Book Review: Essayism by Brian Dillon

Brian Dillon 
Essayism 
On Form, Feeling, and Nonfiction
by Brian Dillon
New York Review Books (2017)
172 pp

In Essayism, Brian Dillon dispels the notion that the essay is an excuse for not being able to commit to a long-term project. Some essays, for example, On Being Blue by William H. Gass or Camera Lucida by Roland Barthes, are over a hundred pages, hardly the output of an uncommitted, dilettante writer. 

It is not the word or page count that separates the erudite literary writer from the ho-hum hack. The essay in long form or short is a coherent work that allows the reader to experience a way of being that has never before been seen, felt, or heard. The essay will spur the reader to another way of reimagining the world. 

The paradoxical nature of the essay is as multi-layered and multi-faceted as the lapidary who must cut a stone that will have no sharp edges and no detritus to cast aside. This is not to suggest that all essays are smooth, well cut stones. Writing an essay is a messy business. As a work of art, the essay sustains a ragged coherence as though it is somewhat unfinished, and yet, it is unsparingly and unequivocally done. 
 
In love with the written word, and immersed in the world of the written word, Brian Dillon reveals the true métier of a writer. He is a writer’s writer, explaining that the more you write, “the more likely you are to feel that it is not, never will be, enough.”

There are many fine examples of essays and their creators, ranging from Elizabeth Hardwick to Cyril Connoly. Dillon’s presentation of Elizabeth Hardwick invites examination of her use of commas, along with a short stint featuring the legendary singer Billie Holiday. The Unquiet Grave by Cyril Connolly begins with “The more books we read, the clearer it becomes that the true function of a writer is to produce a masterpiece and that no other task is of any consequence.” 

Each chapter of Essayism is an essay unto itself. The layering of each essay brings to bear the beauty found in truth—and that is the essence of the essay.  While each essay is a jeweled story containing many facets, not all are beautiful. The obscure references found in On Aphorisms drove me to distraction. Dillon’s waxing about Susan Sontag is over-the-top; he captures her as a bit pretentious, a poseur. In one of the films made of her by Andy Warhol, Dillon writes, “Her froideur was short lived: she doesn’t after all know how to be, or who she is.”

Dillon notes that every essay should have what he called (privately) its particular “guiding metaphor.” Once this guiding metaphor is embodied in the essay, it now has the distinction of being much greater than simply competent writing. A great essay unfolds to fulfill a promise—it becomes a coherent piece that takes the reader to another place without knowing he is being carried away. 

Brian Dillon deftly uses the power of the “guided metaphor” to teach other writers, intentionally or not, to become better writers. The concept of the guided metaphor is apparent in many of Dillon’s own essays as well as in the essays of others.  On the Details makes me weep at the writing of Maeve Brennan. Her spare prose, don’t tell us but show us, gives the reader a sense of what is really happening. 

Dillon’s visit to the English coastal town Margate in On Consolation conjures memories of his past that have never happened there. On Consolation took me to Dillon’s past, present, the future, and in some small, sad way it’s a tad bittersweet, and oddly, joyful too. How did he pack the mystery, the myriad of emotions and the untraceable steps of memory into a beautifully drawn essay, in a mere four pages?

Each and every one of us has a past. In Dillon’s essay On Consolation, Margate is more than a town but a metaphor for memory, for the memories of our own past. I found my own past in Margate, and it carried me away.  I read the essay, as brief as it is, as a place in time I wanted to visit again and again. Margate, I have never been there, but I found a guide to return to the places where I have been.