The following entries are excerpts from the author's first limited-edition, self-published book entitled "Letters to Montaigne."
Completed in 2004, these personal essays are written in the form of letters and address a variety of philosophical subjects.
If you'd like to read the book in its entirety, you may leave a message in our guestbook. Although there are no first edition copies available for purchase, one public copy remains - to ensure that those interested can explore its pages.
To learn more about Michel de Montaigne,
the famous French essayist, a link has been provided in the stillbook links page.
Letter 1: On Paris, Walking, and Talking
Monsieur Montaigne,
My name is Brian Crean, and I have spent much of the last two years reading and studying your essays. While traveling to Paris early last year, I was fortunate enough to stumble upon a translation of your work in a small bookshop near Boulevard Saint Germain des Pres.
I am thankful for my discovery, as I am also thankful for my good friends, who without even knowing it, indirectly introduced me to you. My good friend, Pascal, is French, and although I've known him for eight years now, last year was the first time we had ever spent time together in Paris. My respect for him grew on that trip, as it was one of the first times I heard him speak his native language at great length. My native language is English, and unfortunately, I am fluent in no other languages. Pascal, and his sister Sophie, speak both French and English with great ease, and I must admit that I am a bit jealous of them. But, on the other hand, I feel grateful to have met them both. As you know, it is not often that you meet someone with whom you can share an engaging conversation.
Your father was wise indeed to encourage your being raised to speak Latin. Languages are more easily learned while we are young. I've been trying to learn French recently, but because I am 35 years old, and because I have yet to plan another trip to Paris, I have not been studying often. Like you, my spirit and my mind tend to wander in a meandering sort of way. Without an obvious and visible finish line, so to speak, I tend to lose interest in activities. Perhaps this is why I am writing to you now. After recently finishing your essays, I am anxious to restart my studies with pen and paper. In a way, I think that although we are somewhat alike, your intelligence and humility reach far beyond my own. At times, I can be too opinionated and sure of myself. Fortunately, those times don't last long. My personality is usually wavering and unsure and avoids heated arguments, at least until my frustration hinders my better judgment.
Generally speaking, I think it is best for me to spend time with people who are smarter than myself. Since reading the ancient Sanskrit text THE ART OF WEALTH, I have learnded the importance of wise associations. As Kauthilya, the Indian philosopher, once wrote,
"The root of mastery of the faculties is guidance; the root of guidance is attendance upon elders. From the attendance upon elders comes discernment; by means of discernment on my prosper."
And,
"The thinking individual should designate an advisor who is a fitting counterpart to oneself."
And finally,
"One who is learned and innocent of pretense should be made a counselor."
Monsieur Montaigne, before I continue further, I just want to say thank you. WIthout knowing it, you have become an advisor and a counselor to me. I have been learning a great deal by reading the fruit of your "back shop." Your essays, the result of the time you spent in your private library, have benefited my life immensely.
So now, since it is impossible for us to speak, or share conversation, I thought I might simply write a series of letters to you. As I said earlier, in some ways, I think we are alike, and I have decided to stucture these letters with your essays in mind. Perhaps the very best activities are those that mix elements of structure with elements of spontaneity.
I am especially happy to have discovered your book in Paris. While Rome was your great foreign love; thus far, mine has been Paris. For me, it seems appropriately far away, and because my knowlegde of it is only cursory, it is quite easy for my imagination to project many of my own ideals into its streets and citizens. In a way, at least of late, Paris has become my civic mistress. Perhaps romance needs imagination. If I were as familiar with Paris as I am with my own hometown, I doubt that I would hold it in such high regard. I might even begin to resent it for not living up to my dreamy expectations. Perhaps, in reality, I only love Paris because I have imagined it to embody the things I hold dear. In any event, no matter how I imagine it, I do not think that I'll ever be accomplished enough to be awarded an honorary citizenship there. I am happy that Rome was able to do this for you. Clearly, the city leaders recognized your unique contribution to the world.
I do believe, however, that Paris is a wonderfual city. The architecture is stunning, and the streets are winding and perfect for walking. In addition, the respect that the French people have for art, culture, and conversation is something I admire very much. Having been raised in a mostly loud and ignorant country, I have a great respect for the nuance and subtlety of French culture. In my own country, many people believe that more is better. They also tend to believe that bigger is better. I disagree completely. In the words of Gracian,
"Little and good is twice good."
And, as you wrote in Book One of your essays,
"There is nothing so hampering, so cloying, as abundance."
