Ah, Joseph Epstein, that most elegant of writers almost from a bygone time, with his jokiness, his brio, his off-the-charts smarts, his round glasses and cable knit sweaters.
Epstein helmed The American Scholar for 25 years, which I know because a) I just looked it up; and b) I was weirdly friends with this old guy who lived with his "child bride" (his words) in a house packed with furniture and books and ashtrays (the living room had two sofas, one in front of the other - it was a little bit like sitting in business class, if business class had fur bestrewn, cigarette burned seats) and he used to subscribe to the NYROB, the New Yorker, NYT Book Reviews, The American Scholar, and the Spectator, among others. He never in a million years read all these things, but he gave it the old college try. He also bought books by the truckload and didn't read most of those, either. It took him half an hour to roll one cigarette, for god's sakes. He was fabulous, but the point is, he used to send me home with bags of these things once he was done with them (or said he was done with them) ... and in short, that’s how I met Joseph Epstein.
The American Scholar, for those who don’t know it, is not for the feeble-minded. Obvious as it may seem, it tends to be for scholars and the odd non-academic who has a snicker-jack mind. I do not have a membership in either of those clubs. Also, let’s keep in mind, I was inundated with this stuff, as well, once it was passed along. The only thing I felt remotely comfortable with was The New Yorker and the NYT Book Review. The NYROB reviewed books like “Unnatural Disaster: The Finer Points of Fracking” or “Emmanuel Kant: True Epistemologist or Aesthetic Dilettante?” and stuff like that there, which was just not, mmmm. The American Scholar I didn’t even pretend to be up for, intellectually. I was also 25 at the time, with not much accredited education to my name, and ... yeah. Didn’t really read any articles.
But I read every essay of Epstein’s in every issue of the Scholar, and they were the most charming, accessible, erudite and witty pieces of writing I’d likely ever come across at the time. There’s something so pleasurable in reading writing that someone seems to just take so much delight in. It’s contagious. There was something kind of funny about looking forward to getting the new Scholar, so I could read his piece. If it sounds like a kid from the 60s waiting for the paper so they can grab the funnies, the analogy is pretty apt.