We are back to the traditional essay form, after a detour into Oliver Sacks, and an abortive taste of William James (which we decided was too far afield from the essay form). I asked Claude.ai to provide a short list of Johnson’s most acclaimed essays from The Rambler, with links to online versions, and we read those.
I find Johnson a bit of a chore to read, although I appreciate his writing. To help consolidate it, I’ve adopted the practice of reading paragraph, and the writing a single sentence that summarizes it.
This time, as an experiment, after writing and consolidating my summary sentences into a precis, I gave Claude.ai the text and asked it to produce a precis of the same length. I was impressed by the results – Claude.ai did as well as I did, although I am confident I will remember the essays better, and appreciate them more, because of my efforts. Below, for each essay, I provide both my own precis and those produced by Claude.ai, as well as links to the essays themselves.
No. 2. The necessity and danger of looking into futurity
No. 2 (imagination vs. execution): https://www.johnsonessays.com/the-rambler/no-2-the-necessity-and-danger-of-looking-into-futurity/
Tom’s Precis
We are distracted from the present by dreams of the future. This manner of wasting time has been widely ridiculed. Yet this condemnation is indulged because those who level it can feel superior, imagining that they think more deeply and possess more perspicuity than the general public. Because it is so easy to mock, writers fail to examine the virtues of looking ahead.
Yet the inclination to look ahead seems unavoidable. Human progress is gradual, and it is only as we progress that we are able to see new things. And when we attain an end, a new one will be in sight: the human mind moves from hope to hope. To make progress you must attend to your goal, which despite its uncertainty provides motivation.
Even the most repeated maxim contains some truth, otherwise it would not persist. It is true by fixing too strongly upon the imagined results of success, one may neglect the practicalities of achieving it. But little would be undertaken unless we did not, to some degree, magnify the rewards of success. Still, we can overdo it, just as a plant may suffer as much from too much sun as too little.
Authors may be particularly prone to this sort of error, in thinking of their writings. I am only lightly touched, and will endeavor to fortify myself against this.
Epictetus advises that one should often think of what is most terrible, to diminish one’s hopes. A new writer should imagine that he may lack the ability to achieve success; this view may be buttressed by looking at all those authors who came before and are now forgotten. Even talented authors my go unnoticed. The public may be too lazy to read anything without an established reputation; others may neglect new offerings because they are not open to new thinking, or are tainted by suspcion or envy. The learned may hesitate to recommend because they are careful of their reputations, and the ignorant may wish to portray themselves as wise by being critical. Writers who succeed, in spite of all this, must acknowledge their debts to things beyond their personal learning, talent, and industry.
Claude’s Precis (Opus 4.8)
Johnson examines the human tendency to live in the future rather than the present. The mind, he observes, is never satisfied with what lies immediately before it but is always “breaking away from the present moment,” losing itself in schemes of future happiness—neglecting the time we actually have in order to prepare for enjoyments that may never arrive.
He notes how easily critics mock this habit. Condemning others flatters one’s own sense of superiority, and recycling familiar complaints lets a writer “shine without labour, and conquer without a contest.” Ridiculing the dreamer who refuses present ease for distant pleasures is a smooth, flowery path—which is precisely why Johnson distrusts it and asks whether it actually leads to truth.
The habit, he argues, is in fact unavoidable for a creature whose life is progressive and whose powers are limited. We must use means to reach ends, intending first what we perform last, and at every stage we discover new motives, fears, and desires. Each goal, once gained, turns out to be merely a means to some further goal. The mind moves not “from pleasure to pleasure, but from hope to hope.” The farmer turns the soil only because he thinks of a harvest that blight or flood might still destroy.
Yet the warning against fixing our eyes too intently on remote rewards has real merit, even if it’s usually delivered carelessly. We often indulge the thrill of success so early that we neglect the steps needed to secure it, letting the moment slip away. Still, few difficult enterprises would ever be attempted if we couldn’t magnify their imagined rewards. Don Quixote’s grand delusions, Johnson notes, differ from our own private fantasies only in degree—when we laugh at him, our hearts admit he merely says aloud what we have quietly thought.
