gentle rereader

. . . rediscovering Jacques Barzun

Living Books

The inaugural meeting of the Jacques Barzun Book Club (JBBC) might not have occurred on Monday, 14 May 2012, if Mr. Eric Robert Morse had been unwilling to take a risk.  The conversation described in “Classic Barzun” was diverting for a time, but the chances of engaging in much anticipated “Jacques talk” were dwindling like my beer.

Then I recalled that to make coordination possible Eric had gambled and put his cell phone number on the Internet.  Now I wished that I’d captured it earlier, instead of trusting to an old-fashioned rendezvous.  Still, I managed (with the help of 1Password) to get my mobile to locate his number online.  Moments after making the call I shook hands with Eric who had a great table out on the patio.  All along we’d been just a hundred feet from each other.  His lookout had been over the other entrance to Citrus – at the top of the stairs leading up from Riverwalk.  (Take note, future participants in the San Antonio chapter of the Jacques Barzun Book Club.)  Thank you, Eric, for being patient and for taking the chance that made our first meeting happen.

We settled into adjacent seats, facing west and the river.  The first thing I noticed on the table was Eric’s paperback copy of A Stroll with William James, my old friend.  A well thumbed first edition remained in my backpack, along with the first volume of Berlioz and the Romantic Century (1969), and the bibliographic database of Barzun’s works.  Eric’s posting the day before suggested the possible value of bringing my laptop:  “We will probably discuss Dr. Barzun’s works in general and lay out a plan for future readings.”  I’m glad to report that we didn’t get to the planning that night.

Let the record show that Stroll was the JBBC’s first topic of conversation.  We quickly moved on to other favorites, and I glowed within.  Only the horizon showed signs of gloom as dark clouds piled upward.  The slowly advancing thunderheads stole none of the warmth.  Our talk did turn to the next night’s Berlioz concert and its curious ending with a funeral march.  I mentioned to Eric my recent exchange with Peter Bloom.  He had been struck by the marche funèbre closing a program meant to honor a 104-year-old man, considering it in questionable taste … unless Barzun’s strong preferences had governed the selection.

Recounting for Eric the powerful conclusion in each of Barzun’s several editions of Berlioz, I elaborated on the nutshell reply I’d sent to Professor Bloom:  “My response to the Berlioz selections was similar to yours.  My bet is that Jacques did ask for the funeral march, and at the brief concert’s conclusion.  There is a certain fitness to combining the personal importance to JB of Hamlet and HB’s funeral music to remind us of the horses bolting through the cemetery gates with Berlioz alone.”  Would the World War I survivor make a similarly dramatic departure the next night, expiring with the musketry at the march’s conclusion?  I dismissed the phantasm, deciding that Jacques would not allow himself such a breach of decorum.

Happier thoughts followed and we eventually ordered appetizers and antelope.  Already the author of several published works, Eric described his first reading of Barzun, saying that he discovered something needed that had been missing.  I poorly convey his meaning, and hope that he will take the first opportunity to correct and amplify what I only mention.  I also look forward to seeing what effect reading JB may have on his future work.  May Barzun’s influence be as salutary for Eric Morse as it was for Tony Hillerman at the outset of his crime fiction career.

Like any good book group we wandered off topic, covering our past residences in San Diego (his recent, mine ancient), his auspicious beginning in San Antonio, and when the Spurs’ playoffs run came up our shared enthusiasm for basketball.  (Barzunian orthodoxy is an oxymoron, cf. baseball.)  We also watched out for Eric’s friends who planned to join us after their conference broke up.  And the clouds kept coming.

We frequently returned to Barzun’s latest masterwork.  My recent rereading of From Dawn to Decadence had been unplanned.  I was about a third of the way into The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire when the almost inevitable thought occurred to compare Gibbon’s treatment with Barzun’s handling of the theme in From Dawn to Decadence.  The anticipated quick comparison turned into a renewed perusal of Barzun’s most complex work.  (Gibbon calmly waits for me to return as soon as I finish reading the third of Jim Lynch’s sparkling novels set around Puget Sound.)  I wondered aloud to Eric whether a couple of centuries from now From Dawn to Decadence will be as accessible as The Decline and Fall is to present-day readers.

