How To Live Or A Life Of Montaigne Part 16

What Montaigne's real daughter Leonor thought of this claim to surpa.s.s biological family bonds is anyone's guess. One could not blame her if she felt put out, but it seems she did not. She and Marie de Gournay became good friends in later years, with Gournay calling her "sister," as was only logical if they had the same father. When Marie de Gournay wrote of "surpa.s.sing," she was probably thinking of the intensity of her own communion with Montaigne rather than of snubbing a rival. The one person she does seem to have felt in compet.i.tion with was the long-dead La Boetie, with whom she did not hesitate to compare herself. Her dedication finished with a quotation from La Boetie's verse: "Nor is there any fear that our descendants will grudge to enroll our name among those renowned for friends.h.i.+p, if only the fates are willing." And in the Essays' Essays' preface, she wrote, "He was mine for only four years, no longer than La Boetie was his." preface, she wrote, "He was mine for only four years, no longer than La Boetie was his."

The same pa.s.sage also contains a strange, and perhaps revealing, remark about Montaigne: "When he praised me, I possessed him." And evidently he did praise her. Her edition of the Essays Essays includes some lines in which Montaigne speaks of her as a beloved includes some lines in which Montaigne speaks of her as a beloved fille fille d'alliance d'alliance whom he loves with more than a fatherly love (whatever that means), and cherishes in his retirement as part of his own being. He goes on: whom he loves with more than a fatherly love (whatever that means), and cherishes in his retirement as part of his own being. He goes on: She is the only person I still think about in the world. If youthful promise means anything, her soul will some day be capable of the finest things, among others of perfection in that most sacred kind of friends.h.i.+p which, so we read, her s.e.x has not yet been able to attain. The sincerity and firmness of her character are already sufficient, her affection for me more than superabundant, and such, in short, that it leaves nothing to be desired, unless that her apprehension about my end, in view of my fifty-five years when I met her, would not torment her so cruelly.

Finally, he speaks warmly of her sound judgment of the Essays Essays-"she a woman, and in this age, and so young, and alone in her district"-and of "the remarkable eagerness with which she loved me and wanted my friends.h.i.+p."

These sentences have fallen under suspicion over the years, since they appear only in Gournay's edition and not in the alternative, personally annotated version of his final Essays Essays known as the "Bordeaux Copy." It is only natural to wonder whether she made them up. The tone seems more Gournay than Montaigne and, intriguingly, she herself deleted sections of this pa.s.sage in a later edition. On the other hand, the Bordeaux Copy contains traces of adhesive in the place where these lines occur, together with a little cross in Montaigne's hand-his usual symbol to indicate an insertion. A pasted-in slip could have fallen out on one of the occasions when the copy was rebound in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Whether the pa.s.sage is genuine or not, there seems no reason to doubt the affection Montaigne felt for his disciple, bodkins, h.e.l.lebore, and all. known as the "Bordeaux Copy." It is only natural to wonder whether she made them up. The tone seems more Gournay than Montaigne and, intriguingly, she herself deleted sections of this pa.s.sage in a later edition. On the other hand, the Bordeaux Copy contains traces of adhesive in the place where these lines occur, together with a little cross in Montaigne's hand-his usual symbol to indicate an insertion. A pasted-in slip could have fallen out on one of the occasions when the copy was rebound in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Whether the pa.s.sage is genuine or not, there seems no reason to doubt the affection Montaigne felt for his disciple, bodkins, h.e.l.lebore, and all.

After that first year, however, with the burst of work in Picardy, he and Gournay kept in touch only by letter. In April 1593, Gournay told another of her literary friends, Justus Lipsius, that she had not met Montaigne for almost five years. Yet they did correspond regularly, for by the time of her letter to Lipsius she was concerned because Montaigne had not written for six months. She was right to worry. Montaigne had died during that time, and a final message sent to her via one of his brothers had not arrived. Lipsius had to break the news to her in his reply. He did it gently, adding, "since he whom you called father is no longer of this world, accept me as your brother." She replied in shock: "Sir, as others fail to recognize my face today, I fear that you will not recognize my style, so utterly has the loss of my father changed me. I was his daughter, I am his tomb; I was his second being, I am his ashes."

By now, she was going through difficult times in other ways too. Her mother died in 1591 and Marie inherited major family debts as well as responsibility for her younger siblings. Determined not to enter a loveless marriage for money, she set out to live purely by writing-a tough path, almost unprecedented for a woman. For the rest of her life, she wrote about any subject she thought might sell-a.n.a.lyses of poetry and style, feminism, religious controversy, the story of her own life-and used all the literary connections she could find. Justus Lipsius was one of the writers she sought out to help her promote her work. But none was more important than the mentor with whom her name would always remain linked: Montaigne.

Skillful use of his reputation brought about her first big breakthrough when, in 1594, she published a novel ent.i.tled Le Proumenoir de Monsieur de Montaigne Le Proumenoir de Monsieur de Montaigne (The Promenade of Monsieur de Montaigne). The contents had nothing to do with him at all, apart from the fact that-as she wrote in the dedicatory epistle-it had been inspired by a story she had told him one day as they strolled in her family's garden. In fact the (The Promenade of Monsieur de Montaigne). The contents had nothing to do with him at all, apart from the fact that-as she wrote in the dedicatory epistle-it had been inspired by a story she had told him one day as they strolled in her family's garden. In fact the Proumenoir Proumenoir's exotic romp of a narrative was stolen almost entirely from a book by another author. It did extremely well, and paved the way for the book which really began Gournay's career: her great definitive edition of the Essays Essays, published in 1595.