Authors are especially vulnerable. A writer with a lively imagination races mentally to the press and to posterity, anticipating future honors before doing the work. Johnson, feeling the first symptoms of this “writer’s malady” himself, tries to fortify against it. He counsels aspiring writers to expect neglect—the cruelest fate, worse than hatred or opposition—since even genuine merit is easily lost amid life’s noise, blocked by lazy, envious, and prejudiced readers who resist whatever is new.
No. 5. A meditation on the Spring.
03 Apr 1750
No. 5 (spring): https://www.johnsonessays.com/the-rambler/no-5-a-meditation-on-the-spring/
Tom’s Precis
Discontent with the present leads us to imagine a felicitous future where barriers to our happiness are gone. When this future arrives, it does not live up to our imaginings; but we simply fix our imagination on a new future. If someone is going to do this, it is best if they imagine ends which are wholly outside their power; for then, at least, they don’t try to do anything to achieve the ends.
One such person imagined that things would improve with the spring. When the season passed without the foreseen improvements, they would simply expect improvements in the following spring. This person has infected me with the same enthusiasm.
And indeed, there is something inexpressibly pleasing about the spring in the way the world transforms from its dreary winter state. Spring’s greenness, pleasant smells, beautiful sounds, abounding growth, and lovely weather serve as a powerful simile for hope!
Some people cannot, perhaps, bear self-reflection and instead struggle to escape by immersing themselves in the mundane world. Those who are incapable of comtemplation must turn to other means to avoid depression.
I will address myself to those who lack the knowledge of nature. Everyone ought to reflect on what they see around them; that is the point of taking a walk.Nature provides an inexhaustible store of materials to reflect on; reflection may range from discovering practical qualities of elements of nature to provoking adoration of God. This will not apply to everyone, but it is not improper to offer these suggestions to those who are depressed. And young people, in the spring of their lives, could gain much pleasure from attention to the natural world, while remembering that the flowers of the spring are but preparation for the fruits of autumn
Claude’s Precis (Opus 4.8)
Johnson opens by noting that almost everyone, dissatisfied with something in their present life, lets the imagination chase future happiness, fixing on some moment when a removed inconvenience or a gained advantage will finally improve things. When that moment arrives, it usually comes without the hoped-for blessing—so we simply latch onto a new prospect and press forward again.
He describes a man he once knew who managed this temper harmlessly by always referring the cure of his troubles to “the next spring.” Ill health, high prices—spring would fix them. Spring routinely failed to deliver, but he was always sure the next would be kinder, and he spoke of spring as still coming until it had passed, at which point everyone agreed it was indeed coming.
Such fondness for spring, Johnson notes, is shared by nearly every great poet, and even the golden age was imagined as a perpetual spring.There is something deeply pleasing in the world’s annual renewal: after winter’s cold and bareness, each early flower feels like a messenger of happier days, and nature wears “the smile” of gaiety.
Yet some people take no delight in this and flee to cards, taverns, and idle chatter. Johnson lays down a reliable rule: when a man cannot bear his own company, something is wrong—he is either escaping an empty mind or fleeing painful thoughts. Setting aside those crushed by genuine sorrow, he addresses people merely bored because they never learned to “read the characters” in the open book of nature.
A French writer claimed few men know how to take a walk, and Johnson agrees—changing your position is pointless if your attention stays fixed. Curiosity about nature multiplies the inlets to happiness without tempting envy. He urges his younger readers to use both the spring of the year and the spring of life, since a blighted spring makes a barren year.
No. 14. The difference between an author’s writings and his conversation
No. 14 (writing vs. conversation): https://www.johnsonessays.com/the-rambler/no-14-the-difference-between-an-authors-writings-and-his-conversation/
Tom’s Precis
The writing and conversation of an author may be strongly inconsistent; this is evinced by Milton’s self-congratulation on avoiding this circumstance in an interview with a visitor. Many have had their high opinions of an author dashed upon encountering the writer in person. Just as oriental monarchs hid themselves in palaces to preserve the august reputations, so ought authors.
It is obvious why someone may write better than they live: writing is not subject to the same pressures and constrains as living. The many impediments–passions, disruptions, the press of time—that create challenges in life may be banished when one only propounds a theory. So it is no surprise that one’s lived experience does not match one’s precepts laid down in solitude, safety and tranquility.