The conversation that had been both humorous and serious tapered off when Eric’s guests arrived.  Introductions exchanged, his friend from northern California was hardly surprised but thoroughly delighted that Eric had started a book group during his first week as a San Antonio citizen.  We talked a bit about Barzun and then shifted the conversation to their conference and lives.  We felt a few sprinkles but remained outside, leaning forward under the table’s umbrella.  Soon thereafter, but after several wonderful hours, the inaugural meeting of the Jacques Barzun Book Club had to be called on account of rain.

Eric and I resumed play the next night, following the concert and reception, as we ate a less exotic but still delicious late supper at a riverside restaurant’s bar.  That’s when Eric brought up the question of which Barzun works to read next, asking me to send recommendations along as soon as I had the time.  I whipped out my pocket notebook instead.  I laughed when he said it was like getting assignments done in class in order to avoid homework.  True enough, though the context of our discussion provided the right preparation for the impromptu list I made.

I began with The Energies of Art, explaining how the commercial success of Teacher in America, praise for the first edition of Berlioz, and a recent bestseller also favored by critics, God’s Country and Mine, had created a market for Barzun’s work as scholar-critic in the collection of essays.  The earliest among them, “Truth and Poetry in Thomas Hardy” from The Southern Review (Summer 1940), recast for Energies as “Hardy’s One World”, shows Barzun as much more than a journeyman building up to From Dawn to Decadence.  The cultural historian lived in literature (as well as the musical and fine arts), and then turned his experience into cultural criticism, re-presenting art for life’s sake.

It’s hard to imagine a Jacques Barzun Book Club as a batch of Baker Street Irregulars or a Wolfe Pack, confined to a single canon.  When his admirers find themselves back at the beginning with The French “Race”, and no more of his books to read, there need not be an end.  The glory of Barzun is that his thought coruscates with others’ works that merit attention.  Those bring me back to Barzun’s brilliance, as his explorations discover what is most valuable – as well as disposable – in each of them.  A Barzun essay coupled with the work discussed would afford an excellent opportunity for rewarding conversation.

Anyone who cares to test the assertion might try reading Barzun and Stendhal “On Love”, and then savor “William James and the Clue to Art”.  Until the acidic paper turns to dust, the best version of Energies will remain the Vintage edition of 1962, despite a pair of reversed lines in the sharp new preface.  The good Greenwood Press printed five of Barzun’s books on paper made to last, but the 1975 reprint of the original Energies of Art, despite library binding, cannot preserve what it does not include.  Here is a brief sample from Barzun’s four-page credo in the Vintage paperback:

“I believe that criticism is a serious undertaking, but I do not believe that it is a technical process requiring rubber gloves and manufactured apparatus.  Works of art are complex, but that does not seem to me a valid excuse for making criticism complicated and leaving no room for the reader to enjoy art through fugitive, inexplicit response.  One would have thought that modern pride in subtlety would have prevented the manhandling of that fragile flower, Response, just as the devotion to the Work of Art should have kept criticism from being called ‘creative.’  But both abuses exist and indeed prevail.” (page ix)

I look forward to listening more than talking if FaceTime or Skype makes it possible for me to attend the next meeting of the Jacques Barzun Book Club on July 8th.

Eric Morse (on the left) launched the Jacques Barzun Book Club. John Adams joined him that first night and in this photo following the “Berlioz and Barzun” concert.

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Classic Barzun

Some memories remain bright despite the passage of time. My trip to San Antonio for the “Berlioz and Barzun” concert is as vivid today as it was while living it. So the passage of a few weeks till I could find this time to preserve parts of the experience with words matters very little.

South Texas temperatures in the low 80s felt mild to residents, but caliente to anyone acclimated to coastal Alaska over the last dozen years. Remembering the summer heat of my childhood and adding a short-sleeved shirt to my long-sleeved wardrobe eased the abrupt transition. Just as fall weather on the Beaufort Sea coast is imprinted on my last trip to Barrow, climate clings to my spring experience of San Antonio.

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Making both weekend flights as far as Seattle, I expected the rest of the connections would be easy and Monday in San Antonio to be free. While waiting in the SEATAC terminal for the Austin flight, I took advantage of the free WiFi to post a reply to Eric Robert Morse’s 27 April proposal of a Jacques Barzun Book Club. In essence I said, ‘How about an inaugural meeting tomorrow night in San Antonio?’

Eric’s affirmative answer came in just twenty minutes, but I’d already shut down my devices. By the time I landed in Austin and boarded Amtrak, he’d come up with a great location perched above the city’s Riverwalk: the Citrus bar and restaurant in the Hotel Valencia. Just thirteen minutes after I saw Eric’s post about the venue and answered “Perfecto”, Leo Wong posted a freighted question: “You’ll tell the great man about this at the Berlioz and Barzun concert?” By that time, however, I’d left the Facebook site and was climbing into a taxi. So I didn’t see Leo’s question until the next day.

