Sentimental education: of discovering the self within a book

The other day in one of my seminars, a classmate, who I will refer to as “C,” revealed that his favorite book was John Kennedy Toole’s A Confederacy of Dunces. I was absolutely flabbergasted—not from shock, but by how perfectly the book matched his personality.

A little background story will help to elucidate my bewilderment. A Confederacy of Dunces revolves around Ignatius J. Reilly, an obese, selfish, sarcastic, lazy, pedantic, failed Boethius scholar. The book itself is a whirlwind of madcap events and caricatural bit players.

Now, C is also a character in his own right. Trust me, he is memorable. Like Ignatius, and to a certain extent John Kennedy Toole, C is one of those singular types who straddle the line between crazy and potentially “genius.” While I cannot attest to his genius or lack thereof, I can safely state that he is the only person I know who can be so completely encapsulated in one book. This made me jealous. I wanted—no, needed—to find a book wholly representative of myself.

I ran through my mental list of favorite titles to see which one screamed “Lucy Tang!” and only “Lucy Tang!” Confessions? I could only identify with Augustine pre-conversion—post-conversion Augustine was too virtuous. Middlemarch? Maybe it’s Columbia’s academic environment, but a little part of me still prefers Casaubon to Laidislaw. My ordinary thought process is a bit too silly for Mythologies and Illuminations. The Woman Warrior is too obvious, and I don’t totally agree with Maxine Hong Kingston’s portrayal of the Chinese-American experience.

As I’ve aged, I’ve come to realize that many people suffer panic attacks whenever the thought of death arises—there goes Nothing to Be Frightened Of. Herzog, Rabbit, Run, or Infinite Jest would suit me just fine, if I were a 20-something white male slaving over the next great American novel in Washington Heights.

Or perhaps Proust is right: “In reality every reader is, while he is reading, the reader of his own self.” When reading Rousseau’s Émile, I find a kindred spirit in Sophie, who bemoans her unrealistic crush on a character in a book. And does it come as any surprise that Mary—“the only plain one in the family, [who] worked hard for knowledge and accomplishments, was always impatient for display”—is my favorite character in Pride and Prejudice? Junot Díaz’s Oscar Wao loves anime, while I occasionally peek at The 4400 fan fiction.

Even when I go on the subway, I bring at least two books (sometimes I’ll substitute one for a magazine or journal). How am I supposed to choose one to embody myself? Maybe it’s good that I’m not so easily pigeonholed, even if the book that encompassed me were part of the western canon.

Then I realized—Montaigne! Of course! Les Essais! When I first met Montaigne, I was 18 and cavorting around in gold lamé. Needless to say, it wasn’t love at first sight. But he was patient and came back in the spring of my sophomore year—I fell, and fell hard. For two and a half weeks, he was my constant companion—“We go hand in hand at the same pace, my book and I” (“Of Repentance”).

Now, one year later, I’m still lugging around my copy of Les Essais, marked with honey, wine, chocolate, and even blood stains. Next year, I look forward to weekly rendezvous with Michel. I’d be hard-pressed to think of a better author to frame my college experience.

In “Of Giving the Lie,” Montaigne describes Les Essais as “a book consubstantial with its author.” So, by reading Les Essais, I become consubstantial with Montaigne. As Pascal writes in Pensées: “It is not in Montaigne, but in myself that I find everything that I see there.”

Well, what drew me to him? That is best answered by the man himself: “If you press me to tell why I loved him, I feel that cannot be expressed, except by answering: Because it was he, because it was I.”

Lucy Tang is a Columbia College junior majoring in English. Sentimental Education runs alternate Mondays.

Tags: Arts & Entertainment, Lucy Tang, sentimental education