I also think that the French language is the most poetic language I have heard. With so much emphasis on vowels, it seems to dance along in a lyrical sort of way. But unfortunately, although French is beautiful to hear, it is difficult to speak, at least for my heavy, slow, and discriminating mind. It takes me a long time to learn how to pronounce many French words and phrases, and once I learn to pronounce them well, it takes me an even longer time to commit them to memory. Perhaps I am the sort of person who must live in a country for a very long time before I am able to learn to speak another language competently. I hope to learn more French as the years go by. I also hope to spend many more months in Paris before my brain and heart expire.
Although my nerves are easily frazzled while traveling, I can't imagine not venturing beyond my home from time to time. If I am unable to get away when I feel the need, I can become quite irritable and unpleasant to those around me.
I think that traveling is simply a part of my nature. Not only do I value each of my adventures individually, but I also learn something about myself in the process of acclimating to each new and strange environment. When I travelled to Ireland, for example, I learned that I can become quite a lively dancer. For some reason, the friendliness of the Irish people put me at ease, and I was able to dance effortlessly. Or, perhaps, I only danced well because I found myself drinking a bit more than I usually do. Unfortunately, with the mood strikes me, I can get carried away by alcohol. There is something about traveling that makes me less prudent, I'm afraid. I often wish I was less of a chameleon.
Years ago, while traveling in Germany, I remember that I tended to walk fast and upright, as many Germans do. In Russia, because of all of the economic unrest at the time, I tended to walk with my hands in my pockets, guarding my passport and my money. In Finland and in Denmark, I tended to walk very clumsily, because of the many tall and statuesque women living there. In Poland, I tended to walk as in Germany. In Italy, I tended to walk very slowly, almost as if strolling around. And, recently, while visiting Paris, I tended to walk at whatever pace I tended to talk - sometimes quickly and with wit and style, and , at other times, more slowly, almost as though I were lost. I particularly liked walking through the many parks and small streets of Paris. With less traffic to worry about, it was easier to walk around as if I were born there.
In my own country, I tend to forget the way I walk. If I had to guess, I think that I would say that I walk differently than most of my fellow countrymen. Most people in my country move very quickly, as if they have very important tasks tha await them. I'm not sure that I am important enough to walk so fast. I'm likely a bit more hesitant when I venture out than when I find my way back home. Most people in my country rarely take the time to sit down for a good meal with a good friend. If I were able to afford it, I would invite a friend out to lunch every day of the week. Eating and talking are as effortless as walking and talking. And, all three of these activities are perhaps my greatest pleasures - if I am in the right company, of course. I would certainly rather read a book than talk with someone with whom I have nothing in common. Better to be alone than with a spiritual stranger - especially a loud one.
There is something rhythmic and comforting about a long walk, so long as the temperature is not too hot. Like you, Monsieur, I prefer the cold of winter to the heat of summer. But, that is a different topic altogether. Perhaps this, my very first letter addressed to you, has rambled on inappropriately. Instead of asking you questions about your essays, as I had originally intended, I'm afraid that I have allowed my mind to wander a bit much. So, with this in mind, I will say goodbye and write to you again soon.
Regards,
Brian Crean
My name is Brian Crean, and I have spent much of the last two years reading and studying your essays. While traveling to Paris early last year, I was fortunate enough to stumble upon a translation of your work in a small bookshop near Boulevard Saint Germain des Pres.
I am thankful for my discovery, as I am also thankful for my good friends, who without even knowing it, indirectly introduced me to you. My good friend, Pascal, is French, and although I've known him for eight years now, last year was the first time we had ever spent time together in Paris. My respect for him grew on that trip, as it was one of the first times I heard him speak his native language at great length. My native language is English, and unfortunately, I am fluent in no other languages. Pascal, and his sister Sophie, speak both French and English with great ease, and I must admit that I am a bit jealous of them. But, on the other hand, I feel grateful to have met them both. As you know, it is not often that you meet someone with whom you can share an engaging conversation.
Your father was wise indeed to encourage your being raised to speak Latin. Languages are more easily learned while we are young. I've been trying to learn French recently, but because I am 35 years old, and because I have yet to plan another trip to Paris, I have not been studying often. Like you, my spirit and my mind tend to wander in a meandering sort of way. Without an obvious and visible finish line, so to speak, I tend to lose interest in activities. Perhaps this is why I am writing to you now. After recently finishing your essays, I am anxious to restart my studies with pen and paper. In a way, I think that although we are somewhat alike, your intelligence and humility reach far beyond my own. At times, I can be too opinionated and sure of myself. Fortunately, those times don't last long. My personality is usually wavering and unsure and avoids heated arguments, at least until my frustration hinders my better judgment.