Yet it is valuable to have ideals; even the most remiss may atone for their faults by acknowledging their failings. It’s not fair to call someone like this a hypocrite: they may sincerely believe in their precepts, even while failing to practice them. It is better to have high ideals, and fail at achieving them, than to cynically abandon ideas because of the imagined hypocrisy of others. Because of this cynicism, it is incumbent on authors to be, at least, no worse than others. Bacon takes the approach of first setting forth a lofty ideal, but then offering lesser but more practicable virtues. Hale long concealed his religious activities, fearing that his actions should bring piety into disgrace.
Many seek to know authors for other reasons: flights of wit, sallies of pleasantry, elegant diction, and keen analysis.
Authors are particularly liable to this inconsistency because the solitude of their work keeps them from the public interactions which might enable the refinement of manners and public speaking. Thus men of letters “may be without that readiness of conception, and affluence of language, always necessary to colloquial entertainment.” It is like entering a large city, which appears splendid from a distance, but up close is decrepit and diseased.
Claude’s Precis (Opus 4.8)
Johnson notes a common inconsistency: the striking gap between an author’s life and his writings. He praises Milton for being found, in private conversation, equal to his own public reputation—a rare achievement. More often, readers who seek out a writer they admire come away disappointed; the sparkling bubble becomes plain water at the touch, and the imagined perfection vanishes. Worse, seeing virtue’s best advocates “loitering below” may discourage others from climbing toward virtue themselves.
He compares this to oriental monarchs who hide in their palaces, known only by their edicts. A writer, like a ruler, benefits from concealment, since people resist being taught by someone who shares their own faults. An intruder might find an admired author behaving no more nobly than Sardanapalus busy with trivial amusements.
Yet Johnson explains why a man naturally writes better than he lives: it is far easier to design than to perform. The writer plans in calm abstraction, free from hope, fear, appetite, and affection—like someone teaching navigation on dry land, where the sea is always smooth. The man actually living must act amid passions, accidents, and a thousand inconveniences, forced to choose before he can examine. So we shouldn’t be surprised that people fail in practice at precepts they laid down in tranquil solitude.
Still, ideals of perfection must be proposed so we have something to aim at, and a flawed man partly atones for his faults by warning others against them. Johnson rejects the charge of hypocrisy: a man can sincerely recommend virtues he hasn’t yet achieved, just as he might praise a journey he lacks the courage to take. An argument’s force doesn’t depend on whether its proposer lives up to it. Nonetheless, since this prejudice persists, a writer should try to practice what he teaches—and should at least not behave worse than ordinary people simply because he writes well.
Finally, Johnson observes that the gifts of writing and conversation differ. The scholar spends his polishing years in study and often proves awkward or arrogant in company. Meeting an admired author can be like entering a city admired from afar: the distant spires of palaces give way, up close, to narrow passages, mean cottages, and smoke.
No. 29. The folly of anticipating misfortunes
No. 29 (envy/anticipating misfortunes): https://www.johnsonessays.com/the-rambler/no-29-the-folly-of-anticipating-misfortunes/
Tom’s Precis
The poets of antiquity recommend focusing on the pleasures of the here and now. Their teachings should not be ignored, but note that they are focused on pleasure rather than instruction. This is not surprising, since as heathens they had no expectations of heaven or eternity. But among these incitements to pleasure one may find wise reflections on life.
We should not submit passively to what comes our way, but nor should we struggle too much about unknowable and uninfluenceable future events. A wise man is never surprised, but it because he has thought less about the future. “He escapes disappointment because he never forms any expectations.”
Anxiety about things to come is not provoked by the variability of life, but by a fear of misfortune. This temper, like jealousy, poisons his thinking about the future. While moralists suggest mitigating hope by remembering the vagaries of life, one may mitigate fear in the same way. Evil, like good, is uncertain, and for the reasons we ought not hope too securely, so we ought not fear too greatly. Don’t fear misfortunes before they happen; otherwise life will be dismal. If it is improper to fear events, like death, which must happen, it is even more improper to fear those that may never happen. No one has ever found the realization of one’s hopes as delightful as the expectation thereof; the same is true of evil.Fear is painful, and if it does not provide a path to safety it is useless.