The idea of her becoming Montaigne's editor and literary executor apparently arose only after his death, when his widow and daughter found one of his annotated copies of the 1588 edition among his papers. They sent it to Gournay in Paris, so that she might publish it. Perhaps they only wanted her to deliver it to a suitable printer, but she interpreted it as a major editorial commission and set to work. It proved a huge task, one so difficult that it still overwhelms editors more experienced and well equipped than she. To this day, no one can agree about it, so many are the variants, so complex the text, and so great the work of identifying all Montaigne's references and allusions. Yet Gournay did the job brilliantly. Perhaps she yielded to temptation in adding those suspicious lines about herself, or perhaps they were genuine, but on the whole she was more meticulous about accuracy than most editors of her time. Surviving copies of the book's first printing show that she continued to make last-minute ink corrections even while sheets were coming off the press, as well as after publication-a sign of how much she cared about getting everything right.

From now on, she would be less a daughter to Montaigne than an adoptive mother to his Essays Essays. "Having lost their father," she wrote, "the Essais Essais are in need of a protector." She put the book together, but she also championed it, defended it, promoted it, and-in this first edition-equipped it with a long, combative preface which set out to defeat any hint of criticism in advance. Most of her arguments were rational and tightly constructed, but she seasoned them with plenty of emotion. Against those who considered his style vulgar or impure, she wrote, "When I defend him against such charges, I am full of scorn." And, concerning the allegation that he wrote in a disorganized manner: "One cannot deal with great affairs according to small intelligences...Here is not the elementary knowledge of an apprentice but the Koran of the masters, the quintessence of philosophy." are in need of a protector." She put the book together, but she also championed it, defended it, promoted it, and-in this first edition-equipped it with a long, combative preface which set out to defeat any hint of criticism in advance. Most of her arguments were rational and tightly constructed, but she seasoned them with plenty of emotion. Against those who considered his style vulgar or impure, she wrote, "When I defend him against such charges, I am full of scorn." And, concerning the allegation that he wrote in a disorganized manner: "One cannot deal with great affairs according to small intelligences...Here is not the elementary knowledge of an apprentice but the Koran of the masters, the quintessence of philosophy."

Nor was she satisfied if people praised the Essays Essays faintly. "Whoever says of Scipio that he is a n.o.ble captain and of Socrates that he is a wise man does them more wrong than one who does not speak of them at all." You cannot write in measured tones about Montaigne: "Excellence exceeds all limits." (So much for Montaigne's idea of moderation.) You must be "ravished," as she had been. On the other hand, you should be able to say faintly. "Whoever says of Scipio that he is a n.o.ble captain and of Socrates that he is a wise man does them more wrong than one who does not speak of them at all." You cannot write in measured tones about Montaigne: "Excellence exceeds all limits." (So much for Montaigne's idea of moderation.) You must be "ravished," as she had been. On the other hand, you should be able to say why why you have been ravished: to compare him point by point to the ancients and show exactly where he is their equal, and where their superior. The you have been ravished: to compare him point by point to the ancients and show exactly where he is their equal, and where their superior. The Essays Essays always seemed to Gournay the perfect intelligence test. Having asked people what they thought of the book, she deduced what she should think of them. Diderot would make almost the same observation of Montaigne in a later century: "His book is the touchstone of a sound mind. If a man dislikes it, you may be sure that he has some defect of the heart or understanding." always seemed to Gournay the perfect intelligence test. Having asked people what they thought of the book, she deduced what she should think of them. Diderot would make almost the same observation of Montaigne in a later century: "His book is the touchstone of a sound mind. If a man dislikes it, you may be sure that he has some defect of the heart or understanding."

But Marie de Gournay had the right to expect a great deal from her readers, for she was an excellent reader of Montaigne herself. For all her excesses, she had an astute grasp of why the Essays Essays were fit to place among the cla.s.sics. At a time when many persisted in seeing the book mainly as a collection of Stoic sayings-a valid interpretation so far as it went-she admired it for less usual things: its style, its rambling structure, its willingness to reveal all. It was partly Gournay's feeling that everyone around her was missing the point that created the long-lasting myth of a Montaigne somehow born out of his time, a writer who had to wait to find readers able to recognize his value. Out of an author who had made himself very popular while barely seeming to exert himself, she made Montaigne into a misunderstood genius. were fit to place among the cla.s.sics. At a time when many persisted in seeing the book mainly as a collection of Stoic sayings-a valid interpretation so far as it went-she admired it for less usual things: its style, its rambling structure, its willingness to reveal all. It was partly Gournay's feeling that everyone around her was missing the point that created the long-lasting myth of a Montaigne somehow born out of his time, a writer who had to wait to find readers able to recognize his value. Out of an author who had made himself very popular while barely seeming to exert himself, she made Montaigne into a misunderstood genius.

Gournay was happy to acknowledge that she remained in Montaigne's shadow: "I cannot take a step, whether in writing or speaking, without finding myself in his footsteps." In reality her own personality comes through loud and clear, often in ways that are at odds with his. When she extols Montaignean virtues such as moderation, she does it in her cras.h.i.+ngly immoderate way. Advocating the arts of Stoic detachment and of slipping quietly through life, she does it emotionally and abrasively. This makes her edition a fascinating wrestling match between two writers, just as happens with Montaigne and Florio, or even Montaigne and La Boetie, in the first stirrings of the conversation that became the Essays Essays.

In many ways, this was a literary partners.h.i.+p of the same sort, but very much complicated by the fact of Marie de Gournay's being a woman. It annoyed her that it was never taken as seriously as other such relations.h.i.+ps-and neither was she. Ridicule followed her through life; she never found a way of shrugging it off. Instead, she raged. Some of this rage finds its way into the Essays' Essays' preface: the writer sometimes seems to reach right through the page to grab male readers by the lapels and berate them. "Blessed indeed are you, Reader, if you are not of a s.e.x that has been forbidden all possessions, is forbidden liberty, has even been forbidden all the virtues." The most fatuous men are listened to with respect, by virtue of their beards, yet when she ventures a contribution everyone smiles condescendingly, as if to say, "It's a woman speaking." Had Montaigne been subjected to such treatment, he might have responded with a smile too, but Gournay did not have this gift. The more she let her anger show, the more people laughed. Yet this sense of strain and anguish makes her a compelling writer. The preface is not just the earliest published introduction to Montaigne's canonical work; it is also one of the world's first and most eloquent feminist tracts. preface: the writer sometimes seems to reach right through the page to grab male readers by the lapels and berate them. "Blessed indeed are you, Reader, if you are not of a s.e.x that has been forbidden all possessions, is forbidden liberty, has even been forbidden all the virtues." The most fatuous men are listened to with respect, by virtue of their beards, yet when she ventures a contribution everyone smiles condescendingly, as if to say, "It's a woman speaking." Had Montaigne been subjected to such treatment, he might have responded with a smile too, but Gournay did not have this gift. The more she let her anger show, the more people laughed. Yet this sense of strain and anguish makes her a compelling writer. The preface is not just the earliest published introduction to Montaigne's canonical work; it is also one of the world's first and most eloquent feminist tracts.

