gentle rereader

. . . rediscovering Jacques Barzun

Archive for the category “Quotations”

giving thanks

Twenty years ago I had no inkling of all that I would have to be thankful for in 2012. The thought of writing to my hero was daunting.  The prospect of meeting Jacques Barzun seemed impossible.  I have wondered since May whether to write about that culmination.  I now choose to do so as a way of giving thanks.

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Prior to the concert I stood up to take photographs of the Majestic Theatre’s interior and of the great man sitting across the way.  I also may have been the first to rise in a standing ovation as Jacques came forward to say a few words in lieu of the planned video tribute.  When the symphony’s performance concluded, the applause faded, and the audience started to file out, I stood by my seat and turned to savor the occasion.  I saw two smiling women headed my way.

Mary Jane Howe and Diana Hamner wondered who this stand-up character might be, ‘a Berlioz expert’ perhaps?  I told them of my enthusiasm for Barzun and touched on a few areas of his expertise, including the life and music of Berlioz.  My Barzun train of associations might have become a runaway if not for the impending reception. I listened to the charming ladies describe San Antonio’s attractions, including other handsome theaters.  Our delightful chat was cut short as an usher asked us to move to the lobby where Eric Morse waited patiently.

We met and walked up to the mezzanine’s Starlight Lounge.  Thanks to Leo Wong’s surprising initiative and Marguerite Barzun’s kindness, we found our names on the guest list.  Just inside we were offered champagne.  I sipped from the flute and scanned the room.  Our benefactor, Charles Butt, stood over in the middle section greeting appreciative guests.  Not far from him more people gathered around the center of attention, a smiling Jacques Barzun.  It looked to be a while before we might enjoy an audience.

Remaining on the periphery, Eric and I talked about the amazing reality of our presence there, our impressions of San Antonio, and the books I carried:  the first volume of Berlioz and the Romantic Century and A Stroll with William James.  The focus on conversation resulted in my losing track of the author’s living presence. Then “suddenly” he was rolling near and the gentlemen pushing his wheelchair said, “There’s someone here with books for you to sign.”

The question of how to address him could be put off no longer.  How to express reverence and friendship at once? “Professor Barzun … Jacques,” came out as I managed to say, “I’m your amateur bibliographer, John Adams.”  I made something like a bow to lower my eyes to the level of his own. “Oh, John …” he responded with warmth and surprise as he reached out for my hand.  Having known for some time of the pain writing often caused him, I clasped his hand gently and found that his hands were as large as mine.

Taking a step or two back, I turned to my compatriot, “May I introduce your newest neighbor?  This is Eric Robert Morse, direct descendant of Samuel F. B. Morse of telegraph fame, a painter like his ancestor and a published author with several books to his credit.”  As Eric stepped forward I added that though a newcomer to San Antonio, he had already formed a reading group, the first Jacques Barzun Book Club.

There were hundreds of questions that I would like to have asked Barzun, most arising from an intimate knowledge of his works.  Somehow I skipped them all and landed on an inconsequential detail, his portrait on the “Berlioz and Barzun” program.  Lionel Trilling’s photograph of Jacques wearing a summer suit had first appeared on the dust jacket for God’s Country and Mine.  Showing Barzun wearing a watch on his right wrist, I had wondered whether he was left-handed.  During a rereading years later it occurred to me that the image had been reversed.  Of all the foolish words that have passed my lips, the most ridiculous were those that informed my hero, “You never parted your hair on the right side.”

The gracious gentleman overlooked that blunder and our short conversation continued.  I noticed Eric crouch so that he too would see eye-to-eye with Barzun.  Recognizing his good sense, I gave up my stooped posture and took a knee.  (If I had brought my sword I might have asked Jacques to knight me.)  Soon thereafter he was answering a question when his throat began to catch.  A few moments later his eyes started to water.  He managed to collect himself, but the discomfort may have diminished his acuity.

I mentioned something from our letters and he asked, “Have we corresponded?”  I could have reminded Jacques of my occasional missives from California, New York, and Alaska, or gifts ranging from smoked wild salmon to a James Agate book of theatre criticism that was new to him.  Instead, sensing another admirer standing by to greet Jacques, I simply said, “Maybe a sample of my handwriting will remind you.” I reached into my coat and pulled out a card that I had written that afternoon, thinking that if he was too tired to attend the reception I might find someone who could deliver it to him later.

Barzun opened the envelope then and there.  A last small tribute dropped into his lap – a 1921 silver dollar.  The grandfather for whom I am named had given it to me on the day I was born – a birthday shared with my father and, as I learned just this year, Barzun’s father, too.  Jacques arrived in America the year before the coin was minted.  The Liberty head design reminded me of his arrival by steamer in New York harbor, under the welcoming gaze of that other gift from France.  I mentioned those connections in my note.