I expected no such opportunity to speak with Barzun, as I’d written to JB’s friend and fellow Berlioz authority Peter Bloom: “I doubt that I’ll get the chance to speak with Jacques. I imagine that many family members and close friends will attend and it would be inconsiderate for me to impose upon the grand old man. Simply attending the concert will spend much of his available energy, I suppose. It will have to be enough to hear Berlioz with Barzun, and lay eyes upon Jacques if I’m lucky.” Instead, the prospect of enjoying face-to-face conversation about Barzun was my sojourn’s delightful lagniappe.

I awoke Monday morning, sipped some coffee, and turned on the computer, wondering how to reply to Leo’s Facebook query. First I opened email and discovered something stronger than caffeine. A brief note from Leo contained this potent sentence: “Mrs. Barzun wants you to say hello to them and to attend the little party afterwards.” What a wonderful shock! My heart raced, believe it or not, like a teenager whose crush has just agreed to a date.

That Monday held other surprises. Whether walking to Rivercenter or dropping off a suit at the cleaner’s, I felt a deep contentment. Rather than euphoria I enjoyed a continuous feeling of rightness about it all: the improbable trip, the chance to “talk Jacques” that evening, and the opportunity to meet the Barzuns the following night. Almost twenty years earlier, in my first letter to Professor Barzun, I confessed a desire to shake his hand so I could say that I had once touched greatness. Since then, and before then, it has been a common experience to encounter blank looks when mentioning my favorite author. Any discussion that followed could only be rudimentary. Here, however, I was in the right place, at the right time, and among the right people for real conversation. I found myself looking forward to the inaugural meeting of the Barzun Book Club every bit as much as the audience with Jacques the next night.

The stroll from my hotel to the Valencia was delightful. The sun that still would be high in an Alaskan sky just five weeks from the summer solstice was dipping toward the Texas horizon. I entered from East Houston Street, climbed a flight of stairs, and glanced into the bar and restaurant for anyone resembling the working author of Mr. Morse’s Facebook avatar. Just one party of four sat in the dining room and the hostess did not see his name among the reservations. So I repaired to the bar for a pint of ice water poured by a genial bartender. Seeing the frequent glances I cast over my shoulder toward the hostess station, he agreed to help with the lookout. When asked the natural question about the reason for my travel I told him about the symphony’s “Berlioz and Barzun” concert. Still in his early thirties, he hadn’t heard of the author whose last bestseller made headlines a dozen years ago.

An older hotel guest took her seat a couple of stools down. She greeted the barkeep by name and chatted with him for a minute while I cooked up an analogy. A waitress still in her twenties had stepped up to the bar’s server station just to my left. As the bartender filled her order I asked who she thought was today’s handsomest actor. You can tell that I’m not making this up because she named Jason Bateman and Johnny Depp. I asked whether she had seen any of Paul Newman’s movies. She had not, but the bartender remembered the Oscar winning actor from “The Color of Money” (with Tom Cruise). The lady to my right recalled a younger Fast Eddie Felson in “The Hustler” (1961) and other films. Her smile and gleaming eyes were the best recommendation imaginable for a classic movie hunk. Reputations fade when audiences change, as Barzun often points out, but can be restored with the kind of appreciative critical attention he gave to Berlioz.


Looking again for Eric Morse without success, I sat back down at the bar and ordered a Shiner Bock. My next shot would be with a smartphone.

Media Mail

I am no friend of Facebook. Nor do I believe that brevity is the soul of tweet. Even tiny raindrops can turn into an extended deluge. More valuable things have come to me through Media Mail than all social media combined. And yet …

I did join Facebook in 2007, not coincidentally the year that Jacques Barzun celebrated the completion of his first century on this earth. Webmaster Leo Wong drove me to it. His Jacques Barzun Centennial Celebration website brought hundreds of JB admirers from all over the world together in a joyful chorus. Many of his visitors were simply appreciative listeners.

Until the centennial itself neared, I said very little. But I followed his leads, which I should call links. One of them sent me to Facebook, where Mr. Charles Huff had formed the Jacques Barzun Fan Club. The Facebook policy said Members Only, and I balked. But the lure of Jacques was too great and I joined a couple of days later.

