The lines that open this essay I’ve taken to heart as much as anything Montaigne has written and I paraphrase often:

I do not share that common error of judging another by myself. I easily believe that another man may have qualities different from mine. Because I feel myself tied down to one form, I do not oblige everybody to espouse it, as all others do. I believe in and conceive a thousand contrary ways of life; and in contrast with the common run of men, I more easily admit difference than resemblance between us. I am as ready as you please to acquit another man from sharing my conditions and principles. I consider him simply in himself, without relation to others; I mold him to his own model.

What I don’t know for sure is if this is a philosophy I agreed with before coming across Montaigne or if it is one that I’ve developed due to my long association with him. But I do agree with it wholeheartedly. It is difficult enough to live honestly to your own values, to then apply those values to the rest of humanity is lunacy. We do not contain all of humanity within us.

Montaigne takes two other turns this this essay — upholding the value of exemplars, and then holding up Cato the Younger as a wonderful example of one. I am not as keen as Montaigne about exemplars, if for no other reason that famous people are subject to hagiography, and we draw examples from largely fictional and exaggerated tales that gloss over the messy parts of life. Part of having humility about using yourself as an example for others is a recognition that we all have our struggles — and this applies to the honored and famous as well. We should take people off their pedestals and let their memories absorb the good and bad of existence.

Then Montaigne switches to an evaluation of four poems written about Cato, which seems like an opportunity for Montaigne to declare himself a lover and deserved evaluator of fine poetry. He declared Virgil to be the greatest poet.

I cannot claim to be Montaigne’s equal as a poetry critic. Poetry has fallen into disfavor in our times, and songwriting seems to have taken its place. I spent a few hours today with a group of old friends strumming guitars and singing Beatles songs, considered some of the best examples of the art in our age. It was an activity good for the soul on many levels.

Tomorrow, I begin a new songwriting class at the Old Town School of Folk Music and take my third shot at trying to compose some songs myself. I only finished two songs from my previous attempts at the craft and have never played them publicly. But I do not consider that a failure, and perhaps now is the time for me to produce more.

Or maybe not. I already fill up every day with a workout, at least 100 pages of reading, an essay and a movie I had not watched previously, in addition to my work, household and family duties. I’m happy to add music to that list, but I’m not going to place a new demand on myself.

If something comes of this new exploration, I’ll consider it a happy surprise.