Everyone knows that the best acknowledgments manage to cannily relate the subject of the forthcoming book to the act of acknowledging at hand, and in my case this is an unjustly easy task. For the first and most obvious thing to say about self-help is that it is a fallacy that omits the invisible supporters who have enabled the individual to cope, perhaps even to succeed, whatever that may mean. Benjamin Franklin notoriously left out mention of his wife and servants, Dale Carnegie omitted some of his key textual precedents, and, though the achievement of my book seems modest in comparison, I have benefited no less than these “self-made” men from the conditions of support that have allowed me to think, write, and persevere.
The first omission of self-help, typically, is the parents, and I have to admit that, whatever kicking and screaming may have occurred, with perhaps a peak in the grunge-addled 1990s, I would probably not choose any others if I could do this life over again. From whom else could I have learned, as I did from my father, the commitment to scholarly risk-taking, nonconformity, and the deep and soul-sustaining joy of writing and the examined life? And whom else would have, like my mother, planted the idea of the writer’s vocation so early in my mind, if even by naming me after my literature-obsessed aunt, and whom else’s creativity and adventurousness could have provided the spirited counterweight to my own—too often brooding—groundedness? They are not only my parents but often my truest, and most complicated, friends.
I am no less indebted to my wider, extended family for the pleasures and consolations they provide: Elke Grenzer, who helped me work through this project’s earliest iteration, and who is always up for a spirited discussion, and to Paula and Hannah—for the things that only they will ever understand. My love and gratitude to Estelle, Jean-François, Marieke, François, Félix, Floryanne, and Évelyne, for enthusiastically following the development of this book, and for giving me so many moments of laughter and warmth during the years of its composition.
Teachers are often given short shrift in narratives of self-making, but mine have been crucial and inexpressibly kind, so that I know that I will spend the rest of my career attempting to pay my pedagogic good fortune forward. It began with Mr. Charles Lavers at Huron Street Public School, who allowed me to type up my earliest poetic forays on the Commodore newly installed—to great commotion—beside his desk. I’m grateful to Dana Dragunoiu, who insisted I go to graduate school, and who instilled in me a lasting love of Russian literature; Mary Esteve, a bright star in Montreal’s scholarly scene; Ariela Freedman and the faculty of that soulful gem of a program, Concordia’s Liberal Arts College. I found there Miriam Israel, Marc-André Boisvert, and Charlotte Colbert, friends I will always treasure.
My streak of great teachers continued in graduate school, in particular with Damien Keane at SUNY Buffalo, who always offers crucial, careful feedback, and also with Michael Sayeau and Ruth Mack, who inspired me to brave the ice storms and “lake effects” to attend their wonderful classes.
I entered the program at UPenn the same year that Paul Saint-Amour arrived there, and much of this book is motivated by a desire to do justice to the true gift of his intellectual attention. I’m grateful to have had an advisor who shares my investment in the beautiful alchemy of a good sentence, and whose own work models more of these than I could count. His radical kindness has become a fixture for all of his students, and for many others in the profession. When, exhausted after a long day, I remember a student’s last-minute recommendation request, I think of Paul’s incredible generosity, dedication, and conscientiousness, and blearily open up my computer.
I leave every conversation with Jed Esty invigorated, abuzz with the energy of his infectious spirit. He is a fount of wisdom and good-naturedness. If you have ever so much as sat in a Q & A with Jed, you have likely marveled at his storied ability to spontaneously synthesize and contextualize a person’s argument. My own project rarely appeared so lucid or full of interesting potential as when it was being reformulated back to me by him.
Heather Love has all my trust, admiration, and devotion. She has sustained me during some of the most difficult moments of my career, whether through the consolation of her unfailing mentorship or the inspiration of her dazzling writing. Ever since I first ran the idea for this project by her on a bench outside the McNeil center, confessing my fascination with Samuel Smiles and the history of self-help, which she urged me to pursue, Heather has been staunchly and sturdily there, and I’m so grateful for her humor, her good taste, and her sharp radar for nonsense.
One of the most important functions of advisors lasts long after the period in which they administer exams, serve on committees, and offer draft feedback. It is to forever become an imagined audience for one’s writing, to be the eyes through which all new sentences and ideas must pass. I could not have asked for better filters than those I have received in the form of my graduate mentors. Their imagined responses will forever vet my inchoate formulations. I count it among the great gifts of my life to have crossed paths with these outstanding minds and exceptional humans.
Institutional support is another blind spot of the self-help canon. This has manifested itself for me in the form of a graduate fellowship from the Social Sciences and Research Council of Canada, a dissertation completion award from the American Council of Learned Societies, and a postdoctoral fellowship from the Andrew Mellon Foundation. I’m incredibly lucky for the institutional support I currently receive from Harvard, which has provided the material and also the intellectual conditions for the completion of this book. Thank you to the departmental staff, and especially to Anna McDonald, Sol Kim Bentley, Case Kerns, Henry Vega Ortiz, Lauren Bimmler, and Lauren Bauschard, for their essential assistance, as well as to Jennifer Ivers and Heather Lantz on the administrative side of things, for their readiness to help. Harvard’s is a department of strong and independent thinkers, and I’m grateful for the courage of my colleagues’ conviction in my perhaps unorthodox-seeming work. In particular, it is a blessing to have as wise a colleague and counselor as Deidre Lynch, who works harder than almost anyone, and also to have had a colleague as alert to bibliographic circulation and serendipity as Leah Price. For specific advice at various moments, my thanks also to David Alworth, Stephanie Burt, Amanda Claybaugh, Philip Fisher, Luke Menand, Derek Miller, Elaine Scarry, Marc Shell, James Simpson, John Stauffer, Nicholas Watson, Andrew Warren, and Leah Whittington. Long days in the Barker basement are made so much better by the camaraderie of the sagacious and inimitable Kelly Rich.