Whether my handwriting jogged his memory I do not know, but he asked whether we might have met before, “perhaps without the beard?”  Despite his love for William James, I had noticed over the years a half dozen or so disparagements of beards in Barzun’s writing.  Replying to one of my infrequent letters (sent at a longer than usual interval after a move from Kodiak to Juneau), Jacques expressed relief that I hadn’t fallen into a crevasse.  My humorous answer included the adjacent photo as proof of life and explained this Alaskan’s preference for facial insulation from the cold.  Jacques wrote back: “Do not labor under the misapprehension that I have any objection to beards.  Yours shows excellent topiary work.  My distaste is only for paucity and straggle when flaunted.”

I assured Jacques that this was our first meeting – one that I had hoped for since at least as early as my first letter to him in 1993 – and expressed my gratitude viva voce and in the note:  for the chance to meet him, for permission to work in his Papers at Columbia, and for all that his works have meant to me.  I picked up the unsigned books, then Eric and I stepped aside.  We moved toward the back of the room where we thanked Marguerite and talked with her briefly.  She asked Jack Jackson to join us, made the introductions, and soon excused herself to go check on Jacques.

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Jack delighted us by describing his informal conversations with Jacques.  I thank him here again for sharing those experiences and his interest in family histories.  It was Jack who urged me to write of the trip to San Antonio and include the ridiculous details of my pilgrimage.

This website’s 11-month beginning, my first public attempt to broadcast Barzun’s merits, has brought unexpected pleasures.  I hope that there will be more exchanges like Bill Sweetland’s freewheeling appreciation of Jacques.  (Thanks, Bill, for the encouragement to reveal more of myself.)  I was glad to see an instance of the tags I provide helping someone to discover what Barzun said on a particular subject, in that case the orchestral poet Sebastien Voirol.  The details can be found in the post “father and son” and in the comments below “What’s next?

Sending a “Berlioz and Barzun” program  to Leo Wong was the least I could do to show my gratitude for his support.  It seems that the instant a gentle rereader post appears Leo has planted a link in the Jacques Barzun Fan Club on Facebook.  I imagine that he was the one who added this site to the Jacques Barzun page on Wikipedia, as well.  Best of all, his occasional comment (see after “Barzun’s women“) and frequent emails supply Barzun conversation that I have missed for much of my life.  Thank you very much indeed, Leo, especially for the gift of how Jacques first greeted me.  I would not have been present without your intercession.

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Henri Barzun

Jacques Barzun

John at Columbia, 1980
On liberty from Navy Officer Candidate School, with a haircut Jacques would approve.

John at Columbia, 2004, hirsute.
First visit to the Rare Book and Manuscript Library.

a few words before the concert

Maecenas

The Express-News report on the “Berlioz and Barzun” concert came close to accurately quoting the honoree.  Jacques compared San Antonio Symphony benefactor Charles Butt to Horace and Virgil’s patron Maecenas, the “wealthy Roman who thought that his compatriots ought to have a more elevated pleasure than having gladiators kill each other.”

Whether an editor snipped column inches or the reporter chose to turn a deaf ear to Barzun’s next remark is impossible to say.  Jacques did go on: “I was trying to think of an equivalent of gladiators killing each other and I finally hit upon it,” then he paused before delivering a punchline.  He didn’t refer grimly to the UFC’s caged combatants locked in their bloody mixed martial arts. Instead, Barzun made the orchestra and audience laugh with his musical analog to a Colosseum spectacle: “rock and roll.”

Why not rap?  Public Enemy’s Chuck D claims that music education budget cuts in New York City during the 1970s deprived youth of Barzun’s “more elevated pleasures.”  The musical instrument vacuum was filled by hip-hop and rap.  Barzun named rock, though, and the Express-News may have left that out to avoid controversy.  Not Jacques.  Nor will I.

Free tickets to the Majestic Theatre performance drew a varied crowd, from blue jeans to suits, and from elders to kids.  Seeing children in the foyer before the concert reminded me of Jacques’ first public music experience, the premiere of Stravinsky’s Sacre du Printemps.  I have since recalled my own – another free concert – outdoors during the Strawberry Festival in Orange County, California, when I was around ten.  A band played the opening electric guitar melody of “Get Together” by the Youngbloods and I felt reverberation for the first time. Songs on the little plastic radio at home did not do that.  Popular music was all that I really knew until Barzun’s words opened my ears to Berlioz.  Then it was on to Furtwängler’s Beethoven and more.