This may seem odd for a text introducing Montaigne, who was not obviously a great feminist himself. But Gournay's feminism remained closely tied to her "Montaignism." Her belief that men and women were equal-neither being superior to the other, though different in experience and situation-was in tune with his relativism. She took inspiration from his insistence on questioning received social a.s.sumptions, and his willingness to leap between different people's points of view. For Gournay, if men could exert their imagination to see the world as a woman sees it, even for a few minutes, they would learn enough to change their behavior forever. Yet this leap of perspective was just what they never seemed to manage.

Shortly after publication, alas, Gournay had second thoughts about her blistering preface. By this time she was staying on the Montaigne estate, as a guest of Montaigne's widow, mother, and daughter, who had apparently taken her in out of friends.h.i.+p, loyalty, or sympathy. From their home, she wrote to Justus Lipsius on May 2, 1596, saying that she had written the preface only because she was overwhelmed by grief at Montaigne's death, and that she wished to withdraw it. Its excessive tone, she now said, was the result of "a violent fever of the soul." Shortly after this, sending copies to publishers in Basel, Strasbourg, and Antwerp, she axed the preface and replaced it with a brief, dull note just ten lines long. The original stayed in Gournay's bottom drawer, and parts of it resurfaced in a different form in a 1599 edition of the Proumenoir Proumenoir. Later still, she repented of her repentance altogether, perhaps coming to a late Montaignean sense of defiance. The last editions of the Essays Essays in her lifetime restored the preface in all its excess and glory. in her lifetime restored the preface in all its excess and glory.

All these successive Essays Essays editions, together with a sequence of lesser and often more contentious works, kept Gournay going through her advancing years. Somehow, she did what she had set out to do: she lived by her pen. By now she had returned to Paris, and there occupied a garret with a single faithful servant, Nicole Jamyn. She ran an occasional salon, and threw herself into friends.h.i.+ps with some of the most interesting men of her day, including editions, together with a sequence of lesser and often more contentious works, kept Gournay going through her advancing years. Somehow, she did what she had set out to do: she lived by her pen. By now she had returned to Paris, and there occupied a garret with a single faithful servant, Nicole Jamyn. She ran an occasional salon, and threw herself into friends.h.i.+ps with some of the most interesting men of her day, including libertins libertins such as Francois le Poulchre de la Motte-Messeme and Francois de La Mothe le Vayer. Many people suspected her of being a such as Francois le Poulchre de la Motte-Messeme and Francois de La Mothe le Vayer. Many people suspected her of being a libertine libertine and religious freethinker herself. She did write, in her autobiographical and religious freethinker herself. She did write, in her autobiographical Peincture de moeurs Peincture de moeurs, that she lacked the deep piety she would have liked to have, perhaps a hint that she was an out-and-out unbeliever.

Gournay's books sold, but the publicity that made it happen often took the form of scandal or public mockery. This never focused on the Essays Essays, at least not in her lifetime, nor even on her various feminist writings. Mostly, she was ridiculed for her own unorthodox lifestyle or her lesser polemical works. At times, she gained a grudging respect. In 1634 she became one of the founders of the influential Academie francaise, but two great ironies hover over this achievement. One is that, as a woman, she was never admitted to any of that organization's meetings. The other is that the Academie a.s.sociated itself for centuries with exactly the arid, perfectionist style of writing that Gournay herself detested. It lent no support either to her own views on literary language or to her beloved Montaigne.

Gournay died on July 13, 1645, just before her eightieth birthday. Her graven epitaph described her just as she would have liked: as an independent writer, and as Montaigne's daughter. Like his, her posthumous reputation was destined to be twisted into bizarre shapes by changing fas.h.i.+ons. The exuberant writing style she preferred remained out of favor for a long time. One eighteenth-century commentator wrote: "Nothing can equal the praise she received in her lifetime: but we can no longer give her such eulogy, and whatever merit she may have had as a person, her works are no longer read by anyone and have slipped into an oblivion from which they will never emerge."

The one thing that continued to sell was her edition of Montaigne. But this in turn attracted jealousy, and the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries started to see her as a leech on Montaigne's back. This interpretation had some truth in it, since she did use Montaigne to survive, but it ignored the extent to which she promoted and defended him as well. The sheer intensity of this devotion could attract suspicion. In the twentieth century, she was still being described by one Montaigne editor, Maurice Rat, as "a white-haired old maid...who made the mistake of living too long" and whose "aggressive or grumpy att.i.tude" did more harm than good. Even the judicious scholar Pierre Villey, who generally took her side, could not resist poking fun sometimes, and he resented her attempt to set her friends.h.i.+p with Montaigne alongside La Boetie's. In general, the Gournay/Montaigne friends.h.i.+p continued to be judged by different criteria from the Montaigne/La Boetie one. The latter is lauded, deconstructed, theorized, a.n.a.lyzed, eroticized, and psychoa.n.a.lyzed to within an inch of its life. Gournay's "adoption" has long pa.s.sed with little more than one of those patronizing smiles that used to annoy her so.