That’s how I learned that the atomized distractions of social media were not for me. Why did I answer the persistent question – “What are you doing right now?” – with a sentence on the alluring smell of breakfast cooking? And why bother with the daily doings of the friend of a Facebook “friend”? So I unfriended all my friends, and even disowned my family (but only in the virtual world). I went on calling my loved ones, but kept coming back to the JB Fan Club – a quieter site than any English gentlemen’s club.

Within the last year I tried to help Leo with the seldom satisfying job of fishing the Internet for recent Barzuniana to post at the JBFC. I was glad to see Mary McCleary contribute, as I’m delighted that Mr. Christopher Reid pushed our membership past 200. Still, I admit to feeling a certain restraint about commenting when the new Facebook format pushes my sextant silhouette back into the spotlighted header for little more than clearing my throat. (Am I alone in this?)

Then about a month ago, on April 19 at 12:36 p.m. to be exact, Leo posted the tremendous news that the San Antonio Symphony would perform a special concert of Berlioz to honor Barzun. My current employment as a shipping agent made it next to impossible that I might attend. Still, I wanted one of those free tickets, though I hated the idea of taking a souvenir while leaving an empty seat that someone might have enjoyed in person. I rationalized that if no miracle occurred and Port business kept me home I’d return the ticket in time for some hopeful night-of-performance caller at the ticket window.

So I called the symphony box office and had a happy experience with the staff member who told me that tickets to the performance at the Majestic Theatre were still available. Aurora advised me about the relative merits of the remaining locations. There were open seats on the orchestra level, but they were tucked away beneath the balconies (about which see Mr. Mike Greenberg’s fine review of the concert). The bright young lady’s name prompted me to mention the late season display of Northern Lights that recently had shone over Valdez. We laughed about the warped pronunciation of Spanish place names like Los Angeles and Val-DEEZ as she took my mailing address (P.O. Box 1174, Valdez, AK 99686 … for those averse to Internet comments). To the nominal shipping charge I added a small donation to the San Antonio Symphony. Aurora and I said good-bye after she reviewed the details of my mezzanine seat.

Meanwhile, back in print, the San Antonio Express-News announced that the concert commissioned by Mr. Charles Butt would have as its guests of honor Mr. and Mrs. Jacques and Marguerite Barzun, PhDs. Attendance now seemed almost urgent. How many more opportunities would there be to get a first glimpse of my living hero? And then my ticket arrived in the mail:

Thank you, dear Aurora!

I would also love to give credit to my generous employer who found a way to say yes to my unusual request for three days off during a busy season. Unfortunately, corporate policy prohibits naming the agency, even as my benefactor. If word got out that I admire the radical empiricist – and a “Frenchman” to boot – Jacques Barzun, well the business consequences may be imagined. But I jest regarding Jacques, as I made no special request to headquarters to publish my gratitude to the company. Just following the policy, and the Internet detectives among my readers will have no difficulty figuring out which shipping agency I mean.

So with relish I made the reservations detailed in “Pilgrimage” and returned to the Jacques Barzun Fan Club. There, on April 27th, Mr. Eric Robert Morse proposed the formation of a Jacques Barzun Book Club, based in his new hometown of San Antonio. My journey to the Alamo city underway on May 13th, I suggested the following evening (the night before “Berlioz and Barzun”) for an inaugural meeting – a revelation of actual travel that would have incredible consequences.

Pilgrimage

I open this post with the first person singular in order to satisfy a pair of requests.  First, Mr. Bill Sweetland of Chicago urged Barzun’s gentle rereader to reveal a bit more about himself.  Then a new friend insisted that I make the “ridiculous travel itinerary” for my pilgrimage to San Antonio part of the story.  He enters the tale following the San Antonio Symphony concert “Berlioz and Barzun” (commissioned by Mr. Charles Butt) in a forthcoming post.

Well, three thousand miles is not such a long way to go when the planes, train, and cars lead to Jacques Barzun.  Millions of visitors to Mecca, Jerusalem, Lumbini and other sacred places journey farther.  Still, the desire to see a legend while he still lives was strong enough to bring me down from the Great Land to little Texas.

The experienced Alaska traveler builds in buffers whenever an event must not be missed.  A concert on May 15th meant planning an arrival in San Antonio two days ahead.  Fortunately, Alaska Airlines flies into Austin, but only from Anchorage with at least one stop and a plane change, usually in Seattle.  And I would still need to get from my home at the end of the Trans Alaska Pipeline in Valdez to Alaska’s largest city, population around 150,000.

