing it.”  Volume 34 now offers an imaginative work from the encyclopedic mind of Denis Diderot, Rameau’s Nephew, as translated by Jacques Barzun.  The title character’s uncle, Jean-Phillipe Rameau, was a leading Baroque composer whose treatment of harmony broke new ground.  The uproar it produced at first was forgotten as his innovations were gradually adopted and became part of the musical tradition.  Diderot’s characters take on music, genius, convention, criticism and many other topics in a satirical conversation of less than fifty pages – a joy to discover in the more easily read single column layout.

Barzun and Adler’s back-and-forth lasted for over half a century.  Not until the United States sent Forrest Gump to compete in China would table tennis have such import as when Jacques and Mort played Great Books ping-pong.

points of entry

I wonder how college students first encounter Jacques Barzun these days, if they do at all.  Some may hear of the Grand Old Man through the summation of his life’s work as a cultural historian, From Dawn to Decadence.  Whether they accompany Gibbon’s peer through 500 years and 800 pages of promising starts, lost opportunities, and great achievements in the West is anyone’s guess, or a professor’s prerogative.  Others might catch a glimpse of Barzun by way of a striking quotation, but without following his thread.  Snippets are seldom enough to convey the richness of the original work and of his interwoven thought.

I suspect that luck counts in such matters as well.  When I was an undergraduate, a student’s early acquaintance with Jacques Barzun was most likely to come from an essay in an assigned anthology or a manual of instruction – unlikely though not impossible sources of enthusiasm.  I may be most fortunate in never having had Barzun assigned.  And the book that first inspired my youthful enthusiasm was a later edition of a work begun in his own youth.  Classic, Romantic, and Modern spoke directly to me then and is still a great place to start with Barzun.  Originally the Lowell Lectures of 1941, the subsequent work retains the lively sense of a man thinking on his feet.

I would be glad to hear of actual first experiences of reading Barzun, among students of any age, recalling that 104-year old Jacques still calls himself a student of cultural history.

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