Claude’s Precis (Opus 4.8)
Johnson examines the folly of anticipating misfortunes. He begins with the ancient poets, who frequently urged seizing the present hour and dismissing care. He regards them as unreliable moral teachers—more eager to please than instruct—and faults modern imitators especially, since unlike the pagans they have the hopes and fears of eternity to consider and shouldn’t simply echo old maxims of debauchery. Still, even a flawed genius scatters real wisdom worth treasuring.
Their warning against probing the future, he argues, shows sound judgment. While idle passivity in the face of calamity is beneath a reasonable being, it is equally foolish to torment ourselves over events not yet in existence—things we cannot influence or even know will happen. The wise man’s famous freedom from surprise comes not from foreseeing more but from thinking less about futurity: he forms no expectations, so he suffers no disappointment.
Such desponding anticipation resembles jealousy in love or suspicion in dealings—a temper that keeps a man perpetually alarmed, scheming against evils that never threatened him, and sometimes producing the very mischief he dreaded. Crucially, the examples moralists use to curb vain hope work equally well against fear: evil is as uncertain as good. Fortune may topple the persecutors we dread, or our enemies may weaken before we meet them.
Both hope and fear are fallacious, hope enlarging happiness and fear aggravating calamity; in reality no distress proves as formidable as imagination paints it, since every trial brings unforeseen supports. Above all, time spent fearing the future is stolen from the present, the only time truly ours.
Rambler #134 [Procrastination]
No. 134 (procrastination): https://www.samueljohnson.com/ram134.html
Tom’s Precis
I tried to think about what to write this essay about, but had no luck until I had to turn something in. While I can produce something under these circumstances, I reproached myself for idleness; but I felt superior too.Everyone puts off, to a greater or lesser degree, what must be done; it is a persistent challenge. It is easier to believe that a later time will somehow make the task easier. It is easier to act than suffer, yet every day we put things off; it is difficult to be sympathetic with those who do nothing to help themselves.
Fear or frequent irresolution becomes a habit, and can make life miserable. Those who are idle gain nothing; remorse and vexation will eliminate any pleasure. Some procrastinate because they see so many options, and try to purse them all. The perfect is enemy of the good.
Life is short. It is better to try, even if one does not complete the task, than to never try.
Claude’s Precis (Opus 4.8)
Johnson opens with himself: he spent yesterday morning idly deliberating which subject to write on, deciding nothing, until a summons from the press forced him to write under pressure. He reproaches himself for the delay, yet takes some comfort that he, who merely trifled until diligence became necessary, is still better off than those who trifle until diligence is useless and are condemned to barren sorrow.
This folly of postponing the unavoidable, he argues, afflicts every mind—the most pertinacious of passions, often beaten but never destroyed. We persuade ourselves that necessity is far off, and so waste life collecting resolution that each morning dissipates. Every surrender to fear enlarges its dominion; when evils can’t be avoided, wisdom lies in shortening the dread by meeting them.
Acting is easier than suffering, yet many freeze in idleness like a Tantalus who won’t lift his hand. Others are paralyzed by acuteness—weighing too many options, or refusing to act without unreachable perfection. Since life is short and uncertain, every man should pursue his aims now; even one cut off mid-effort dies honorably in his rank.
No. 208. The Rambler’s reception. His design.
(Fini): https://www.johnsonessays.com/the-rambler/no-208-the-ramblers-reception-his-design/
Tom:
This is Johnson’s goodbye, the last of The Rambler essays. I read it, but did not have time to produce a precis. But, as has been the case with the foregoing, Claude.ai’s version is quite good.
Claude’s Precis (Opus 4.8)
Johnson announces the end of the Rambler after two years and more than two hundred essays. He declines to explain his reasons, doubting anyone will inquire, since he was never a public favorite and never courted patrons, praise, or fashionable attention. He never flattered curiosity about the topic of the day or used living people as examples; his readers were only those whom virtue could please “by its naked dignity.”
He thanks his few friends, identifies the handful of papers contributed by correspondents, and accepts full accountability for his faults, refusing to soften criticism through false modesty or dedication to a patron. A writer bound to compose on a fixed day, he notes, often works with a distracted mind and exhausted body.
He claims one solid achievement: refining the English language toward purity and elegance, drawing chiefly on native resources. His aim throughout was wisdom and piety, not novelty or merriment, and his serious essays conform to Christian precepts. He asks only to be counted among writers who gave ardor to virtue and confidence to truth.
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