Having grown up with rock, though, I can imagine how easily others might dismiss Barzun’s joke – especially in print – as the cranky humor of an elitist curmudgeon. JB’s jabs can startle, shove aside timeworn ideas, and create an opening for the unexpected.  His barbs are sometimes meant to serve that purpose, as suggested in an epigraph to his Energies of Art from John Jay Chapman:  “So long as a man is trying to tell the truth, his remarks will contain a margin which other people will regard as mystifying and irritating exaggeration. It is this very margin of controversy that does the work.”

Barzun achieves surer results when the occasion allows him to better develop his thoughts.  When rock-and-roll’s golden oldies were still recent releases, Barzun delivered “A Request for the Loan of Your Ears” (1961) to an audience about to hear for the first time compositions from the Columbia-Princeton Electronic Music Center.  His listeners in the McMillin Theatre included lovers of classical music and, among the students at least, some fans of rock as well. Strangers to the new creation, Jacques first invited them to take pleasure in the effort to comprehend unknown works, but

“To understand in this fashion does not mean to accept passively because someone says that the stuff is new and therefore good, that many believe in it, that it’s going to succeed anyway, so it’s best to resign oneself to the inevitable.  This kind of reasoning has gone on about modern art for some thirty years and nothing has been more harmful to the arts. It is an inverted philistinism, which eliminates judgment and passion just as surely as did the older philistinism of blind opposition to whatever is new.”

Then by combining critical and historical insights with Jamesian psychology he alerted his listeners to their minds’ natural conservatism.  Openness and equipoise become the way to discover richer pleasures – old and new.

Barzun’s double-action thought reveals unknown art, delivering democratic access to the best that he’s discovered.  The Majestic Theatre audience – almost everyone hearing for the first time at least some of Barzun’s favorite Berlioz marches – included a cross-section of class and culture.  I thought of Maya Angelou’s complementary line, “No less to Midas than the mendicant.”  Then I heard the music.

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.

desktop restored

desktop restored

Hoping the snow remains on the other side of the window.

Valdez has had a bit of snow this winter, as you can see out my window. Believe it or not, I’ve shoveled three feet or more off the top. I hope that what remains on the roof now has room to land without invading the study and burying computers.

Living in Alaska is a lot safer than driving freeways, turnpikes and city streets, but certain dangers are more spectacular. Hiking in bear country, kayaking in chilly waters, and, most recently, driving roads also used by moose are all worth the risk, but also remind me of the Barzun projects that I don’t want to leave unfinished.

There’s nothing especially noteworthy about today’s post; it is simply the first that records a Barzun item scanned: “The Colossus Laid Out” (American Scholar, vol. 53, no. 4, Autumn 1984, pages 546, 548–549).  It’s fitting for me to begin here, however, as Barzun’s review is of Dan H. Laurence’s monumental two-volume bibliography of Bernard Shaw’s works.

I hope that the tags I’ve attached to posts like this one will help Internet search engine users to find subjects that interest them, whether Barzun, Shaw, Dan Laurence, or Marie Belloc Lowndes.  (Finding lasting value in the work of Hillaire Belloc’s sister, Barzun differs with the editor he praises in just about every other way.)  I’ve also added “Translation” to this site’s Categories to distinguish those instances when Barzun offers translation criticism – as he does in “Colossus” – rather than being the translator himself.  When a passage pops out at me, like the one that follows, I’ll quote it:

The fresh details in the Bibliography and the reminder of old ones demonstrate again that the best way to be truly civilized and full of caritas as Shaw was is to have a fair and calm opinion of oneself and to vent one’s disapprovals fiercely, but in the tone and manner of candid conversation.  [p. 458]

Barzun, as usual, has more and better things to say in this review-essay.  It is not the source, however, of the fitting quotation I had in mind when deciding to begin with “Colossus”: “Bibliographers are the unsung heroes of the intellectual life.”  That opening line from Barzun’s preface to A Dictionary of Parisian Music Publishers, 1700–1950 by Cecil Hopkinson (Da Capo Press, 1979) has reinvigorated me when this labor has been most tedious.   I began making a Barzun bibliography because of memory lapses like that one of attribution.  Rereading Barzun is refreshing in many ways.

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.

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° 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.

“Beginnings are notoriously difficult …”

… and yet here I am, beginning again.  I have a pretty good idea of where this website will go, but only glimmerings of all that will be discovered (and rediscovered) along the way.

These pages and posts mostly contain reflections on the life and thought of JB.  I will use his initials often, but not his full name until this site becomes more substantial.

Tonight it is enough to begin, and to commit to learning this format well enough to focus on the content and a great subject.

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