On Choosing a Topic
Essay 27
In all writing—no matter how gifted the author, no matter their genius for explication or the fortune of a humane education that imbued them with qualities (acquired casually rather than through labor)—the writer still faces a blank page. It is before this barrenness that thoughts must either be culled delicately, like spring flowers blooming amidst sweltering heat that deafens life's realities, or laboriously gathered from half-digested ideas whose effects remain unknown even to their holder.
Some would boldly call this the problem of thinking; I call it simply: the problem of writing.
Ideas spring from the mind as seeds we either nurture or suppress. Our power to attract and hold readers depends entirely on how we cultivate them. Some ideas are inborn—a priori proclivities acquired in the womb. Though mutable, they form our primal lens for viewing the world. Others are forged through experience: life's hard knocks and chance encounters that shape our perceptions.
Writing's central conceit is that we have something worth saying—that our thoughts merit mass edification. Herein lies the folly of youthful talent, fresh from reading some monument like Don Juan or The Divine Comedy, who mistake their kneejerk reactions for Byronic wit or Dantesque vision. Their minds, still fevered with borrowed greatness, presume equivalence through mere inspiration.
This is wrong-headed and foolish. One achieves greatness not through reading alone, but through wrestling with great texts—agreeing and disagreeing with the sublime passages of Western canon. There was a time when commoners read Homer, Shakespeare, and Cicero as casually as we today consume trashy periodicals, drawn solely to novelty: Omnia nova rerum laudare incipito, sed in tempus nihil nisi remanet. Litteras disco primum, ac cura pro studiis postea. Haec est via immortalitatis certo. [We praise all new things at first, but in time only the worthy remain. First learn letters, then cultivate care for study. This is surely the path to immortality.]
This is to say nothing of today's so-called cultural critics peddling opinions as art. Art's truth rests not in beauty alone, but in veracity. What seems obvious today may prove revolutionary tomorrow. Even the most absurd ideas gain traction when framed by talking heads and influential fools. Truth has suffered grievously this century—though barely a quarter has passed, we've maligned her so thoroughly that society now cultivates lies as virtue. A pragmatic stone would serve better, provided it stood for facts alone.
But our culture has shifted toward what sounds pleasing or looks intriguing, forgetting such choices inevitably court disaster when ignorance overthrows reason. This is literature's vital role: it lets minds entertain unprecedented ideas. If life's grand game is to be played well, desiring the best for the majority seems self-evident—at least to my heart.
The truth of all things is determined not by the consensus sapientium (agreement of the wise) but by the hominum cor (the individual's heart). Literature serves as the kindling for all ideas. Writing is merely the midwife to the soul—what flows onto the page is but the collected essence of its speaker, its diviner. What greater pursuit exists than deciphering one's own thoughts about life? And how much nobler when those thoughts ignite the same fire in others.
Nihilism has had its moment. Now, in its death throes, it receives its final applause. Too many toxic, wrong-headed ideas have infiltrated the mainstream to be considered anything but what they are: the fruit of intellectual sloth, the dregs of stupidity upon which the crude feed like swine at a trough.
Today's writer cannot rest content with elegant prose about personal tastes. While breath remains, there must persist a desire—however modest—to effect positive change in ways within one's power. No one ultimately cares what you think. The real question is: Can you make them care?
The people must be seen as children: capable of all things yet doomed to ignorance without proper nurture. You need not fully adopt their standards, but you must understand them to make your ideas resonate. Those who write solely to please become prisoners of their audience, forfeiting the right to speak truth.
What value lies in cultivating Pater's polish, Valéry's precision, Faulkner's fury, or McCarthy's mastery—if one squanders such gifts on trivialities or fails to alter readers' perceptions profoundly? Time is too precious to spend with folded hands.
But to return to our topic: how does one decide upon a subject to write? Two paths present themselves—one of pain, one of pleasure. You may either surrender to spontaneity (which typically yields the happiest results) or labor fruitlessly, forcing ideas that refuse to come. The first approach is free-flowing; the second, constructed and artificial. Spontaneous writing flows easily because it springs from genuine passion rather than manufactured need. This is why I write only when my mind has naturally conceived an idea—when I feel an irresistible urge to shape it with beauty and precision.
While I prefer this extemporaneous method—following a single idea wherever it leads—I acknowledge the merits of yoking one's mind to a concept and wresting ideas forth, even if they must be dragged kicking and screaming onto the page. Yet herein lies my great difficulty: how to remain clear while engaging readers with something as subjective and elusive as writing. O insuperable challenge! Felicity flees at the approach of such raw, unpolished thoughts—clumsy creatures that seem to herald global catastrophe yet torment only their creator.
