Opinions — Reading Notes

The Preface as Performance

Washburn’s preface does more than introduce; it enacts the book’s central conceit. He calls it “the shortest” essay and a quick test of whether to borrow the volume. This self-deprecating frame is consistent throughout: he admits novelists are “not among the most veracious of people” and that opinions, once printed, may cease to be believed even by their author. The preface also introduces a recurring image—opinions as “clogging sediment in a water-pipe”—that grounds abstract reflection in a concrete, almost mechanical metaphor. Washburn’s tone is conversational, but his structure is deliberate: he loops back to the difficulty of ridding oneself of opinions, then undercuts the whole enterprise by doubting that any writer’s opinions have real effect. The preface thus functions as both a genuine essay and a playful disclaimer.

Italian Prose and the Weight of Models

In the excerpt on Italian composition, Washburn contrasts his own Harvard training—“say what you have to say, if anything, in as few words as possible”—with Italian schools that prescribe florid models like Manzoni and De Amicis. He calls Cuore “obscene” for its forced sentimentality, and cites a mother proudly showing him a letter from her daughter that reads, “Beloved Mamma ... I think of you always, always.” The example is specific and damning. Washburn’s critique is not merely aesthetic; it is structural. He argues that this methodical corruption produces a prose style “hopelessly verbose and weighted with rhetorical emotional platitudes.” The passage moves from a personal anecdote about Harvard to a broader cultural observation, then back to a concrete instance—a pattern that recurs throughout the collection.

American Business and Italian Taste

Washburn’s eye for incongruity appears in his aside about an American five-and-ten-cent store in Italy. He imagines “a full-blooded corkscrew at two lire, a hearty can-opener at one lira” selling briskly, and notes that Italians pore over Saturday Evening Post advertisements. The observation is tossed off, but it reveals a method: Washburn moves from a specific, almost absurd image to a larger point about cultural inconsistency. He does not argue systematically; instead, he lets the image carry the weight. This associative structure gives the essays a conversational rhythm, but it also means that transitions can feel abrupt. The reader must follow the thread of Washburn’s attention, which shifts from Italian prose to American commerce without explicit signposting.

Self-Deprecation as a Structural Device

Throughout the excerpts, Washburn undercuts his own authority. He calls novelists “not among the most veracious of people,” admits that his Harvard training left him with “an almost guilty feeling,” and speculates that literary immortality is a myth—except for the Tauchnitz Edition. This self-deprecation is not merely tonal; it structures the argument. By doubting his own influence, Washburn frees himself to make sweeping claims without appearing dogmatic. The preface’s claim that opinions must be “embalmed in print” to be released is itself offered as a mystery. The essays thus proceed by indirection, building credibility through confessed limitation. Readers should expect a voice that is authoritative in its observations but skeptical of its own conclusions.

Washburn’s Opinions rewards a reader willing to follow digressions. The essays are best approached not as arguments but as performances—each one a demonstration of how a mind moves from a specific detail to a general reflection. Pay attention to the images: the water-pipe, the corkscrew, the Harvard red marks. They are the anchors that keep the prose from drifting into abstraction. The collection’s structure is loose, but its voice is consistent: wry, precise, and unafraid to contradict itself.

That rainy afternoon, Claude Washburn’s habit of turning even a preface into an essay made me linger over the mechanics of a writer’s self-regard. His gentle mockery of permanence left me wondering how another restless soul handled fame. So I drifted to the fourth volume of his letters, Life of Lord Byron, Vol. 4 With His Letters and Journals — A Reader’s Guide, and found a similar, quiet ache.