This is a standard book for those of us with English literature degrees, so I can't believe - or even remember - why I avoided it for so long. Maybe it began as a slight aversion to the eighteenth century, which was never my favourite period of history or English literature. That's certainly changed over the years as I've come to have a deeper appreciation of how innovative - and modern-sounding - many of the prose writers are.
One maxim Dr. Johnson pronounced concerning the writing of lives was to tell all, and his devoted younger friend, James Boswell, (almost) dutifully complies in this monumental biography: the serious, the trivial, the flattering, the negative, the beneficent, the petty - all is here in a just-about-chronological miscellany of history, exposition, letters, quotations, and analysis that reads like a Who's Who of eighteenth Century England.
It's tempting to call Boswell the first fan boy, but his love and admiration for Johnson, though blinkered, isn't entirely blind. Johnson protests continually against seeing men as cardboard cutouts of saints or sinners, and the man that bursts from these pages is fully three-dimensional. We see the Johnson who rails against granting any sort of liberties for American colonists but who (to Boswell's rare disapprobation) supports the complete abolition of slavery; the Johnson who will capriciously argue with his literary club on whichever side he thinks will be most contentious, but who gives an honest answer to a little girl who dares to ask about his famous tics; the Johnson who will insult the rich and famous merely to be witty but who buys his own cat food lest his servant feel demeaned by the task.
Dr. Johnson and Hodge, "A very fine cat indeed." |
The edition I got from my local library - the 1946 "Collector's Library" edition from Doubleday - turned out to be abridged. At 631 pages! I felt a little like I was cheating, but I have to say that the professed reason for the abridgment, to include numerous pen and ink sketches and portraits by Gordon Ross, made the read more pleasurable. I'd consider the Life accessible to any serious reader. The shortish chapters, divided by chunks of letters and exposition, make the biography easy to digest in smaller portions. I started slowly, but I was engrossed by the end, and had tears in my eyes at Johnson's death. (The only other biographer who has managed to do that to me was Peter Ackroyd in his life of Sir Thomas More.)
And the little pleasures and surprises were innumerable. I smiled almost every time I read of Johnson repairing to his friends' country villa in Streatham (anyone who knows the modern town will understand). And, though I'd get skinned if I gave exact details, I have to confess I was blown away with just how much a physical and mental colossus of the eighteenth century could resemble - and offer insights on - a twenty-first century teenage girl. I'd finish by saying don't wait thirty years to read it, like I did, but I've a feeling that three decades more of experiencing life's vicissitudes enhanced the pleasure. So, read it now, but be sure to read it again later in life. I intend to.
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