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Masters of Chiasmus: Dr. Samuel Johnson (Part 1)

Dr. Samuel Johnson (1709-1784)

Dr. Samuel Johnson (1709-1784) is a giant in literary history. His 1755 Dictionary of the English Language was the first comprehensive dictionary of any language ever published. A voluminous writer himself, Johnson is known to the world primarily through the book of another man, Scottish writer James Boswell. In 1791, Boswell published the most famous biography ever written, The Life of Samuel Johnson. Boswell's Life minutely detailed conversations with Johnson, revealing his verbal facility, trenchant wit, storehouse of knowledge, and remarkable conversational abilities. For two centuries, The Life of Samuel Johnson has been so popular that the words we most associate with Johnson come from the biography and not his own works.

No man has ever had a deeper love of language than Samuel Johnson, so it's not surprising to discover that chiasmus shows up frequently in his conversations as well as in his written works.

This was one of a handful of quotes that piqued my interest in the subject of chiasmus ten years ago. I originally found it in Herbert Prochnow's 1942 book The Public Speaker's Treasure Chest. During my research, I discovered another version in Johnson's Lives of the Poets. Discussing Alexander Pope's poem, The Rape of the Lock, Johnson wrote, "In this work are exhibited in a very high degree the two most engaging powers of an author: new things are made familiar, and familiar things are made new."

In a story that is probably apocryphal, Johnson received a manuscript from an aspiring writer who was seeking the great man's opinion of his work. After some time, the anxious young writer received the following reply, which has become regarded as one of the most memorable put-downs in literary history:

A couple centuries later, British Prime Minister Harold Macmillan borrowed the sentiment: "As usual the Liberals offer a mixture of sound and original ideas. Unfortunately none of the sound ideas is original and none of the original ideas is sound."

Struggling writer John Gay had shopped his play, The Beggar's Opera, around to a number of London theaters, only to have it rejected again and again. Finally, he took it to theatrical producer John Rich, who saw the play's potential and decided to produce it in 1729. After it became a big hit, many Londoners, including Johnson, were heard repeating the following remark:

"It made Rich gay and Gay rich."

As a critic, Johnson often wrote about the literary life, and some of his best observations about writers and writing were in chiastic form:

In Boswell's Life, people learned more about Johnson than any other literary figure of the time, including his private observations about public figures of the day and his public pronouncements on what many regard as private and personal subjects.

Here Johnson is referring to Lord Chesterfield, a man he originally admired but eventually grew to despise. At about the same time Johnson made this remark, the acerbic English poet Alexander Pope wrote a somewhat similar line about Shakespearean scholar Lewis Theobald: "A wit with dunces, and a dunce with wits." Whether Johnson influenced Pope, or vice versa, I don't know.

I'm an avid "napophile" and take a siesta almost every day, so I was especially taken with this remark when I first discovered it. Now, thanks to Johnson, when people ask me if I take naps, I'm prone to answer, "Yes, but it's probably more accurate to say that naps take me."

"If you are idle, be not solitary; if you are solitary, be not idle."

This famous piece of Johnsonian advice was undoubtedly inspired by English writer, Robert Burton (1577-1640), who had written in his classic The Anatomy of Melancholy, "Be not solitary, be not idle."

 Continue to Part 2

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