As of today, my essayists occupy just 18 inches on a single shelf of one of my bookcases—24 books, 18 writers. As I’ve aged, this exclusive group has been culled several times, usually because I decided that my relationship with them had ended. I thank them for what they have given me and then send them on to other readers. I see my essayists as interesting, insightful and inspiring friends who speak plainly on themes of importance to me. My poets, on the other hand, occupy considerably more space and reside longer on my shelves but most often serve as mentors or spiritual guides who reach out to me from a distance. True, there are some writers whose work appears in both camps, poetry and essay. Still, I keep them separated on the shelves.
Recently I took down my two books of essays by Lewis Thomas, physician, scientist and thoroughly engaging writer whose work dates from the 1970s. I hadn’t read Lives of a Cell in some years and wondered whether it was perhaps time to part ways with Thomas. Science has evolved. Perhaps the essays were hopelessly dated. But no. He still earns his place. Here’s just a taste:
It begins to look, more and more disturbingly, as if the gift of language is the single human trait that marks us all genetically, setting us apart from all the rest of life. Language is, like nest-building or hive-making, the universal and biologically specific activity of human beings.
And to think Thomas is only one of the old “friends” with whom I can have stimulating conversation any time I want.