In recent years much has changed, mainly because of the rise of feminism, which recognizes her as a pioneer. Her first great modern champion was a man, Mario Schiff, who wrote a full biographical study in 1910 and published new editions of her feminist works. Since then the journey has been ever upwards. Marjorie Henry Ilsley ended her 1963 biography, A Daughter of the Renaissance A Daughter of the Renaissance, with a chapter ent.i.tled "Marie de Gournay's Ascending Fortune"; since then, she has climbed even higher, with fresh biographies and scholarly editions of her works coming out regularly, as well as novelizations of her life.

More recently still, there has been a s.h.i.+ft in att.i.tudes to her 1595 edition of the Essays Essays-which fell into disuse for a hundred years or so, following its first three centuries of unquestioned dominance. Having sunk to the deepest sea bed in the twentieth century, remembered only in a few footnotes, it is now bobbing up again. It seems to have all the formidable resilience of Marie de Gournay herself.

THE EDITING WARS.

The rejection of Gournay's edition became most severe at the very moment that her general reputation began to revive. This strange fact has a simple explanation. Before that, her text had no rival; it was immaterial what readers thought of her personality. But in the late eighteenth century a different text did turn up in the archives of Bordeaux: a copy of the 1588 edition, closely annotated in Montaigne's own hand as well as those of secretaries and a.s.sistants, including Marie de Gournay herself.

This "Bordeaux Copy," as it became known, still did not attract much attention until the late nineteenth century, when scholars developed a taste for poring over the minutiae of such texts. It now emerged that the Bordeaux Copy and Gournay's 1595 edition were similar in soft focus, but not in detail. Several thousand differences existed, scattered like grit through the book. Of these about a hundred were significant enough to change the meaning, while a few were very major, including the section praising Marie de Gournay herself. Actually all the differences were equally important, for they implied that Gournay had not been a careful editor after all. She had been incompetent at best, and fraudulent at worst. This conclusion sparked an anti-Gournay backlash, followed by a series of editing wars which ran through the early twentieth century, and which (after a lull) are raging again today.

The battle followed the rules of cla.s.sical warfare, focusing on sieges of key strongholds and access to supplies. Armies of rival transcribers and editors attacked the Bordeaux Copy, working at roughly the same time, looking over each other's shoulders, and doing all they could to block each other's path to the precious object. Each contrived his own technique for reading the faded ink, and for representing the various levels of addition and augmentation, as well as different hands. Some got so bogged down in methodology that they made no further progress. One early transcriber, Albert Caignieul, wrote to his employers at the Bordeaux Library explaining why it was taking him so long to produce anything: The separation of the various stages was effected by observation and a.n.a.lysis of clear material facts...We considered that this separation was duly effected when these two conditions were fulfilled: 1. to take into account all the elements furnished by the a.n.a.lysis. 2. to take only these elements into account. The results have demonstrated the effectiveness of the method...

When, a few years later, he was challenged again-there being still no sign of any completed transcription-he tried a different tack: Everything which remains to be done has been prepared for the most part and could be finished in a relatively brief period of time which would be, however, difficult to ascertain because of special problems which arise suddenly and frequently.

Nothing ever came of Caignieul's project, but others achieved better results. By the early 1900s, three different versions were in production, one an "Edition Phototypique," which merely reproduced the volumes in facsimile. The other two were the Edition Munic.i.p.ale, directed by b.u.mptious scholar Fortunat Strowski, and the Edition Typographique, directed by the equally opinionated and difficult Arthur-Antoine Armaingaud. They took it in turns to overtake each other, like two very slow racehorses on a long course. Strowski won the first lap, bringing out his first two volumes in 1906 and 1909. He then boasted that no other edition would ever be necessary, and persuaded the Bordeaux repository to impose tough new working conditions on Armaingaud, including finger-numbingly low ambient temperatures and the requirement that all pages be read through thick panes of green or red gla.s.s to protect them from light. Armaingaud struggled on; his first volume appeared in 1912-though he gave it the false date 1906 to make it look to posterity as though it had appeared at the same time as Strowski's.

The game continued. For a while, Armaingaud edged ahead, but his subsequent volumes got stuck in the pipeline. He also isolated himself with his tendency to promote unusual opinions about Montaigne, notably the idea that he was the true author of On Voluntary Servitude On Voluntary Servitude. Not unlike Marie de Gournay before him, and many literary theorists after, Armaingaud liked to think of Montaigne as having secret levels of meaning which only he could decipher. As one of his enemies sarcastically put it: "He alone knows him in depth, he alone knows his secrets, he alone can speak of him, in his name, interpret his thought." At least Armaingaud kept up a trickle of output, but Strowski now became distracted by other projects and failed to finish the last volume of his edition. The Bordeaux authorities funding him eventually pa.s.sed the work to someone else, Francois Gebelin, who produced the final volume in 1919-fifty years after the idea had first been proposed. Volumes of commentary and concordance followed in 1921 and 1933, produced by the astute Montaignist who now took over the project, Pierre Villey, a man whose achievement was the more noteworthy because he had been blind since the age of three. He finished his work in time for Bordeaux's celebrations of Montaigne's four hundredth birthday in 1933-only to have the organizers of the festivities forget to invite him. Meanwhile, Armaingaud also finished his version, so the world was, at last, presented with two fine transcriptions of the Essays Essays. Both books had a key feature in common: having worked so hard to get access to the physical Bordeaux Copy, their editors were determined to stick to it, and to ignore Marie de Gournay's readily available published version almost entirely. They also shared a highly un-Montaignesque tendency to consider themselves the source of the final, unchallengeable word on all matters of Essays Essays textual scholars.h.i.+p. textual scholars.h.i.+p.

These two editions set the tone for the rest of the century. From now on, the 1595 version would be used only as a source of occasional variant wordings, to be flagged in footnotes. Even this was done only where the difference seemed significant. Otherwise, small variations were taken as a sign of Marie de Gournay's poor editing, and of the 1595 text's corrupt state. Gournay was a.s.sumed to have done just what they did-transcribe the Bordeaux Copy-but to have made a hash of it.