If the idea grants you no peace, grant it none in return. Confront it fearlessly. Demand its submission. Should it resist, write it into oblivion! Write, write, write it away. However absurd or uncouth, treat it like a fever—sweat it out through toil and emaciation. Only a writer understands this battle.
Do you see now, dear reader, why I prize spontaneous writing above deliberate composition? Not only is it easier and yields superior results—it flows naturally, bearing greater truth and delicacy by being authentically yours. Deliberate writing should be reserved for literary novices still green in their craft, those who cannot yet distinguish their own thoughts from the echoes of great authors. Until you master the art of explication, you cannot claim sovereignty over your own mind, at least in generating original insights.
A work becomes worthy of reading only when the writer mines his thoughts with complete honesty. While inspiration should be embraced, influence must be guarded against—a distinction often blurred to tragic effect. Inspiration transforms external sentiments into something uniquely yours; influence merely parrots another's opinions. This balance proves fiendishly difficult to maintain, and many writers become grotesque amalgamations of their latest reading.
Yet those who discover their true voice—who develop a distinct stylistic signature—can rightfully claim mastery of exposition: the art of shaping ideas with authority. Conjuring worthy thoughts is staggeringly difficult, yet equally probable each day if we immerse ourselves in challenging, soul-igniting material. Good prose alone means nothing. Only unfiltered honesty from the author's mind holds merit.
Again, let the topic choose itself by chance. Approach every sentence with brevity in mind—clear in exposition, accessible even to the dullest reader. As writers, we seek not merely to gratify our vanity through wit, but to awaken in others the realization that they too might think and write with such elegance. Never fear repetition. If an idea stands firm, its expression merits reiteration, provided the quality endures. The same applies to revisiting topics: Cioran wrote of nihilism poetically for fifty years before tiring; Schopenhauer completed his philosophical system at thirty and never wavered across his remaining forty-two years.
Then there are writers who embrace contradictions—Emerson, Dr. Johnson, Montaigne—expressing momentary thoughts for others' enjoyment. Others, like Hazlitt, Goethe, and Coleridge, maintain core consistency while bending to new evidence. The prose should mirror the idea's conception: spontaneous thoughts demand spontaneous expression, never contrived obscurity or pretentious displays of learning. True grandeur flows from what is natural and already latent in the heart. Confide nothing unfelt. Let your entire opera omnia perish in obscurity rather than state the obvious. Old truths require new vessels—your unique voice, unspoiled by verbosity.
The rapidity of ideas may be infinite, provided you find value in them and they spring authentically from your mind. Take freely from others, but never verbatim—books and humane learning across all languages and epochs merely reinforce what every living soul already intuits. Life's substance should be your plaything as you refine your ideas' matter and form. A touch of mysticism should linger—not a hundredth part, mind you, but just enough that intentional obscurity (like a challenging parable) becomes the muses' true dwelling.
A man can only convey so much in his allotted hours, but when he finds the right flow, he becomes like the Israelite prophets. Every word—every syllable—serves purpose, and in such states, the writer discovers his compositional destiny. The process follows: idea, labor, reward. While simplified, this remains fundamentally true. Never forget all three stages demand the unreasonable, and the reward proves meager even when recognized—increasingly rare as culture abandons humanistic pursuits.
Shakespeare, Bacon, Milton, Wordsworth, Emerson, Carlyle, Goethe—does anyone truly comprehend them? Has this century produced a single soul passionate enough to agonize over a single word of theirs, let alone entire plays, poems, and romances? Contemporary passions seem devoid of depth, reduced to mere gratification.
Ours is the labor; ours alone the sweat. We must live for our own satisfaction as we live for ourselves. Our heroism must achieve glory. Lust only for what improves you, not what numbs your faults. I've witnessed too much resignation from those in life's prime. I refuse to inhabit such a world any longer!
An essay's topic should genuinely reflect some facet of the author's mind, becoming a vessel for their continued existence. The man may perish, but the idea endures. True immortality lies in recognizing that even the most trivial subjects harbor world-shaking potential. To say most live lives of quiet desperation would be inaccurate today—they rather resemble Archimedes' trammel, tracing endless elliptical paths of misery that each successor inevitably retreads after shaking off this mortal coil.
I adore passion, egoism, spontaneity—in short, everything liberating in writing. My process? None. Only what I felt in the moment. Consider Flaubert's misery: striving for the perfect novel, he produced magnificent prose but hounded himself to an early grave. To call this dignified death would be folly! He died like a dog chasing its tail.
A writer must never be compromised by superior authors—they should only inspire his own attempts. Here I concur with Schopenhauer: the finest writing often concerns matters of little significance. To write brilliantly about mundane or even foolish subjects is supreme art, for in such cases, plot conforms to character, and character to humanity. Thus every sentence should connect to man—his senses, his observations of nature.
