Once more! It is meant to help young men—or such as have intelligence enough to seek help—but it is not meant to amuse them. Everyone agrees that this book is difficult and odd. An autobiography of an American man of letters, the son of a diplomat, grandson of a president, historian, journalist, secretary, all told in the third person, written for his private circle of friends.
I must admit that I found this book exasperating in the extreme. The seven years in teaching seemed to him lost. Another exasperating element is the degree to which Adams assumes a familiarity with the intricacies of 19th century politics. The book swings wildly in tone from dry note-taking to half-formed and half-coherent abstractions, all written in a prose style lucidly opaque. Adams also gives the impression of being a bit muddle-headed. I seldom came across an insight of his that was insightful.
In short, the impression was that Adams had taken all of the stuff of his life—his doings, his friendships, his thoughts, his career, his background—and left it out to bake in the hot sun, until all the savor and succulence was scorched out of it, leaving only a tough jerky that wearies the jaw in the attempt to chew the husk.
Still, after all this, I must admit that this book has a strange power. Adams always seemed to be only two steps away from a great insight, an astounding thought; but he never quite reaches it, which is why the book can seem so tragic. He was always searching and never finding; and the reader is left in doubt what he was searching for, and whether anyone will ever find it.
In his elegant, knotty prose, he turns out aphorism after aphorism—all apparently insightful, but in reality empty—popping like soap bubbles leaving nothing but air. And what saves the book is that Adams knew this, and yet could do nothing better. I read this book in preparation for my visit to Chartres, which was just last week.