Generally speaking, I think it is best for me to spend time with people who are smarter than myself. Since reading the ancient Sanskrit text THE ART OF WEALTH, I have learnded the importance of wise associations. As Kauthilya, the Indian philosopher, once wrote,
"The root of mastery of the faculties is guidance; the root of guidance is attendance upon elders. From the attendance upon elders comes discernment; by means of discernment on my prosper."
And,
"The thinking individual should designate an advisor who is a fitting counterpart to oneself."
And finally,
"One who is learned and innocent of pretense should be made a counselor."
Monsieur Montaigne, before I continue further, I just want to say thank you. WIthout knowing it, you have become an advisor and a counselor to me. I have been learning a great deal by reading the fruit of your "back shop." Your essays, the result of the time you spent in your private library, have benefited my life immensely.
So now, since it is impossible for us to speak, or share conversation, I thought I might simply write a series of letters to you. As I said earlier, in some ways, I think we are alike, and I have decided to stucture these letters with your essays in mind. Perhaps the very best activities are those that mix elements of structure with elements of spontaneity.
I am especially happy to have discovered your book in Paris. While Rome was your great foreign love; thus far, mine has been Paris. For me, it seems appropriately far away, and because my knowlegde of it is only cursory, it is quite easy for my imagination to project many of my own ideals into its streets and citizens. In a way, at least of late, Paris has become my civic mistress. Perhaps romance needs imagination. If I were as familiar with Paris as I am with my own hometown, I doubt that I would hold it in such high regard. I might even begin to resent it for not living up to my dreamy expectations. Perhaps, in reality, I only love Paris because I have imagined it to embody the things I hold dear. In any event, no matter how I imagine it, I do not think that I'll ever be accomplished enough to be awarded an honorary citizenship there. I am happy that Rome was able to do this for you. Clearly, the city leaders recognized your unique contribution to the world.
I do believe, however, that Paris is a wonderfual city. The architecture is stunning, and the streets are winding and perfect for walking. In addition, the respect that the French people have for art, culture, and conversation is something I admire very much. Having been raised in a mostly loud and ignorant country, I have a great respect for the nuance and subtlety of French culture. In my own country, many people believe that more is better. They also tend to believe that bigger is better. I disagree completely. In the words of Gracian,
"Little and good is twice good."
And, as you wrote in Book One of your essays,
"There is nothing so hampering, so cloying, as abundance."
I also think that the French language is the most poetic language I have heard. With so much emphasis on vowels, it seems to dance along in a lyrical sort of way. But unfortunately, although French is beautiful to hear, it is difficult to speak, at least for my heavy, slow, and discriminating mind. It takes me a long time to learn how to pronounce many French words and phrases, and once I learn to pronounce them well, it takes me an even longer time to commit them to memory. Perhaps I am the sort of person who must live in a country for a very long time before I am able to learn to speak another language competently. I hope to learn more French as the years go by. I also hope to spend many more months in Paris before my brain and heart expire.
Although my nerves are easily frazzled while traveling, I can't imagine not venturing beyond my home from time to time. If I am unable to get away when I feel the need, I can become quite irritable and unpleasant to those around me.
I think that traveling is simply a part of my nature. Not only do I value each of my adventures individually, but I also learn something about myself in the process of acclimating to each new and strange environment. When I travelled to Ireland, for example, I learned that I can become quite a lively dancer. For some reason, the friendliness of the Irish people put me at ease, and I was able to dance effortlessly. Or, perhaps, I only danced well because I found myself drinking a bit more than I usually do. Unfortunately, with the mood strikes me, I can get carried away by alcohol. There is something about traveling that makes me less prudent, I'm afraid. I often wish I was less of a chameleon.
Years ago, while traveling in Germany, I remember that I tended to walk fast and upright, as many Germans do. In Russia, because of all of the economic unrest at the time, I tended to walk with my hands in my pockets, guarding my passport and my money. In Finland and in Denmark, I tended to walk very clumsily, because of the many tall and statuesque women living there. In Poland, I tended to walk as in Germany. In Italy, I tended to walk very slowly, almost as if strolling around. And, recently, while visiting Paris, I tended to walk at whatever pace I tended to talk - sometimes quickly and with wit and style, and , at other times, more slowly, almost as though I were lost. I particularly liked walking through the many parks and small streets of Paris. With less traffic to worry about, it was easier to walk around as if I were born there.