Life is philosophy poorly practiced, forgotten whenever left unexamined. Though doomed to suffering and senile forgetfulness, man's fate becomes glorious when preserved through mental exertion (like this essay)—worthy of eternal praise.
If I'm unclear, let me restate (remembering that ancient adage: repetition is the essence of teaching): a composition answers to no one but its author. You alone dictate its rules. The central confusion remains this: writing about unconsidered subjects proves immensely difficult, which is why one should write only when having something to say—or when revelation intervenes, typically through nature or accident.
Yet here lies a paradox: if writing requires thorough thought, but you cannot think in the moment, how do you proceed? As noted earlier, you might labor over first impressions for later editing—but I've always considered writing poorly to write better later a mockery of our craft. Must we really sift through confusion's debris for obscured diamonds? Some relish this process; I do not.
I aspire to write perfectly at every instant, rendering editing unnecessary. I covet that stylistic balance evident in Addison and Thoreau—Thoreau's vibrant affirmation of goodness, Addison's more chastened vitality. But I chase the impossible. Even masters like Bacon, Milton, Goethe, and Shakespeare endured dry spells, scratching out divine passages in pursuit of greater perfection.
Now I wonder: isn't laborious composition ultimately akin to extemporaneous writing? Both share the same end, though one begins more easily—yet this doesn't guarantee superior results. It seems I'm doomed to repeat this truth eternally.
A dedicated writer resembles Ixion on his wheel more than Boethius in his prison. Our citadel stands only so high; our capacity to grasp our own genius remains so limited that even we, the creators, cannot fully comprehend our thoughts. And now others must read these words, expected to be moved as we were moved to compose them! The burden proves immense—too great for a single mind already besieged by misfortune and responsibilities. It demands lifelong dedication, the willingness to agonize over an admired author's choice between period and semicolon. "Why this mark rather than that?" we ask, followed by, "What state of mind produced this passage?" Man may forever marvel at such decisions while remaining forever ignorant of their true significance.
I contend it's enough for a man to speak as if unlearned, drawing solely from life's sufferings and tribulations, rather than having digested Balzac's entire Comédie Humaine. There's ultimately no substitute for compelling prose except this: it must relate to the reader, connect with them—nay, invade them uninvited and occupy their mind until the experience educates them. Every great thought has been thought before, but what makes you unique is your manner of telling it and the larger context it inhabits. One needn't understand the Elizabethan era to comprehend Shakespeare, yet one emerges with near-complete knowledge of that historical period simply by reading him. This is because the Bard transcends plot. He reaches beyond words to connect with humanity through pure sentiment. Never before or since has history witnessed such omniscience!
There will likely never be another Shakespeare—but by the same token, there will never be another me. These words of mine hold value only insofar as I live them, draw them from my own mind, and prize them above better-phrased predecessors. As I've written before: the sooner we discard caution and pretension, the sooner we free ourselves to explore our mind's complexities. However prolix and burdensome the process, no conclusion proves more rewarding than solving what seemed a mystery—though most mysteries are plain realities we initially lacked the courage to face.
Life often drags us along without consulting our destination. The mere process of living constitutes a life's work. Isn't that a beautiful notion? A sublime syllogism: Life is a task; tasks demand performance to continue; therefore we must continue living to continue performing. The real question: what task justifies enduring suffering? Only the individual can decide. While reading and thinking may guide us, I believe the answer comes only through irrational moments.
Life's absurd drama warrants endurance if only to witness humanity's rises and falls—to observe eternal recurrences of self-inflicted suffering. This spectacle offers the thinking person purest happiness. We must embrace apparent irrationality if our souls are to achieve their full greatness. For writers, true greatness means this: honest, vibrant prose that elevates both craft and humanity.
All things begin with a single wisely chosen topic. The wise man discerns truth by proximity to his own feelings on the matter. Nor is there shame, I say, in pausing to weigh each sentence before writing. Though this habit contradicts the spontaneous writing I praise and pursue, even postmodern compositions require some coherence—some meaning. If one must walk away from a composition, let it be without apology. Equally vital is regularly reviving one's mind through books or noble passages.
There is no cheating in writing: you either write what you intend or you don't. How a composition emerges concerns no one, for each is unique. Some organize thoughts with bullet points, brainstorming ideas for later use. Not I. I prefer to begin with one strong sentence and let it guide me to the conclusion. If I digress and seem indefinite in thought, critics may deem me a fool—but to myself, a genius. That suffices: that my honesty and experience might be valued by my contemporaries.
Should I suffer every great writer's fate—oblivion—it matters not. The inevitable conclusion cannot deter me from my chosen path. And if I change course, that too is glorious, for change alone is constant in our fickle world. Surely Macaulay knew, as he penned his History of England, that successors would correct his errors and surpass him despite his peerless style. Goethe must have known Faust would turn to dust. So it is with all...