As long ago as 1866, however, an alternative explanation had already been put forward, by Reinhold Dezeimeris. Gournay could have done an excellent editing job, he suggested, but on a different copy. It took a while before this idea sank in. Once it did, it won increasing numbers of followers, some of whom worked out in detail how the switching of copies could have happened.

If this theory is true, the story probably began with Montaigne working on the Bordeaux Copy for several years, as its supporters always thought. At a certain point, however, it became so overloaded with notes that it was barely usable. Frustrated with its messiness, Montaigne had a clean copy made-no longer extant, but now dubbed the "Exemplar" for convenience. He carried on making additions to this, mostly minor, for he was almost at the end of his working life by now. When he died, the Exemplar-not the Bordeaux Copy-was sent to Marie de Gournay for her to edit and publish. This would explain why it does not survive: authors' ma.n.u.scripts or marked-up earlier editions were normally destroyed as part of the printing process. Meanwhile, the unused Bordeaux Copy remained intact, like the skin-sh.e.l.l left hooked on a tree when a cicada outgrows it and moves on. the Bordeaux Copy-was sent to Marie de Gournay for her to edit and publish. This would explain why it does not survive: authors' ma.n.u.scripts or marked-up earlier editions were normally destroyed as part of the printing process. Meanwhile, the unused Bordeaux Copy remained intact, like the skin-sh.e.l.l left hooked on a tree when a cicada outgrows it and moves on.

The hypothesis is neat; it accounts for both the survival of the Bordeaux Copy and its textual divergences. It accords with what is known of Marie de Gournay's editorial practice; it would have been odd for her to pay minute attention to last-minute corrections, as she did, if she was so careless with her work in the first place. If accepted, the consequences are dramatic. It means that her 1595 publication, rather than the Bordeaux Copy, is the closest approximation to a final version of the Essays Essays as Montaigne would have wanted it to be, and thus that most twentieth-century editing is a misguided blip in history. as Montaigne would have wanted it to be, and thus that most twentieth-century editing is a misguided blip in history.

Naturally, this debate has thrown the Montaigne world into turmoil, and has sparked a conflict every bit as heated as those of a hundred years ago. Some editors have now dramatically reversed the hierarchy by consigning Bordeaux Copy variants to the humble spot in the footnotes which Gournay occupied for so long, notably the Pleiade edition of 2007 edited by Jean Balsamo, Michel Magnien, and Catherine Magnien-Simonin. Other scholars still support the Bordeaux Copy. It thrives particularly in a 1998 edition by Andre Tournon, which surpa.s.ses earlier editions in its devotion to the microscopic detail of that text. It incorporates Montaigne's own punctuation choices and marks, previously glossed over or modernized-as if to emphasize its physical proximity to Montaigne's hand and to his intentions. It is as if he is still holding the pen, dripping ink.

When the dust settles-a.s.suming it does-a standard will be established for the coming century. There will be several consequences for all Montaigne readers. New editions are likely to foreground one text or the other rather than amalgamating them, since the importance of the variations is now so well appreciated. If Gournay wins, a page of Montaigne may also come to look simpler, for it could reduce the desire for the visually disruptive sprinkling of "A," "B," and "C" letters signifying different layers of composition. They would still be of interest, but they were first put in by editors working from the Bordeaux Copy whose motivation was partly to make their hard work fully visible. Gournay herself never thought of doing such a thing; nor did Montaigne. There would also be consequences for Montaigne readers in languages other than French. A new English translation would be urgently needed, since the two otherwise excellent ones that dominate the market now, by Donald Frame and M. A. Screech, are firmly of the Bordeaux Copy era. We would go back predominantly to the source text used by John Florio, Charles Cotton, and the Hazlitt dynasty.

Whatever happens, this is unlikely to be the end of the story. Disputes will continue, perhaps only about the placement of commas. It would be hard, now, to maintain the hubristic Strowskian belief that a perfect final edition can ever be created. In fact, the Essays Essays can never truly be said to be finished. Montaigne the man may have hung up his boots and abandoned his quill, but, so long as readers and editors disagree about the results, Montaigne the author has never quite put that final ink mark on the page. can never truly be said to be finished. Montaigne the man may have hung up his boots and abandoned his quill, but, so long as readers and editors disagree about the results, Montaigne the author has never quite put that final ink mark on the page.

MONTAIGNE REMIXED AND EMBABOONED.

Montaigne knew very well that, the minute you publish a book, you lose control of it. Other people can do what they like: they can edit it into strange forms, or impose interpretations upon it that you would never have dreamed of. Even an unpublished ma.n.u.script can get out of hand, as happened with La Boetie's On Voluntary Servitude On Voluntary Servitude.

In Montaigne's and La Boetie's time, the absence of copyright law and the admiration of copying as a literary technique allowed even more freedom than would be expected today. Anyone who took a fancy to certain bits of the Essays Essays could publish them separately; they could abridge or enlarge the whole, strip out sections they didn't like, rearrange the order, or publish it under a different name. A dozen or so chapters could be extracted and turned into a slim, manageable volume, providing a valuable service to readers whose biceps would not support the full tome. A decluttering service could be offered: confronted with a twenty-page Montaigne ramble, a bold redactor such as "Honoria" could cut it down to two pages which-un-Montaignean notion!-seemed to address the point announced in the t.i.tle. could publish them separately; they could abridge or enlarge the whole, strip out sections they didn't like, rearrange the order, or publish it under a different name. A dozen or so chapters could be extracted and turned into a slim, manageable volume, providing a valuable service to readers whose biceps would not support the full tome. A decluttering service could be offered: confronted with a twenty-page Montaigne ramble, a bold redactor such as "Honoria" could cut it down to two pages which-un-Montaignean notion!-seemed to address the point announced in the t.i.tle.