In my own country, I tend to forget the way I walk. If I had to guess, I think that I would say that I walk differently than most of my fellow countrymen. Most people in my country move very quickly, as if they have very important tasks tha await them. I'm not sure that I am important enough to walk so fast. I'm likely a bit more hesitant when I venture out than when I find my way back home. Most people in my country rarely take the time to sit down for a good meal with a good friend. If I were able to afford it, I would invite a friend out to lunch every day of the week. Eating and talking are as effortless as walking and talking. And, all three of these activities are perhaps my greatest pleasures - if I am in the right company, of course. I would certainly rather read a book than talk with someone with whom I have nothing in common. Better to be alone than with a spiritual stranger - especially a loud one.
There is something rhythmic and comforting about a long walk, so long as the temperature is not too hot. Like you, Monsieur, I prefer the cold of winter to the heat of summer. But, that is a different topic altogether. Perhaps this, my very first letter addressed to you, has rambled on inappropriately. Instead of asking you questions about your essays, as I had originally intended, I'm afraid that I have allowed my mind to wander a bit much. So, with this in mind, I will say goodbye and write to you again soon.
Regards,
Brian Crean
Stillbook
Letter 4: On Style and Substance
Monsieur Montaigne,
I have just been thumbing through the notebook that I keep next to your essays, but at the moment, I can't find the quotation I've been looking for. Didn't you once write,
"Boring books are unwise."
Perhaps not. To be honest, I don't really remember. Maybe Seneca wrote it. If I ever consider publishing these letters, I guess that I will have to do more research. But, then again, I don't think that I'm going to do that . For me, internalizing knowledge seems more important than cataloging it. Besides, I can't really claim to be the inventor of great ideas. It seems to me that the most worthwhile ideas and concepts have already been conceived. Maybe the best I can offer the world is my strange and unique personality and the rambling of my active imagination.
Perhaps my personality is the reason why I have been so annoyed with editors in the past. I simply don't like for others to interfere with my work. I guess I would rather be imperfect and completely myself than be perfect with the help of someone else. Essentially, you could say that my personal thesis statement might read:
"Here I am with all of my faults. Take me or leave me, but do not try to change me. When I am ready to change, I will change myself."
For some reason, my writing seems to suffer greatly when I imagine anyone reading what I write. I tend to become self-conscious and uable to think clearly. I suppose that I am extremely private about certain things, and I've never really been a big fan of any official or formal writing styles. Often, I find that formalities are quite boring and lifeless. In your essay OF BOOKS you quoted a passage by Plutarch.
"I would rather choose to know truly the conversation he held in his tent with some one of his intimate friends on the eve of a battle than the speech he made the next day to his army; and what he was doing in his study and his chamber than what he was doing in the public square and in the Senate."
Well, I certainly agree. I believe that unrehearsed situations are more interesting and informative than affected or staged performances. In fact, the tone and content of these very letters is purposefully informal. After having written for a newspaper for a short time in the past, I can't imagine doing it again. I am often amazed by what some people call serious writing. In my country, some newspaper journalists actually believe that they are able to write "objectively." This I find highly amusing.
I think that many writers and self-proclaimed philosophers are actually quite delusional really. How could someone possibly believe that he could remove himself completely from his work? And, why on earth would he want to do such a thing? To me, personality is everything, and the most beautiful thing we can share with one another is the gift of ourselfves.
Why would anyone want to write a long and tiresome treatise filled with an abundance of large and pointless words? Why not just speak in clear terminology - honestly and truthfully from the heart? Besides, aren't the most intelligent people able to get their point across to anyone - no matter how uneducated? Or is wisdom reserved fro the pompous few who memorize dictionaries in their spare time? I suppose I would just rather focus on the message the words convey than on the words themselves. While browsing through a bookstore recently, I actually came across a DICTIONARY OF PHILOSOPHY. Now this is just plain silly. No one should have to learn a whole new vocabulary to understand wise ideas. On the contrary, I would maintain that the wisest ideas are easily communicated using everyday language. Confusing language is simply used by confused philosophers. Just like my carpenter friend, Eric, once said,
"If you muddy up the water, it looks deep."
And just like you wrote,
"Those who have slim substance swell it out with words."