Valdez is home to about 4,000 people and gets more snow than any other sea-level town in the U.S.  We even had a smattering the week before the concert.  Fog is the main enemy for fliers during the summer months, but spring brings the most sunshine of any season in this part of the state.  Nevertheless, I booked a commuter flight more than 8 hours in advance of the red-eye to Seattle, just in case clouds descended on the Valdez airport.  Then I’d still have time to make the gorgeous six-hour drive through Keystone Canyon, Thompson Pass, and past the Matanuska Glacier on the way to Anchorage.

There was rain from low clouds the morning of my scheduled departure on an eight-seater Beech.  The weather reduced the number of pilots willing to risk participation in the annual Valdez Fly-In that same Saturday.  The usual carnival atmosphere prevailed, however, and I arrived early enough before my departure to wander through the booths and enjoy meeting my new Valdez neighbors emerging from winter hibernation.

But first I made a pest of myself at the counter, telling Bob about the reason for my trip and how important it was that I be on that flight.  Then I walked out onto the tarmac to wait for the plane to arrive from Anchorage.  I greeted the pilot a few minutes after he’d rolled to a stop, discharged his passengers, and got out to stretch his legs.  He saw that I was eager to get aboard, promised that an announcement would be made in the terminal when it was time to do so, and headed for the restroom.

So I went back to watching the bush pilots compete for honors in the shortest take-off category (a vital skill for remote Alaska airstrips and beach landings).  Suddenly a helicopter sprang into the air, lifting off in reverse!  Heads snapped left and right as folks exclaimed to their companions, “Did you see that?!”

It would have been great to remain outside to watch longer, but I was afraid I’d miss the boarding announcement.  The small terminal was crowded as non-passengers visited the booths inside and residents caught up with each other.  The counters were packed, and I stayed close to the doors.

Then I saw John, whose office is just down the hall from mine, and he described the short-landing judging that he’d been asked to do.  When he asked where I was going, I pulled out my copy of A Stroll with William James and told him about my favorite author and the trip to San Antonio.  We also talked about the Fly-In and shared our amazement at the helicopter’s backwards take-off.

I stepped back to the doors to check on my flight, saw a few people standing around 25 meters from the plane, but since they weren’t boarding the Beech, I returned to my conversation with John.  Already he was talking with someone else, a snow bird who spends her winters in Hawaii and summers in Valdez.  The introductions included the two Johns offering surnames, and we learned that her name was Leigh Coates.  She also offered her card, and our eyes popped when we saw that her company was Vertical Solutions.  She was the helicopter pilot who had just taken off backwards.  Leigh was a distraction, but I wouldn’t have missed an announcement that my flight to Anchorage was boarding.

Chief Pilot Leigh Coates above the Columbia Glacier

Chief Pilot Leigh Coates above the Columbia Glacier

Still, I wondered what was holding things up.  So I walked back to the glass doors and looked out … and saw my plane rolling out to the runway without me!  I dashed to the air carrier’s back door, hollered that the plane had left me behind and called, “What happened to the announcement?”  Maybe what came next occurs in commercial aviation elsewhere, but I thought: ‘Only in Alaska.’  Instead of blaming the passenger, he quickly radioed the plane and then told me that the pilot had agreed to taxi back and pick me up.

Bob stepped onto the boarding ladder and took the blame – “My bad” – saving me from any sneers.  I buckled up, added my apologies, and was met only by smiles and assurances that no connections would be missed.

And so my pilgrimage began.  A nap in the Anchorage airport preceded the red-eye.  Nothing was stolen while I nodded off.  The hop to Seattle went smoothly and I made the connection to the Austin flight with time to spare.

My taxi fare to the Austin Amtrak station was double what the train ticket to San Antonio cost.  Instead of renting a car in Austin, I decided to ride the Texas Star in part because of JB’s love for trains.  The opening line from God’s Country and Mine conveys as much: “The way to see America is from a lower berth about two in the morning.”

I enjoyed the legroom and footrests in coach while rolling through Hill Country, but remembered JB’s criticisms in “Trains and the Mind of Man” (Holiday, February 1960) and added one of my own when I learned that the only sustenance – besides scenery – to be had on a regular run starting from Chicago was junk food: candy bars, chips, and sodas.  Alert the First Lady!