Some editors have been even more interventionist than this. Instead of slicing off choice cuts here and there, they have rolled up their sleeves and plunged their hands right into the Essays Essays to dismember it like a chicken and make an entirely new creature of it. The outstanding representative of these is also the earliest and most famous: Montaigne's friend and near-contemporary Pierre Charron, who produced a seventeenth-century best seller called to dismember it like a chicken and make an entirely new creature of it. The outstanding representative of these is also the earliest and most famous: Montaigne's friend and near-contemporary Pierre Charron, who produced a seventeenth-century best seller called La Sagesse La Sagesse (Wisdom). Montaigne would barely have recognized himself in it, but it is essentially the (Wisdom). Montaigne would barely have recognized himself in it, but it is essentially the Essays Essays by another name and in a different format. It has been called a "remake"; one could also call it a "remix," but neither term captures quite how far it departs in spirit from the original. Charron created a Montaigne devoid of idiosyncratic details, of quotations or digressions, of rough edges, and of personal revelations of any kind. He gave readers something they could argue with, or agree with if they wished: a set of statements that no longer slithered away from interpretation or evaporated like a fog. From Montaigne's rambling thoughts on a topic such as the relation of humans to animals, he put together the following neat structure: by another name and in a different format. It has been called a "remake"; one could also call it a "remix," but neither term captures quite how far it departs in spirit from the original. Charron created a Montaigne devoid of idiosyncratic details, of quotations or digressions, of rough edges, and of personal revelations of any kind. He gave readers something they could argue with, or agree with if they wished: a set of statements that no longer slithered away from interpretation or evaporated like a fog. From Montaigne's rambling thoughts on a topic such as the relation of humans to animals, he put together the following neat structure: [image]

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1. Features common to animals and humans 2. Features not common to humans and animals 1. Features advantageous to human beings 2. Features advantageous to animals 1. General 2. Particular 3. Features of disputable advantage It is impressive, and dull-so dull that La Sagesse La Sagesse met with immense success. Encouraged by this, Charron compressed it even further to produce an abridged met with immense success. Encouraged by this, Charron compressed it even further to produce an abridged Pet.i.t traite de la sagesse Pet.i.t traite de la sagesse. This sold well too: both went into numerous editions. As the seventeenth century went on, more and more readers encountered their Montaigne in a Charronized form, which was partly why they were able to understand and tackle his Pyrrhonian Skepticism so a.n.a.lytically. (If Pascal still found him infuriatingly elusive, it was because he actually read the original.) Marie de Gournay, however, did not approve of Charron. In the preface to her 1635 edition of the Essays Essays she dismissed him as a "bad copyist," and remarked that the only good thing to be said for reading him was that he reminded you of the genius of the real Montaigne. she dismissed him as a "bad copyist," and remarked that the only good thing to be said for reading him was that he reminded you of the genius of the real Montaigne.

Charron's successors in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries remixed Montaigne even further, and sometimes they remixed Charron too. While the Essays Essays remained on the remained on the Index Index, remixes and remakes were the only form in which the book could be published in France. The market was therefore flooded with slim, uncredited Montaignes, or with works whose t.i.tles evoked purified essences: L'Esprit des Essais de Montaigne L'Esprit des Essais de Montaigne (The Spirit of the Essays of Montaigne), or (The Spirit of the Essays of Montaigne), or Pensees de Montaigne Pensees de Montaigne (Thoughts of Montaigne). This last purged him so thoroughly that the book runs only to 214 small pages, introduced by the remark, "There are few books so bad that nothing good can be found in them, and few so good that they contain nothing bad." (Thoughts of Montaigne). This last purged him so thoroughly that the book runs only to 214 small pages, introduced by the remark, "There are few books so bad that nothing good can be found in them, and few so good that they contain nothing bad."

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Authors have always undergone abridgement. Reductions of great works still thrive in the publis.h.i.+ng industry today, often under t.i.tles such as "Compact Editions." A spokesman for one such recent British series was quoted as saying, "Moby-d.i.c.k "Moby-d.i.c.k must have been difficult in 1850-in 2007 it's nigh-on impossible to make your way through it." Yet the danger in cutting too much blubber out of must have been difficult in 1850-in 2007 it's nigh-on impossible to make your way through it." Yet the danger in cutting too much blubber out of Moby-d.i.c.k Moby-d.i.c.k is that of being left with no whale. Similarly, Montaigne's "spirit" resides in the very bits editors are most eager to lose: his swerves, his asides, his changes of mind, and his restless movement from one idea to another. No wonder he himself was driven to say that "every abridgment of a good book is a stupid abridgment." is that of being left with no whale. Similarly, Montaigne's "spirit" resides in the very bits editors are most eager to lose: his swerves, his asides, his changes of mind, and his restless movement from one idea to another. No wonder he himself was driven to say that "every abridgment of a good book is a stupid abridgment."

Yet he also knew that reading always involved some process of selection. He did it himself whenever he picked up a book, and he did it even more decidedly if he then flung it aside in boredom. Montaigne read only what interested him; his readers and editors do the same to him. All readings of the book eventually become an Esprit des Essais de Montaigne Esprit des Essais de Montaigne, even the most scholarly ones.

Indeed, perhaps these are more p.r.o.ne to it than any other kind. To a striking extent, modern critics seem to remix and remake a Montaigne who resembles themselves, not only individually but as a species. Just as Romantics found a Romantic Montaigne, Victorian moralists found a moralist one, and the English in general found an English Montaigne, so the "deconstructionist" or "postmodernist" critics who flourished throughout the late twentieth century (and just into the twenty-first) fall with delight upon the very thing they are predisposed to see: a deconstructionist and postmodernist Montaigne. This kind of Montaigne has become so familiar to the contemporary critical eye that it takes considerable effort to lean back far enough to see it for what it is: an artifact, or at least a creative remix.