And,
"Excellent memories are prone to be joined to feeble judgments."
So, with that in mind, perhaps I shall keep this letter short and sweet. After all, it wouldn't make sense to write a long and wordy letter about being simple and direct. OK, before I say goodbye, I can't help but remind you of another one of your wonderful and direct statements.
"I offer myself meagerly and proudly to those to whom I belong."
Well Monsieur... so do I. I will write again soon.
Your friend,
Brian
Letter 8: On Wandering, Money, and Bacon
Monsieur,
About a week ago I did one of my favorite things. It was a cool and sunny day, so I decided to travel to a nearby town. When the weather is nice, I just love to drive for an hour or two.
Typically when I visit another town, I do three things. First, I like to browse through a bookstore and buy a book. Second, I like to browse through a music store and buy some music. And third, I like to find a quiet little cafe' and have a bite to eat.
I suppose I'm pretty easy to please then. After all, I don't really care about expensive clothes, cars, or food. I suppose part of the reason why I don't care for expensive things has to do with the people who seem to hover around those things. While there are always exceptions, I think that people with expensive tastes are often lacking in depth and character. It is as if they think that their belongings will impress other people and make up for their lack of personality.
Also, it seems like people who are always chasing after money have their priorities out of order. I mean what does a person really need a great deal of money for? Does anyone really need a giant mansion? Or glamorous clothes? Or expensive meals? To me, mansions are mostly cold and empty. Glamorous clothes are mostly uncomfortable and difficult to wash. And, expensive meals usually taste strange and upset my stomach, which reminds me about one thing that is a little tricky about traveling.
When I travel, I often feel a bit uneasy about trying too many different types of food. While one part of me very much wants to be adventurous and learn about another town or another culture, a different part of me very much wants to maintain the regularity of my bowels and not spend the better part of my journey sitting on a toilet. For me, this travel and food conundrum is a very serious problem. I actually have spent a large part of two different trips sitting on a toilet - all because I was trying to be an open-minded traveler and an experimental eater. But, I guess being an experimental eater isn't the same thing as being an expensive eater, which brings me back to the whole money issue again.
It's not that I don't like money, but rather, I don't particularly like most of the stuff that people with money tend to like. To me, money simply offers time, travel, and security. Time is valuable because with it a person can do what he loves to do without having to think about making money. Travel is valuable because life is more interesting when a person can experience new places and meet now people. And, security is valuable because without it, a person will feel stressed and uneasy, and these feelings will undermine his ability to enjoy life.
In any event, last week, when I drove to a neighboring town, I bought a book of ESSAYS by Francis Bacon. Since he was born in England in 1561, I think he is someone you may have heard of - although I will say that his essays are a bit dryer in style and shorter in length than yours.
I think that, for the most part, Mr. Bacon was primarily interested in being concise. I suspect he was not much of an intellectual wanderer. His writing doesn't meander or ponder at all really. When he writes about Truth, Love, Revenge, and Travel, he has definitive instructions and ideas to convey. He catalogs examples almost as if he is making a list. It's a good thing that each particular essay isn't very long; otherwise, I would surely get bored - just like when I read Aristotle or an academic textbook.
If I were Mr. Bacon and I were to write about my own travels, I might write something like this.
"When a person driveth to a neighboring town, one should not driveth too fast nor too slow. One should driveth with care and consulteth a map so one does not get lost and waste time upon careless matters. One should take note of and appreciate local architecture, nature, and personage during said travels. Be advised to avoid those who poseth or pretend toward importance. Book shops, music shops, and affordable restaurants may provide one with feelings of contentment. If one haveth a simple constitution, one should ingest food primarily for nourishment and not for experiment. Experimental ingestion may resulteth in unpredictable digestive activity, which may in turn, causeth extended water closet visitation."
You know, the more I think about it, perhaps neither one of us would enjoy meeting Mr. Bacon so much. If the style of his writing is indicative of his personality, he probably would not have been very intersting to speak with. But then again, perhaps he would be so intelligent that the content of his thoughts would override his less than colorful delivery. Or, perhaps his living personality is very different from or more entertaining than his style of writing. In the end, I suppose we'll never know.
