reviews

I first read Joseph Epstein when I picked up an issue of The American Scholar many years ago. He was editor then, and wrote an essay in each issue under the pen name of Aristides (I actually had no idea that Aristides and Joseph Epstein were the same person until some months later). I took an immediate liking, no, that’s not strong enough…I was enamored with his writing. He manipulated words like Minnesota Fats did billiard balls—he could make them do anything he wanted. After reading just this one essay I was hooked. I fished out the subscription card I had already tossed, filled it out, and mailed it in. That it was a bimonthly publication only heightened my anticipation for the next issue. When each issue would arrive, I would quickly tear off the plastic cover, and immediately see what Aristides had in store for me. I was never disappointed. I would occasionally read one of the actual articles in the magazine, but for the most part, I was happy to pay my subscription just for the sheer pleasure of reading his opening essay. When he left the magazine, I saw no reason to continue to subscribe.

But then I found myself without my bimonthly fix. I knew something had to be done. I happily discovered that he had written quite a few books. Soon such gems as “A Line Out for a Walk” and “With my Trousers Rolled” found themselves in my hands. I’m not going to go into the details of why I enjoyed his writing so much. This review, if one could call it as such, is already taking too long—and I haven’t even gotten to the book at hand. His mastery of the English language is formidable, and each essay, no matter the topic, was full of wit, wisdom and erudition. They have been a joy to read these many years, and have been an important part of my life.

Until now.

Mr. Epstein published “Plausible Prejudices: Essays on American Writing” in 1985, long before I had ever heard of him. They are a collection of essays he had written for Commentary, The New Criterion, and Times Literary Supplement. After reading the introduction, I wondered how this could be the same man who had written the two aforementioned books, published years later, in 1992 and 1995, respectively. The introduction sets out his premise as to the current state of American writing. According to him, it is a pathetic one, with nothing decent being written. And who’s to blame? Why, the universities are.

First, their creative contemporary writing classes are churning out writers who only write books that give their professors the most to talk about: “knotty, puzzling, self-reflexive books.” Thomas Pynchon is mentioned, whose books do not get read outside a college course (according to Mr. Epstein.) I don’t know about you, but I happen to like knotty, puzzling, self-reflexive novels. As a matter of fact, that’s pretty much all I like to read. And I didn’t discover Thomas Pynchon until well out of college, and have enjoyed everything he’s written (well, “Vineland” was a bit of a disappointment, but he can’t hit ‘em out of the park every time.)

Secondly, universities are at fault by featuring in their core curricula women writers and black writers, “and if it has not already happened so soon will homosexual writers.” Gasp! Oh no, say it ain’t so, Joe! Not even homosexual writers! What are we going to do?! Of course, he provides himself an out, by stating, “the point is not that there haven’t been considerable women, black and homosexual writers; the point is that they are included specifically because they are women, black, or homosexual.” Apparently, not considerable enough to be taught in a college English course. And not considerable enough to receive a nod from Mr. Epstein—only dead, straight, white men need apply.

I had enjoyed hundreds of pages of Epstein’s essays over the years. He was an icon to me. And now I come across this book published almost a decade before I had ever even heard of him. I almost wish I had never seen it. How are you supposed to feel when a hero turns out to be not so wonderful as you had imagined? He states in his introduction, “I do not think the essays in Plausible Prejudices are conspicuously angry, though some among them have stirred anger in others.” Not anger for me, Joe. Just sadness. Sadness I have lost one of my idols.

It was difficult trying to get through the essays in this book after the introduction. In his other books, I savored each one, going back and re-reading them, hoping I could somehow absorb some of his skill, but knowing I probably wouldn’t. Now, all the magic was gone. They were just words. Words that left me feeling empty. ( )