Postmodernists consider the world as an endlessly s.h.i.+fting system of meanings, so they concentrate upon a Montaigne who speaks of the world as a dancing branloire branloire, or who says that human beings are "diverse and undulating," and "double within ourselves." They think objective knowledge is impossible, and are therefore drawn to Montaigne's writings on perspective and doubt. (This book is as p.r.o.ne to such temptations as any other, being a product of its time.) It is beguiling; it is flattering. One looks into one's copy of the Essays Essays like the Queen in like the Queen in Snow White Snow White looking into her mirror. Before there is even time to ask the fairy-tale question, the mirror croons back, looking into her mirror. Before there is even time to ask the fairy-tale question, the mirror croons back, "You're "You're the fairest of them all." the fairest of them all."

One feature of recent critical theory makes it more than usually p.r.o.ne to this magic-mirror effect: its habit of talking about the text rather than the author. Instead of wondering what Montaigne "really" meant to say, or investigating historical contexts, critics have looked primarily to the independent network of a.s.sociations and meanings on the page-a network which can be cast like a great fis.h.i.+ng net to capture almost anything. This is not only a feature of strict postmodernism. Recent psychoa.n.a.lytical critics also apply their a.n.a.lysis to the Essays Essays itself rather than to Montaigne the man. Some treat the book as an ent.i.ty with its own subconscious. Just as an a.n.a.lyst can read a patient's dreams to get to what lurks beneath, so a critic can probe the text's etymologies, sounds, accidental slips, and even printing errors in order to discover hidden levels of meaning. It is acknowledged that Montaigne had no intention of putting them there, but that does not matter, since the text has its own intentions. itself rather than to Montaigne the man. Some treat the book as an ent.i.ty with its own subconscious. Just as an a.n.a.lyst can read a patient's dreams to get to what lurks beneath, so a critic can probe the text's etymologies, sounds, accidental slips, and even printing errors in order to discover hidden levels of meaning. It is acknowledged that Montaigne had no intention of putting them there, but that does not matter, since the text has its own intentions.

Out of this train of thought have come readings which, in their way, are as baroque and beautiful as Montaigne's own writing. To choose one of the most appealing examples, Tom Conley's "A Suckling of Cities: Montaigne in Paris and Rome" picks up on a simple remark in Montaigne's "Of Vanity": that he knew about Rome before he knew of the Louvre in Paris. "Louvre," the French royal palace at the time, resembles the French word louve louve or "female wolf." For Conley, this reveals the text's subconscious link to the female wolf who suckled Rome's founding twins Romulus and Remus. Their mouths opened up as they sucked; in the same way, we open up our perspective on cities such as Rome or Paris by thinking about how they have survived through the centuries. The mouth opens up this perspective; it or "female wolf." For Conley, this reveals the text's subconscious link to the female wolf who suckled Rome's founding twins Romulus and Remus. Their mouths opened up as they sucked; in the same way, we open up our perspective on cities such as Rome or Paris by thinking about how they have survived through the centuries. The mouth opens up this perspective; it opens it opens it, which is l'ouvre l'ouvre in French. Therefore, when Montaigne mentions the Louvre in the same breath as Rome, his text reveals a hidden image in which "the essayist's lips seal themselves around a royal teat." in French. Therefore, when Montaigne mentions the Louvre in the same breath as Rome, his text reveals a hidden image in which "the essayist's lips seal themselves around a royal teat."

The suckling image leads us to b.r.e.a.s.t.s, which are multiplied all over Rome in the form of the city's numerous domes and belvederes. "Erogenous tips that rise on the horizon of the city-view are a.s.similated into a multiplicity of points of nourishment." The vision of Montaigne's lips becomes even stranger: [image]

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Montaigne sucks the erect tip of the temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus on the Saturnian Hill of Rome from above as he puckers his lips about the nipples of the founding she-wolf from below.

This can all be found in Montaigne's note about the Louvre-but more follows. In the same essay, Montaigne goes on: "I have had the abilities and fortunes of Lucullus, Metellus, and Scipio more in my head [plus en teste] than those of any of our men." Insignificant though this line may seem, tester tester or or teter teter, in French, means "suckle." These three cla.s.sical heroes can be visualized as portraits, perhaps embossed on coins, which Montaigne puts in his mouth: "qu'il teste." teste." A great "suction and flow of s.p.a.ce and time" therefore flows through these few pages. A great "suction and flow of s.p.a.ce and time" therefore flows through these few pages.

And still there is more. Montaigne writes in this essay of his being "embabooned" by Roman history-embabouyne, which means "enchanted" or "bewitched," but can also mean "suckled." The French word becomes even more suggestive if one reads it as "en bas bou(e) y n(ais)," meaning, "down in the mud I am born." This refers, again, to the two infants and the she-wolf, for they had to bend down low in the Tiber mud to suckle from beneath her. Since mud is squishy and brown, the embabooned Montaigne can now be seen as descending into "a presymbolic world of aroma and excrement." meaning, "down in the mud I am born." This refers, again, to the two infants and the she-wolf, for they had to bend down low in the Tiber mud to suckle from beneath her. Since mud is squishy and brown, the embabooned Montaigne can now be seen as descending into "a presymbolic world of aroma and excrement."

Conley's essay is itself bewitching, or embabooning-and he is not merely playing with words like Romulus and Remus flinging handfuls of Tiber mud around. Nor is he proposing that Montaigne "really" had nipples on the brain when he wrote about Rome. The purpose is to pick out a network of a.s.sociations: to find in a few apparently straightforward words of text a meaning as atmospheric and revealing as a dream. The result has a dreamlike beauty of its own, and there is no reason to become annoyed because it shows little apparent relation to Montaigne. As Montaigne said about Plutarch, every line of a rich text like the Essays Essays is filled with pointers indicating "where we are to go, if we like." Modern critics have taken this very much to heart. is filled with pointers indicating "where we are to go, if we like." Modern critics have taken this very much to heart.