On a different note, I thought you might be interested in knowing that today is my birthday. Remember when I mentioned to you that I too was born under the sign of Pisces? Well, I was actually born on the last day of the astrological calendar. Although I don't put all of my faith in astrology, I do believe that there is something to learn from pondering all that it suggests. And, inexplicably, like I've mentioned in previous letters to you, I do feel an affinity with other people born under my sign. I know that in your essays, you seemed very skeptical of astrological studies, but I still find it interesting that you would think the topic at least meaningful enough to write about. After all, if astrology is complete foolishness, I'm sure you wouldn't have taken the time to mention it is your essays at all - if even to discredit it. It's funny, too, that Schopenhauer chose to discuss the planets as they relate to our stages of life.
In my next letter to you, I think I'm going to tell you about another Pisces thinker who was born in the 19th century. Believe it or not, he was a scientist, and his personality was far from boring. In my era, his name has even become synonymous with the term "genius."
Have a good day.
Brian
About a week ago I did one of my favorite things. It was a cool and sunny day, so I decided to travel to a nearby town. When the weather is nice, I just love to drive for an hour or two.
Typically when I visit another town, I do three things. First, I like to browse through a bookstore and buy a book. Second, I like to browse through a music store and buy some music. And third, I like to find a quiet little cafe' and have a bite to eat.
I suppose I'm pretty easy to please then. After all, I don't really care about expensive clothes, cars, or food. I suppose part of the reason why I don't care for expensive things has to do with the people who seem to hover around those things. While there are always exceptions, I think that people with expensive tastes are often lacking in depth and character. It is as if they think that their belongings will impress other people and make up for their lack of personality.
Also, it seems like people who are always chasing after money have their priorities out of order. I mean what does a person really need a great deal of money for? Does anyone really need a giant mansion? Or glamorous clothes? Or expensive meals? To me, mansions are mostly cold and empty. Glamorous clothes are mostly uncomfortable and difficult to wash. And, expensive meals usually taste strange and upset my stomach, which reminds me about one thing that is a little tricky about traveling.
When I travel, I often feel a bit uneasy about trying too many different types of food. While one part of me very much wants to be adventurous and learn about another town or another culture, a different part of me very much wants to maintain the regularity of my bowels and not spend the better part of my journey sitting on a toilet. For me, this travel and food conundrum is a very serious problem. I actually have spent a large part of two different trips sitting on a toilet - all because I was trying to be an open-minded traveler and an experimental eater. But, I guess being an experimental eater isn't the same thing as being an expensive eater, which brings me back to the whole money issue again.
It's not that I don't like money, but rather, I don't particularly like most of the stuff that people with money tend to like. To me, money simply offers time, travel, and security. Time is valuable because with it a person can do what he loves to do without having to think about making money. Travel is valuable because life is more interesting when a person can experience new places and meet now people. And, security is valuable because without it, a person will feel stressed and uneasy, and these feelings will undermine his ability to enjoy life.
In any event, last week, when I drove to a neighboring town, I bought a book of ESSAYS by Francis Bacon. Since he was born in England in 1561, I think he is someone you may have heard of - although I will say that his essays are a bit dryer in style and shorter in length than yours.
I think that, for the most part, Mr. Bacon was primarily interested in being concise. I suspect he was not much of an intellectual wanderer. His writing doesn't meander or ponder at all really. When he writes about Truth, Love, Revenge, and Travel, he has definitive instructions and ideas to convey. He catalogs examples almost as if he is making a list. It's a good thing that each particular essay isn't very long; otherwise, I would surely get bored - just like when I read Aristotle or an academic textbook.
If I were Mr. Bacon and I were to write about my own travels, I might write something like this.
"When a person driveth to a neighboring town, one should not driveth too fast nor too slow. One should driveth with care and consulteth a map so one does not get lost and waste time upon careless matters. One should take note of and appreciate local architecture, nature, and personage during said travels. Be advised to avoid those who poseth or pretend toward importance. Book shops, music shops, and affordable restaurants may provide one with feelings of contentment. If one haveth a simple constitution, one should ingest food primarily for nourishment and not for experiment. Experimental ingestion may resulteth in unpredictable digestive activity, which may in turn, causeth extended water closet visitation."
You know, the more I think about it, perhaps neither one of us would enjoy meeting Mr. Bacon so much. If the style of his writing is indicative of his personality, he probably would not have been very intersting to speak with. But then again, perhaps he would be so intelligent that the content of his thoughts would override his less than colorful delivery. Or, perhaps his living personality is very different from or more entertaining than his style of writing. In the end, I suppose we'll never know.
