This book is like an inside joke with myself that I have carried around, mostly unread, since high school. We learned the term "aphorism" in class and realized it was the primary form of expression for my very dear and very clever friend, whom I desperately wanted to impress. And Geary opens with some memorable stories about his kind of dumb coed stunt dispersing aphorisms out of a plastic globe, which led him to meet his wife, and later getting an actual San Francisco fortune cookie factory to make cookies with the fortunes he wrote. Geary’s sunny, witty prose are charming, but this reads a bit like a 200-page magazine piece. The aphorists of bygone days are decently interesting, but for the most part it's the usual suspects (dead white guys, mostly miserable) and nothing in their biographies that you couldn't find elsewhere.
But imagine researching a history of this very particular genre, "aphorism," when almost no one who wrote them ever called them by that name. They are called "koans" (Zen Buddhism), "pensées" (Joubert), "throwaway lines” and "splinters" (Kraus), "voices" (Porchia), "fraszki" (translated "trifles," Lee), or “random scraps of paper in boxes discovered after your death” (Chamfort). I can’t help it—I’m not sixteen but I still love a pithy phrase and the people who spout them. And to add context to these standalone phrases, so memorable that most of us have not a clue where they came from, is occasionally rewarding. It might be worth knowing that the person who first quipped, “No snowflake in an avalanche ever feels responsible” was a thoroughly disillusioned communist writing under censorship. Several of these characters put a truly amazing amount of effort into distilling the wisdom of their age into something that would fit in your memory. This is all you get.