Every ten or twenty years the lives of sophisticates the world over are interrupted by an event of monolithic proportions: Leon Wieseltier (pron. ‘Vee-ZEL-tee-AY’) is compelled to acknowledge that there is something he does not know. Most recently, this prompt comes from the essential and inimitable 16th century French poet named Sceve (Shev? Skeev? Skev? Shev-ay?).
In this, as in the last such instance (1993, was it?), Mr. Wieseltier takes two steps to restore his identity from the ruins. First, of course, he realigns the stars by immediately and compulsively plugging the newfound hole in his knowledge, reaffirming his belief (don’t blame him – everyone knows beliefs are impervious to facts!) that there exists nothing outside his gaze.
Second, he recognizes an opportunity to dazzle us not only with his flowery prose and impeccable knowledge of the world in its every permutation, but with his wisdom and humility, borne not of facts, but of deep reflection, even a hermetic neglect of the transient realities of societal life. He does this by reducing the number of big words in his column by 30%, and by chiding himself (and by implication, his readers) for succumbing to the conceit of knowledge and to the indulgence and consequential decadence (as he calls it) of sophistication. After all – and here the ground shifts beneath – Mr. Wieseltier himself is “not immune to the vanity of range, to the social effects of high-level facility.”
Well, Mr. Wieseltier, though my reservoir of literary aphorisms is shallow, I think it no coincidence that among the nuggets Oscar Wilde chose to pepper his meditation on self-obsession, The Picture of Dorian Gray, is that “there is a luxury in self-reproach. When we blame ourselves, we feel no one else has a right to blame us.” Let’s not play this game; a simple “I don’t know” would suffice every now and again. But ah, me; surely you anticipated this and have a response ready in 1000 words.
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