On a different note, I thought you might be interested in knowing that today is my birthday. Remember when I mentioned to you that I too was born under the sign of Pisces? Well, I was actually born on the last day of the astrological calendar. Although I don't put all of my faith in astrology, I do believe that there is something to learn from pondering all that it suggests. And, inexplicably, like I've mentioned in previous letters to you, I do feel an affinity with other people born under my sign. I know that in your essays, you seemed very skeptical of astrological studies, but I still find it interesting that you would think the topic at least meaningful enough to write about. After all, if astrology is complete foolishness, I'm sure you wouldn't have taken the time to mention it is your essays at all - if even to discredit it. It's funny, too, that Schopenhauer chose to discuss the planets as they relate to our stages of life.
In my next letter to you, I think I'm going to tell you about another Pisces thinker who was born in the 19th century. Believe it or not, he was a scientist, and his personality was far from boring. In my era, his name has even become synonymous with the term "genius."
Have a good day.
Brian
Letter 12: On Sincerity and Being an Uncle
Good Day Monsieur,
I hope this letter finds you well. I have been doing very well lately. Like I mentioned to you at the end of my last letter, I went on a short trip to visit my family recently. During the trip, I was able to meet my sister's new baby, and I spent some quality time with my brother and his wife and children. It's hard for me to believe that I actually have four nephews and one niece already. Did I ever tell you that I love being and uncle?
I think that there is something truly magical about children. They really do have a way about them - an innocent, playful way that reminds me that life is short and big and beautiful, ant that things like clouds and trees and animals are important and worth paying attention to. I think that as an adult I often forget about those things. I forget about how comforting it is to lay on the floor next to a dog, and I forget that swimming can be more fun when you play games with loved ones. Sometimes, I also forget that food really does taste better after you poke it around for a while and make little designs on your dinner plate. And, I sometimes forget that it's more comfortable to sit on someone's lap - even if it is just for a second.
In a book called THE RE-ENCHANTMENT OF EVERYDAY LIFE, the author, Thomas Moore, wrote some wonderful things about the contributions children make to the world. For example, he wrote,
"In an enchanted world, it would make sense to let children do some of the teaching and to give lessons in what they know best - play, animism, and charm, the very things our culture lacks."
I think Mr. Moore's point is a good one, especially since I, too, believe that many aspects of our adult culture are unbalanced, dry, and disappointing. Perhaps the world of adults is just too logical and too rational for a person like me. Perhaps I value things like wonder and imagination too much. Or perhaps most adults just value them too little.
Do you know what I love most about my niece and nephews, Monsieur? I love how honest and open they are. I love how they are unashamed to just be themselves, and I love how they are prone to tell you exaclty what is on their mind, no matter how rude or crazy it might sound. I wonder how old we are when we first learn how to lie for the sake of politeness? I wonder when it is that we go from being forthright and honest friends to being overly polite and insincere acquaintances? In short, I wonder when we learn to start pretending to be other than who we are?
Do you remember, Monsieur, in my second letter to you, when I told that I writer named Ralph Waldo Emerson labeled you a "Skeptic"? Well, fortunately, he wrote some other things about your as well.
"Montainge is the frankest and honestest of all writers.... the sincerity and marrow of the man reaches to his sentences. It is the language of conversation transferred into a book."
Like me, I think Mr. Emerson believed that you were a man worthy of emulation. From the overall tone of the essay he wrote about you, it seems obvious that he had a great respect fro your way of thinking and writing. And, although he labled you a "skeptic", I think he really did appreciate your essays and your unique contribution to the world.... as I do.
Monsieur, lately however, I've been wrestling with the idea of taking a break from writing to you. And, I've also been wrestlying with the idea of publishing these first twelve letters, so other people might be able to read them. Although I'm not sure how many people would really be interested in their contents, I've still been thinking that I should open myself up to the world a bit more.
Who knows? Perhaps others might find these letters interesting to read. They may even feel like an invisible voyeur, peering into the life and mind of a somewhat lost and confused soul, which reminds me of something else that Mr. Emerson wrote,
"That which we are, we shall teach, not voluntarily but involuntarily."
And,
"We owe many valuable observations to people who are not very acute or profound."
Maybe in these very letters, Monsieur, without even trying to, maybe I have actually stumbled upon an acute or profound concept. I doubt it, but you just never know. As I'm sure you've realized, in most of my previous letters, I have mostly been summarizing the thoughts of my favorite thinkers. I suppose I have also been trying to show you how I have been using my interest in philosophy to live a thoughtful and authentic life.
