Wednesday, 15 April 2026

Quotes and notes on James Boswell's Life of Samuel Johnson: Part I

@wwaycorrigan

[For an audio/vlog version of this story, click here.]

One habit that I've got into over the last few years has been the annotated documenting of what I consider to be important passages from books I'm reading for pleasure. It's basically a personal highlights package of the tome in question, together with my own observations.
Image is a black-and-white portrait of Samuel Johnson.
Dr Samuel Johnson: A man for all time.
Christopher Hitchens' memoir Hitch-22 had its moments, while I found Winston Churchill's My Early Life particularly noteworthy. However, eclipsing those two heavyweights is James Boswell's Life of Samuel Johnson. So much of both Boswell's and Johnson's words resonated with me. For one, it's thanks to that biography that I've started writing a diary again, not that I've much to put in it during these rather oppressively normal times.

But much more than that, for a book published in 1791, I found that I could relate to many of Johnson's observations and struggles, to say nothing of his words of wisdom.

It's why, having finally finished reading it, I now feel compelled to share my highlights with the wider world, hence this piece. Also, and at the risk of coming across as pretentious, I'm also sharing my notes, in italics, on the quotes and passages I've selected. With over 16,000 words to share, I intend to do this in three parts.

By the way, the audio version of this, available at https://youtu.be/rnWQTU8nwQg, on Spotify, or wherever you get your podcasts, gives an idea of what Boswell and Johnson sounded like — according to me, that is!

Part I

'Sir, there is nothing which has yet been contrived by man, by which so much happiness is produced as by a good tavern . . . A tavern chair is the throne of human felicity.'
I pretty much agree with that. Although I do prefer to stand in my tavern/tienda bar of choice!

[I]n every picture there should be shade as well as light, and when I delineate him without reserve, I do what he himself recommended, both by his precept and his example.
Boswell's words

He used (said he) to beat us unmercifully; and he did not distinguish between ignorance and negligence; for he would beat a boy equally for not knowing a thing, as for neglecting to know it. He would ask a boy a question; and if he did not answer it, he would beat him, without considering whether he had an opportunity of knowing how to answer it. For instance, he would call up a boy and ask him Latin for a candlestick, which the boy could not expect to be asked. Now, Sir, if a boy could answer every question, there would be no need of a master to teach him.
This reminds me of a teacher we used to have in St Nathy's Secondary School, Ballaghaderreen, a Ms O'Connor, if I recall correctly, and her 'damned if you do, damned if you don't' line of questioning: She’d shout out, 'Answer me!' Then, if and when you tried to answer, she'd interject with: ‘Don't back answer me!'

He had, from the irritability of his constitution, at all times, an impatience and hurry when he either read or wrote. A certain apprehension, arising from novelty, made him write his first exercise at College twice over; but he never took that trouble with any other composition; and we shall see that his most excellent works were struck off at a heat, with rapid exertion.
I could certainly do with some of that impatience and hurry in my endeavours.

'Sir, a woman's preaching is like a dog's walking on his hinder legs. It is not done well; but you are surprized to find it done at all.'

'Ah, Sir, I was mad and violent. It was bitterness which they mistook for frolick. I was miserably poor, and I thought to fight my way by my literature and my wit; so I disregarded all power and all authority.'
I’ve pretty much always tried to disregard all power and authority.

Mr. Hector recollects his writing 'that the poet had described the dull sameness of his existence in these words, "Vitam continet una dies" (one day contains the whole of my life); that it was unvaried as the note of the cuckow; and that he did not know whether it was more disagreeable for him to teach, or the boys to learn, the grammar rules.'
This, too, has largely been my experience with teaching English!

Pope, without any knowledge of him but from his London, recommended him to Earl Gower, who endeavoured to procure for him a degree from Dublin.
It was, perhaps, no small disappointment to Johnson that this respectable application had not the desired effect; yet how much reason has there been, both for himself and his country, to rejoice that it did not succeed, as he might probably have wasted in obscurity those hours in which he afterwards produced his incomparable works.
Dublin, no doubt, would have destroyed him!

'A man (said he) who writes a book, thinks himself wiser or wittier than the rest of mankind; he supposes that he can instruct or amuse them, and the publick to whom he appeals, must, after all, be the judges of his pretensions.'

'Dress indeed, we must allow, has more effect even upon strong minds than one should suppose, without having had the experience of it.'
Dress to impress!

Mr. David Hume related to me from Mr. Garrick, that Johnson at last denied himself this amusement, from considerations of rigid virtue; saying, 'I'll come no more behind your scenes, David; for the silk stockings and white bosoms of your actresses excite my amorous propensities.'
The pretty ladies backstage were too much for Johnson. Such a tease!

This is a strong confirmation of the truth of a remark of his, which I have had occasion to quote elsewhere, that 'a man may write at any time, if he will set himself doggedly to it;' for, notwithstanding his constitutional indolence, his depression of spirits, and his labour in carrying on his Dictionary, he answered the stated calls of the press twice a week from the stores of his mind, during all that time.
I often have that ‘depression of spirits’, which makes one wonder 'What's the point?'. At least Johnson was getting paid for his writing! Of course, I may, quite literally, be trying my hand at something that's beyond me.