At least the train was making good time.  The conductor announced that we could arrive at our destination as much as an hour ahead of schedule.  Even pausing to let a freight train use the track didn’t put us behind schedule.  We reached the outskirts of San Antonio before dark, and slowly rolled through town.  Then, with less than three miles remaining to reach the station, we came to a full stop.  An eighteen-wheeler truck was disabled on the tracks ahead.  The announced wait of half an hour to remove the truck turned into an hour and then an hour-and-a-half as a mechanical engineer was needed to inspect the tracks at the scene.  I could have walked to my hotel from where we were stopped, but regulations forbade that.

We arrived at last, and I was plenty early for the Tuesday concert … and the inaugural meeting of the Jacques Barzun Book Club on Monday night.

The Guest of Honor

Majestic Theatre – view from the balcony

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Berlioz & Barzun – Majestic marquee

hiatus

It has been nice to see how many of you have returned to check on the gentle rereader during the three weeks since my last post.  A fresh bit of Barzun has always seemed worth the wait to me, and I hope the page added today will make that true for you, too:

“Critical Appreciations”The Columbia Varsity, volume VIII [8], number 1 (October 1926), page 25.

For those curious about my hiatus, I’m happy to report that an unexpected promotion and a consulting deadline have precluded dedicating more time to Barzuniana.  Plus it’s springtime in Alaska, and we have to take advantage of the sun before the summer rains start.

Theatre Critic

Since its first publication in 1925, Theodore Dreiser’s An American Tragedy has gone from a novel to a play to the movies and the opera.  Jacques Barzun reviewed the new book’s adaptation as a play directed by Patrick Kearney for “At the Theatre”The Columbia Varsity, volume VIII [8], number 1 (October 1926), pages 16, 28.

Editor-in-Chief

Looking for early hints of Jacques Barzun’s later greatness, glimpses can be caught in the eighth volume of The Columbia Varsity.  Pulling the Editor-in-Chief feather from his cap, he turns it into a busy quill.  The first issue (October 1926) contains no fewer than five articles bearing his imprimatur.  Thanks to the sharp eye of Jocelyn Wilk of the Columbia Archives, I have copies of the unsigned editorials, as well.  (They may not all be JB’s work, but the congratulations to Nicholas Murray Butler on the 25th anniversary of his inauguration as Columbia University President and the piece on Columbia’s newly established School of Library Service – with criticism of CU’s own libraries – are leading candidates for attribution.)  So, Barzun’s productivity must be noted first.

The cover price of “The Official Literary Magazine of Columbia University” was 25¢.  The previous academic year saw just two issues of Varsity, but Jacques promises to return to the standard of five issues per year by advertising an annual subscription for a dollar.  Offering subscribers two bits in savings might help the magazine’s finances early in the year, while preparing for the costs of publishing future issues … and capturing sales that might otherwise be missed later in the year as campus readers grew preoccupied with studies, papers, and exams.  His business sense was already apparent.

The magazine’s layout also changed.  JB and his staff replaced the previous year’s large format and graphic design focused cover with a handier size and simple decorative border, relying on words to arrest readers’ attention:  “WATERMELANCHOLIA”, “THE WOMAN CAUGHT IN ADULTERY SOLILOQUIZES AT HER WINDOW”, and Barzun’s own “TEXT-BOOKS AND TEDIOUSNESS”.  The future literary adviser to Scribner thought like a publisher from an early age.

There is also an interesting coincidence of a new department in the magazine that prefigures similar instances later in his career.  “THE WASTE BASKET” bears a title that suggests the brief, informal treatment of lighter subjects that would premiere in the April 1947 issue of Harper’s as “After Hours” – the same month that Barzun became the magazine’s chief book critic.  Less than a decade later a similar feature,“The Scholar’s Scratch Pad”, would be inaugurated by Jacques in The American Scholar (Winter 1954–55), pages 96–98.

Clifton Fadiman best described this particular Barzun gift:

“Among his deeply civilized talents is one for the light essay.  That adjective is imprecise.  For, whether Mr. Barzun writes on baseball (see pp. 159–163 of his God’s Country and Mine) or on Charles Darwin, he permeates his formidable analytic and generalizing power with such wit, grace and charm that the result contradicts physical law, and possesses weight without gravity.”

– from Fadiman’s introduction of Barzun’s “Trains and the Mind of Man” in Holiday, February 1960, at page 11.

New pages for Barzun’s signed contributions to the October 1926 issue of Varsity forthcoming as opportunity allows.

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