In the end, I just hope you have found that my letters have been both open and honest. Even though I can sometimes be impatient and opinionated and a bit of a perfectionist and an undidciplined writer, I hope you have found my thoughts and words sincere. Maybe, after all, sincerity is a form of personal truth, and maybe our deepest personal truths are more universal than we realize.
OK Monsieur, without rambling on any further, I guess that it is time to say farewell - not forever, but for the time being. I will write to you again someday. I promise.
Your good friend,
Brian
I hope this letter finds you well. I have been doing very well lately. Like I mentioned to you at the end of my last letter, I went on a short trip to visit my family recently. During the trip, I was able to meet my sister's new baby, and I spent some quality time with my brother and his wife and children. It's hard for me to believe that I actually have four nephews and one niece already. Did I ever tell you that I love being and uncle?
I think that there is something truly magical about children. They really do have a way about them - an innocent, playful way that reminds me that life is short and big and beautiful, ant that things like clouds and trees and animals are important and worth paying attention to. I think that as an adult I often forget about those things. I forget about how comforting it is to lay on the floor next to a dog, and I forget that swimming can be more fun when you play games with loved ones. Sometimes, I also forget that food really does taste better after you poke it around for a while and make little designs on your dinner plate. And, I sometimes forget that it's more comfortable to sit on someone's lap - even if it is just for a second.
In a book called THE RE-ENCHANTMENT OF EVERYDAY LIFE, the author, Thomas Moore, wrote some wonderful things about the contributions children make to the world. For example, he wrote,
"In an enchanted world, it would make sense to let children do some of the teaching and to give lessons in what they know best - play, animism, and charm, the very things our culture lacks."
I think Mr. Moore's point is a good one, especially since I, too, believe that many aspects of our adult culture are unbalanced, dry, and disappointing. Perhaps the world of adults is just too logical and too rational for a person like me. Perhaps I value things like wonder and imagination too much. Or perhaps most adults just value them too little.
Do you know what I love most about my niece and nephews, Monsieur? I love how honest and open they are. I love how they are unashamed to just be themselves, and I love how they are prone to tell you exaclty what is on their mind, no matter how rude or crazy it might sound. I wonder how old we are when we first learn how to lie for the sake of politeness? I wonder when it is that we go from being forthright and honest friends to being overly polite and insincere acquaintances? In short, I wonder when we learn to start pretending to be other than who we are?
Do you remember, Monsieur, in my second letter to you, when I told that I writer named Ralph Waldo Emerson labeled you a "Skeptic"? Well, fortunately, he wrote some other things about your as well.
"Montainge is the frankest and honestest of all writers.... the sincerity and marrow of the man reaches to his sentences. It is the language of conversation transferred into a book."
Like me, I think Mr. Emerson believed that you were a man worthy of emulation. From the overall tone of the essay he wrote about you, it seems obvious that he had a great respect fro your way of thinking and writing. And, although he labled you a "skeptic", I think he really did appreciate your essays and your unique contribution to the world.... as I do.
Monsieur, lately however, I've been wrestling with the idea of taking a break from writing to you. And, I've also been wrestlying with the idea of publishing these first twelve letters, so other people might be able to read them. Although I'm not sure how many people would really be interested in their contents, I've still been thinking that I should open myself up to the world a bit more.
Who knows? Perhaps others might find these letters interesting to read. They may even feel like an invisible voyeur, peering into the life and mind of a somewhat lost and confused soul, which reminds me of something else that Mr. Emerson wrote,
"That which we are, we shall teach, not voluntarily but involuntarily."
And,
"We owe many valuable observations to people who are not very acute or profound."
Maybe in these very letters, Monsieur, without even trying to, maybe I have actually stumbled upon an acute or profound concept. I doubt it, but you just never know. As I'm sure you've realized, in most of my previous letters, I have mostly been summarizing the thoughts of my favorite thinkers. I suppose I have also been trying to show you how I have been using my interest in philosophy to live a thoughtful and authentic life.
In the end, I just hope you have found that my letters have been both open and honest. Even though I can sometimes be impatient and opinionated and a bit of a perfectionist and an undidciplined writer, I hope you have found my thoughts and words sincere. Maybe, after all, sincerity is a form of personal truth, and maybe our deepest personal truths are more universal than we realize.
OK Monsieur, without rambling on any further, I guess that it is time to say farewell - not forever, but for the time being. I will write to you again someday. I promise.
Your good friend,
Brian