My studies of the ideology of success have convinced me that there may be few more entrenched beliefs than the idea that success is right. Nobody in a position of even minor professional prosperity wants to believe that the rewards they are enjoying for their labors are not earned. Though so much intellectual work addresses the injustices of historical and political power, the institutional structure of the academic labor market still clings like a dying man’s last breath to outmoded, meritocratic conceptions of a just ratio between work and reward, talents and recognition. And so, amid this act of celebrating the professional and personal milestone of this monograph, it seems important to also pay heed to the contingencies of my situation, and the privileges enabling this book’s production, and to pay tribute to the many colleagues I know and admire who, unfairly, do not have the security from which I currently, however precariously, benefit.
Some of my happiest discoveries at Harvard have been the wonderful graduate students: Alex Creighton’s unbeatable research skills have been a great help, Rebecca Kastleman’s exciting work and natural kindness have been a delight, Michelle Taylor’s unparalleled knowledge of Bloomsbury esoterica and her rousing enthusiasm for all things modernist are a pleasure to witness. It has been a joy to work with Sarah Corrigan, Charlie Tyson, and Sophia Mao, and to see their ideas develop. I’ve also learned a great deal from the undergraduates I have worked with at UPenn and Harvard, and particularly those enrolled in my English 90HL seminar, How to Live, who have helped to keep me abreast of the latest self-help trends. Among these, I’m particularly grateful to Siqi Liu, who, in addition to being a brilliant student, provided me with invaluable research and translation assistance.
Like many of the professedly self-fashioned, when I began this project I imagined myself to be a lone wolf, toiling away in my solitary corner, but one of the great pleasures of the past years has been the discovery of many whose work intersects with mine in generative ways: Michaela Bronstein, Angus Brown, Andrew Goldstone, Lisa Mendelman, Becky Roach, Aarthi Vadde, Bob Volpicelli, and Merve Emre, who invited me to participate in the seminar that occasioned the first draft of my Coda. Len Gutkin has my appreciation for his terrific editing of the related Chronicle article, much of which made its way into this book. No one understands like Timothy Aubry does the slog that can be reading through some of self-help’s more inane iterations. His work is my best and closest precedent, and it’s been a pleasure to connect with one who not only shares my interest in bibliotherapy, but also my investment in the aesthetic. Warmest thanks to Matthew Sandler, whose own excellent study of self-help I vehemently recommend, to the learned Vincent Sherry for his much-appreciated kindness, and to Marshall Brown, who gave a young, determined, Joycean a chance. It’s been wonderful to have the chance to get to know Jim English this past year; I only wish I had begun working with him sooner. James Pawelski has been a delight to connect with over our shared belief in the humanities and its measurable and immeasurable effects. My thanks also to my former peers at UPenn, and in particular, for various gestures and words of encouragement, to Rachel Banner, Kara Gaston, Phillip Maciak, Melanie Micir, and Rafael Walker. For commiseration and a crucial last-minute willingness to babysit, I owe Katie Price and Joe DeVitis. One of the happiest turns of the past few years has been the friendship of Holden Green’s genius-painter, Maya Brodsky.
Few self-help authors pay much heed to the vagaries of print history and production, but I’ve learned both through my research and experience how important editors, reviewers, and publishers can be. My appreciation extends to my remarkably generous and conscientious readers at Columbia University Press, to Philip Leventhal—who believed in this book from the beginning, patiently waited for its completion, and offered useful feedback and support throughout—and also to the delightfully organized and responsive Monique Briones, who keeps everything manageable.
My most consistent and deepest collaborator has been Jean-Christophe Cloutier. No one has believed in my writing more, or felt more viscerally and intimately the highs and lows that accompanied this project’s completion. I couldn’t endure these times without his utterly singular faith, lucidity, and energy, which I first discovered during a life-changing conversation about Diane DiPrima.
I thank my beloved Aimée, and our precious gift, Théodore, for granting me, together with JC, these little pockets of happiness.
Parts of chapter 4 previously appeared as “Ulysses as Self-Help Manual?: James Joyce’s Strategic Populism” in Modern Language Quarterly 74, no. 1 (March 2013): 67–89, reprinted with the permission of Duke University Press. Portions of chapters 1 and 6 originally appeared in PMLA 133, no. 5 (2018) as “The Self-Help Hermeneutic: Its Global History and Literary Future,” published by the Modern Language Association of America. An earlier version of chapter 3 was originally published as “Modernism’s Anti-Advice,” Modernism/Modernity 24, no. 1 (January 2017): 117–139. Reprinted by permission of Johns Hopkins University Press.