'The greatest benefit which one friend can confer upon another, is to guard, and excite, and elevate his virtues.'
Or a friend who accentuates one's positives yet is cognisant and critical of one's negatives.

Johnson assured me, that he had not taken upon him to add more than four or five words to the English language, of his own formation; and he was very much offended at the general licence, by no means 'modestly taken' in his time not only to coin new words, but to use many words in senses quite different from their established meaning, and those frequently very fantastical.
Although, as we'll see, he came up with a few interesting definitions himself.

Letter to the Earl of Chesterfield, 07 February 1755:

'Is not a Patron, my Lord, one who looks with unconcern on a man struggling for life in the water, and, when he has reached ground, encumbers him with help? The notice which you have been pleased to take of my labours, had it been early, had been kind; but it has been delayed till I am indifferent, and cannot enjoy it; till I am solitary, and cannot impart it; till I am known, and do not want it. I hope it is no very cynical asperity not to confess obligations where no benefit has been received, or to be unwilling that the Publick should consider me as owing that to a Patron, which Providence has enabled me to do for myself.'

Johnson having now explicitly avowed his opinion of Lord Chesterfield, did not refrain from expressing himself concerning that nobleman with pointed freedom: 'This man (said he) I thought had been a Lord among wits; but, I find, he is only a wit among Lords!' And when his Letters to his natural son were published, he observed, that 'they teach the morals of a whore, and the manners of a dancing master.'

A few of his definitions [in his famous dictionary] must be admitted to be erroneous. Thus, Windward and Leeward, though directly of opposite meaning, are defined identically the same way; as to which inconsiderable specks it is enough to observe, that his Preface announces that he was aware there might be many such in so immense a work; nor was he at all disconcerted when an instance was pointed out to him. A lady once asked him how he came to define Pastern the KNEE of a horse: instead of making an elaborate defence, as she expected, he at once answered, 'Ignorance, madam, pure ignorance.' His definition of Network* has been often quoted with sportive malignity, as obscuring a thing in itself very plain. But to these frivolous censures no other answer is necessary than that with which we are furnished by his own Preface.
* Anything reticulated or decussated, at equal distances, with interstices between the intersections.'—ED.

His introducing his own opinions, and even prejudices, under general definitions of words, while at the same time the original meaning of the words is not explained, as his Tory, Whig, Pension, Oats, Excise,* and a few more, cannot be fully defended, and must be placed to the account of capricious and humorous indulgence. Talking to me upon this subject when we were at Ashbourne in 1777, he mentioned a still stronger instance of the predominance of his private feelings in the composition of this work, than any now to be found in it. 'You know, Sir, Lord Gower forsook the old Jacobite interest. When I came to the word Renegado, after telling that it meant "one who deserts to the enemy, a revolter," I added, Sometimes we say a GOWER. Thus it went to the press; but the printer had more wit than I, and struck it out.'
* Tory. 'One who adheres to the ancient constitution or the state and the apostolical hierarchy of the church of England, opposed to a whig.'
Whig. 'The name of a faction.'
Pension. 'An allowance made to any one without an equivalent. In England it is generally understood to mean pay given to a state hireling for treason to his country.'
Oats. 'A grain which in England is generally given to horses, but in Scotland supports the people.'
Excise. 'A hateful tax levied upon commodities, and adjudged not by the common judges of property, but wretches hired by those to whom excise is paid.'—ED.

Letter to Bennet Langton in 1758:

'None of your suspicions are true; I am not much richer than when you left me; and, what is worse, my omission of an answer to your first letter, will prove that I am not much wiser. But I go on as I formerly did, designing to be some time or other both rich and wise; and yet cultivate neither mind nor fortune. Do you take notice of my example, and learn the danger of delay. When I was as you are now, towering in the confidence of twenty-one, little did I suspect that I should be at forty-nine, what I now am . . . I was much pleased with the tale that you told me of being tutour to your sisters. I, who have no sisters nor brothers, look with some degree of innocent envy on those who may be said to be born to friends; and cannot see, without wonder, how rarely that native union is afterwards regarded. It sometimes, indeed, happens, that some supervenient cause of discord may overpower this original amity; but it seems to me more frequently thrown away with levity, or lost by negligence, than destroyed by injury or violence. We tell the ladies that good wives make good husbands; I believe it is a more certain position that good brothers make good sisters.'

The Idler is evidently the work of the same mind which produced The Rambler, but has less body and more spirit. It has more variety of real life, and greater facility of language. He describes the miseries of idleness, with the lively sensations of one who has felt them; and in his private memorandums while engaged in it, we find 'This year I hope to learn diligence.' Many of these excellent essays were written as hastily as an ordinary letter. Mr. Langton remembers Johnson, when on a visit at Oxford, asking him one evening how long it was till the post went out; and on being told about half an hour, he exclaimed, 'then we shall do very well.' He upon this instantly sat down and finished an Idler, which it was necessary should be in London the next day. Mr. Langton having signified a wish to read it, 'Sir, (said he) you shall not do more than I have done myself.' He then folded it up and sent it off.
Johnson didn't know what idleness was!

