[APPLAUSE]
Good evening.
[COUGHING] Sorry, I'm kind of getting over a cold.
The genre of the introduction includes
a few but simple necessary rules.
I should mention how I was introduced to the author's
work, how it has affected me, and perhaps
how I've disseminated that life-altering information.
Then I should quote a particularly insightful line
from the author's work and offer a warm and shrewd criticism
followed by a note-- followed by a few notable awards
from the author's CV and a careful pause
between my pleasure to introduce and the author's name.
[LAUGHTER]
But introducing tonight's guest presents small complications
when approaching this generic form.
The most obvious would be that the word count in his CV
more resembles a short novel than a list of accolades.
But even more impressive than tonight's
reader's litany of publications and awards spanning
every genre imaginable is the influence
his works have had on the academy,
on the essay as art form, and on the lives of writers
everywhere.
Aside from the words Phillip Lopate commits to page,
it's necessary to praise the words of other writers
he's organized into anthology.
His work, The Art of the Personal Essay,
historicizes the essay to its origins
of philosophical meanderings of Seneca,
who argues that the usefulness of distracting noise--
excuse me-- who argues for the usefulness of distracting
noise, and Montaigne, the grandfather of the personal
essay, while a section from Sei Shonagon's Pillow Book
demonstrates her fierce autonomy and wry--
[COUGHING]
--excuse me-- and wry disapproval of the 10th century
Japan.
These origins of the personal essay
have paved the way for MFK Fisher's beautiful indulgences,
James Baldwin's unapologetic anger and honesty,
and later to the banality of Joan Didion's migraines, and--
[COUGHING]
--and the revelry at the precipice
of Wendell Berry's "Woods."
This collection of essays foregrounded
what has become perhaps the most expansive literary genre
in the last 20 years.
And while this anthology has been
doing important, quiet work, Phillip Lopate
has been there alongside it, reminding us that, quote,
"The essay is an enactment of the creation of the self."
In his most recent collection, The Portrait Inside My Head,
Lopate demonstrates his genuine curiosity
and his relentless approach to exploration through writing,
whether the concern is the extension of his own empathy,
why he loves baseball, or when Reznikoff finally
wrote the poet's novel.
In the essay, "Tea at the Plaza,"
he rediscovers that, quote, "Life
is composed at bottom of loss, futility, and ineluctable
sorrow.
There is nothing you can do but laugh about it."
And then there's a moment when he finds himself at a Protect
the Panthers gathering with--
excuse me-- gathering in Berkeley,
where Mao's China was a standard of purity and, quote,
"A framed portrait of Stalin hung above the counter."
And the author incredulously asked himself,
what am I doing here?
Lopate's work elucidates both the banal and the brilliant,
uncovers the cool and the quotidian.
In his craft book To Show and to Tell,
he reminds essayists that, quote,
"We may never be in possession of the truth.
But we can try to be as honest as our courage permits."
Phillip Lopate's courage is big, his intellect immense,
and his humanity is thoughtful and tender.
And while we owe him more than we can possibly know,
tonight, we can at least give him our attention.
And it's my pleasure to introduce you
to Phillip Lopate.