In 2005, as a new writer and mother, I discovered the works of 16th-century French writer Montaigne. Already familiar with his essays, I decided to fully immerse myself in his writing by reading the 900-page volume of The Complete Essays of Montaigne, translated by Donald M. Frame. Over the next decade, I made it a daily practice to read Montaigne’s work, even if only for a short period of time. As my children grew older, I would dedicate 30 minutes to an hour in the afternoon to delve into his writings before picking them up from school. At the time, I may not have fully grasped the importance of this routine, but it provided a much-needed escape from the demands of motherhood, marriage, writing, and teaching. The beauty of Montaigne’s work was that it didn’t have to be consumed in one sitting or within a specific timeframe. What writer wouldn’t want their life’s work to become a significant part of a reader’s life?
Montaigne’s encyclopedic writing covered a vast array of topics, including philosophy, history, literature, medicine, friendship, and love. He proved to be an exceptional conversational partner, always available, continuously entertaining, and never predictable. Every time I opened his book, I learned something new, as his thoughts meandered yet maintained a logical structure, requiring an engaged and active mind. What I appreciated most was that his writing wasn’t aimed at me or any specific audience; it was purely an expression of himself, about himself. As Montaigne declared in his introduction, “Reader, I myself am the subject of my book. There is no reason why you should devote your leisure time to such a trivial and unprofitable topic.”
Margaret Atwood once pondered being “murdered by [her] replica.” This sentiment resonates with Montaigne’s work. While selfhood may seem trivial and unprofitable to some, there is value in deviating from the pressing tasks of everyday life to reflect on who we are. The exploration of selfhood can take many forms, and for me, reading Montaigne’s essays acts as a reminder, a prompt, and even a mandate to regularly meditate on my own identity.
But what does selfhood truly mean? And how much attention should we give it without crossing into self-absorption? Reflecting on these questions, I recently dove into a new volume of Montaigne’s work entitled What Do I Know?, translated by David Coward. “What do I know” or “Que sçay-je?” in old French, was a central question for Montaigne, which in modern times has become a colloquial phrase often used humorously. However, Montaigne’s question demanded serious exploration and deliberation. I often wish people would ask themselves this question before offering their opinions and provide thoughtful answers rather than mere witty remarks.
As a casual reader of Montaigne, I know a little about his work. He is often hailed as “the first modern man,” credited with inventing the essay as a literary form. On his 38th birthday in 1571, he retreated to a tower on his family estate in Bordeaux, where he spent the following 21 years immersed in reading, thinking, and writing. Few authors can be so closely identified with their work, but in Montaigne’s case, his essays truly embody the essence of the man.
Picking up What Do I Know? took place nearly three years into the COVID-19 pandemic and years after my last encounter with Montaigne. However, he will always be one of the writers I return to. His words serve as an anchor for my ever-changing mind. As I immersed myself in the familiar language, masterfully translated by Coward, I felt an overwhelming sense of happiness, even bliss. This may sound absurd to some, but it’s a preposterousness with which I’m willing to be misunderstood and even ridiculed.
Early on in my reading, I came across a line that truly resonated with me: “The places I see again and the books I reread smile on me by seeming fresh and new.” Montaigne’s words not only felt fresh and new after my time away but also reminded me of how far I’ve come in locating my own sense of self. Dare I say I’ve become a better reader of his work as a result?
As we grow older, we accumulate places that we may never revisit. These places, like the army camp in China where I spent a year when I was 18-19, or the hospital corridor leading to the morgue in Beijing, become part of our thoughts, just as the words of re-readable writers do. Montaigne wrote in “On Idling” that a mind without a firm anchor is lost, as it is said to be nowhere if it is everywhere. Reading his work once again, my happiness stems from finally knowing where I am in life. It may not be an ideal or perfect place, but it’s a place I’ve come to accept as my own. I’ve grown as a writer since my initial introduction to Montaigne’s essays, experienced various forms of sorrow, including the loss of a child, and developed a handful of writers whom I consistently return to, much like the roses in my garden that bloom year after year. I am somewhere.
Comparing Coward’s translation with other editions in my collection, such as the 1947 edition with illustrations by Salvador Dali, I am reminded that Montaigne’s wisdom is not only profound but also intertwined with whimsy and art. These re-readable writers offer words that become a part of our thoughts and shape our understanding of the world. Montaigne wrote in “On Idling” that “he who lives everywhere, lives nowhere,” a sentiment I often consider as the desire to be everywhere in our modern world is both facilitated and exacerbated by technology. Yet, our constant pursuit of being everywhere can often lead us to a sense of nowhere-ness.
Between the realms of nowhere and somewhere lies a space we must strive to occupy. Rereading Montaigne, I find joy in knowing where I am in my life. It may not be an idyllic or perfect place, but it’s a place of acceptance and growth. I have found my anchor point, and it brings me a sense of peace and contentment.
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