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No one more than myself had set his face against such self-defence. ‘We didn't do that’: as though the fact of omission cancelled some sector from the account. All syllabuses are children's playpens, when one grows up there are no artificial edges to the scene. Yet there was one case at least where I was as vulnerable as anyone. When I took Schools first in 1928 I did Montaigne as a Set Author. As Gertrude Stein might say, An author is an author is an author. But a Set Author is much less than that: in the case of Montaigne, he is a selection of essays, but nothing like the whole. We had always, of course, remained on friendly terms, and though my copy of the Essais was on a higher shelf, I had remained convinced of my good acquaintance with them. Were there not still one or two sentences, one or two attitudes, which lingered in my memory? (C'est une absolue perfection et comme divine de jouir loyallement de son estre). The fact was that I had never read Montaigne whole. I did so first, quite naturally, in Italian, in the translation printed at Venice in 1633, a book so rare that you almost have to come to Birmingham to find it. And I expect it was this circumstance which led me in this direction. Saggi/di Michel/Sig. di Montagna,/Overo/Discorsi, Naturali, Politici, e Morali. To that invitation to a parallel let us add the dates: Montaigne was born in 1533, two years after the appearance of the Discorsi su Tito Livio; and he died in 1592, thirty years after the publication of the Storia d'Italia, on which he made a memorable judgment in his Essais.
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