And all the time, the real patient on the a.n.a.lyst's couch-the one whose dreams cry out for interpretation-is not the Essays Essays text, nor the person of Montaigne, but the critic. By treating Montaigne's text as a treasure-house of clues to something unknown, and at the same time separating these clues from their original context, such literary detectives are subjecting themselves to a well-established trick for opening up the subconscious. It is precisely the technique that a fortune teller uses when laying out tea leaves from a cup, or a psychologist when applying a Rorschach test. One sets out a random field of clues, separated from their conventional context, then watches to see what emerges from the observer's mind. The answer, inevitably, will be something at least as rarefied and whimsical as text, nor the person of Montaigne, but the critic. By treating Montaigne's text as a treasure-house of clues to something unknown, and at the same time separating these clues from their original context, such literary detectives are subjecting themselves to a well-established trick for opening up the subconscious. It is precisely the technique that a fortune teller uses when laying out tea leaves from a cup, or a psychologist when applying a Rorschach test. One sets out a random field of clues, separated from their conventional context, then watches to see what emerges from the observer's mind. The answer, inevitably, will be something at least as rarefied and whimsical as L'Esprit des Essais de Montaigne L'Esprit des Essais de Montaigne.

Regrettably to anyone with a taste for such things, this trend in modern critical theory-the last of the lily pads on this wayward frog-leap tour through the history of Montaigne-reading-seems to be pa.s.sing into history already. Recent years have seen a reaction against it: a slow change of weather. More and more literary scholars are returning to history. Once again, they soberly study the sixteenth-century meanings of Montaigne's language and try to fathom his intentions and motivations. It looks like the end of an era-and the beginning of another.

What would Montaigne have made of it all? He enjoyed following pointing fingers around a page of Plutarch, yet he claimed to be exasperated by much literary interpretation. The more a critic works on a text, he said, the less anyone understands it. "The hundredth commentator hands it on to his successor thornier and rougher than the first one had found it." Any text can be turned into a jumble of contradictions: See how Plato is moved and tossed about. Every man, glorying in applying him to himself, sets him on the side he wants. They trot him out and insert him into all the new opinions that the world accepts.

Would a time ever come, Montaigne wondered, when the interpreters would get together and agree of a particular work: "There has been enough about this book; henceforth there is nothing more to say about it"? Of course not; and Montaigne knew that his own work must keep going through the same mill for as long as it had readers. People would always find things in him that he never intended to say. In doing so, they would actually create those things. "An able reader often discovers in other men's writings perfections beyond those that the author put in or perceived, and lends them richer meanings and aspects."

I have read in Livy a hundred things that another man has not read in him. Plutarch has read in him a hundred besides the ones I could read, and perhaps besides what the author had put in.

Over the centuries, this interpretation and reinterpretation creates a long chain connecting a writer to all future readers-who frequently read each other as well as the original. Virginia Woolf had a beautiful vision of generations interlinked in this way: of how "minds are threaded together-how any live mind is of the very same stuff as Plato's & Euripides...It is this common mind that binds the whole world together; & all the world is mind." This capacity for living on through readers' inner worlds over long periods of history is what makes a book like the Essays Essays a true cla.s.sic. As it is reborn differently in each mind, it also brings those minds together. a true cla.s.sic. As it is reborn differently in each mind, it also brings those minds together.

There can be no really ambitious writing without an acceptance that other people will do what they like with your work, and change it almost beyond recognition. Montaigne accepted this principle in art, as he did in life. He even enjoyed it. People form strange ideas of you; they adapt you to their own purposes. By going with the flow and relinquis.h.i.+ng control of the process, you gain all the benefits of the old h.e.l.lenistic trick of amor fati: amor fati: the cheerful acceptance of whatever happens. In Montaigne's case, the cheerful acceptance of whatever happens. In Montaigne's case, amor fati amor fati was one of the answers to the general question of how to live, and as it happened it also opened the way to his literary immortality. What he left behind was all the better for being imperfect, ambiguous, inadequate, and vulnerable to distortion. "Oh Lord," one might imagine Montaigne exclaiming, "by all means let me be misunderstood." was one of the answers to the general question of how to live, and as it happened it also opened the way to his literary immortality. What he left behind was all the better for being imperfect, ambiguous, inadequate, and vulnerable to distortion. "Oh Lord," one might imagine Montaigne exclaiming, "by all means let me be misunderstood."

19. Q. How to live? A. Be ordinary and imperfect

BE ORDINARY.

THIS BOOK HAS been, in part, the story of how Montaigne has flowed through time via a sort of ca.n.a.l system of minds. Samples have been taken at each lock: from been, in part, the story of how Montaigne has flowed through time via a sort of ca.n.a.l system of minds. Samples have been taken at each lock: from -Montaigne's first enthusiastic readers, who praised his Stoic wisdom and his skill in collecting fine thoughts from the ancients;-the likes of Descartes and Pascal, who found him distasteful and fascinating in equal measure for his Skepticism and his blurring of the boundary between humans and other animals;-the libertins libertins of the seventeenth century, who loved him as a daring freethinker; of the seventeenth century, who loved him as a daring freethinker;-Enlightenment philosophers of the eighteenth century, who were drawn again to his Skepticism and his liking for New World cultures;-Romantics, who hailed a "natural" Montaigne while wis.h.i.+ng he would warm up;-readers whose own lives were disrupted by war and political turmoil, and who made Montaigne a hero and companion;-late nineteenth-century moralists who blushed at his bawdiness and deplored his lack of ethical fiber, but managed to reinvent him as a respectable gentleman like themselves;-some four hundred years of Montaigne-reading English essayists and accidental philosophers;-a not-so-accidental philosopher, Friedrich Nietzsche, who admired Montaigne's lightness of spirit and reimagined his Stoic and Epicurean tricks of living for a new era;-modernists like Virginia Woolf, who tried to capture the feeling of being alive and conscious;-editors, transcribers, and remixers, who molded Montaigne into different shapes;-late twentieth-century interpreters who built extraordinary structures out of a handful of Montaigne's words.