Letter to Joseph Baretti, 20 July 1762:

'Last winter I went down to my native town, where I found the streets much narrower and shorter than I thought I had left them, inhabited by a new race of people, to whom I was very little known. My play-fellows were grown old, and forced me to suspect that I was no longer young. My only remaining friend has changed his principles, and was become the tool of the predominant faction. My daughter-in-law, from whom I expected most, and whom I met with sincere benevolence, has lost the beauty and gaiety of youth, without having gained much of the wisdom of age. I wandered about for five days, and took the first convenient opportunity of returning to a place, where, if there is not much happiness, there is, at least, such a diversity of good and evil, that slight vexations do not fix upon the heart. . . .
May you, my Baretti, be very happy at Milan, or some other place nearer to, Sir, your most affectionate humble servant.'
It might be more the case that it was Johnson who changed more than his native town did, as often happens.

1763 (as per chapter; incident described below happened in 1762):

[I] found an irreconcilable difference had taken place between Johnson and Sheridan. A pension of two hundred pounds a year had been given to Sheridan. Johnson, who, as has been already mentioned, thought slightingly of Sheridan's art, upon hearing that he was also pensioned, exclaimed, 'What! have they given HIM a pension? Then it is time for me to give up mine.'
Johnson complained that a man who disliked him repeated his sarcasm to Mr. Sheridan, without telling him what followed, which was, that after a pause he added, 'However, I am glad that Mr. Sheridan has a pension, for he is a very good man.' Sheridan could never forgive this hasty contemptuous expression. It rankled in his mind; and though I informed him of all that Johnson said, and that he would be very glad to meet him amicably, he positively declined repeated offers which I made, and once went off abruptly from a house where he and I were engaged to dine, because he was told that Dr. Johnson was to be there.
Falling out with former friends. It happens to the best and worst of us!

1763:

Concerning this unfortunate poet, Christopher Smart, who was confined in a mad-house, he had, at another time, the following conversation with Dr. Burney:—BURNEY. 'How does poor Smart do, Sir; is he likely to recover?' JOHNSON. 'It seems as if his mind had ceased to struggle with the disease; for he grows fat upon it.' BURNEY. 'Perhaps, Sir, that may be from want of exercise.' JOHNSON. 'No, Sir; he has partly as much exercise as he used to have, for he digs in the garden. Indeed, before his confinement, he used for exercise to walk to the ale-house; but he was CARRIED back again. I did not think he ought to be shut up. His infirmities were not noxious to society. He insisted on people praying with him; and I'd as lief pray with Kit Smart as any one else. Another charge was, that he did not love clean linen; and I have no passion for it.'—Johnson continued. 'Mankind have a great aversion to intellectual labour; but even supposing knowledge to be easily attainable, more people would be content to be ignorant than would take even a little trouble to acquire it.'
I wouldn't be as critical as Johnson here re mankind. One major problem today is that there's so much information available that it can be hard to know what's true and what's not true.

He told me, that he generally went abroad at four in the afternoon, and seldom came home till two in the morning. I took the liberty to ask if he did not think it wrong to live thus, and not make more use of his great talents. He owned it was a bad habit.
Sure look, if I could avoid Colombia’s tienda bars, I'd be a world leader!

I had learnt that his place of frequent resort was the Mitre tavern in Fleet-street, where he loved to sit up late, and I begged I might be allowed to pass an evening with him there soon, which he promised I should. A few days afterwards I met him near Temple-bar, about one o'clock in the morning, and asked if he would then go to the Mitre. 'Sir, (said he) it is too late; they won't let us in. But I'll go with you another night with all my heart.'

Though very desirous of obtaining Dr. Johnson's advice and instructions on the mode of pursuing my studies, I was at this time so occupied, shall I call it? or so dissipated, by the amusements of London, that our next meeting was not till Saturday, June 25, when happening to dine at Clifton's eating-house . . .
Dissipated: A word to describe most of my time in Colombia?!

'Sir, I make a distinction between what a man may experience by the mere strength of his imagination, and what imagination cannot possibly produce. Thus, suppose I should think that I saw a form, and heard a voice cry "Johnson, you are a very wicked fellow, and unless you repent you will certainly be punished;" my own unworthiness is so deeply impressed upon my mind, that I might IMAGINE I thus saw and heard, and therefore I should not believe that an external communication had been made to me. But if a form should appear, and a voice should tell me that a particular man had died at a particular place, and a particular hour, a fact which I had no apprehension of, nor any means of knowing, and this fact, with all its circumstances, should afterwards be unquestionably proved, I should, in that case, be persuaded that I had supernatural intelligence imparted to me.'
So, Dr Johnson, do you believe in ghosts or not? A yes or no answer!

As Dr. Oliver Goldsmith will frequently appear in this narrative, I shall endeavour to make my readers in some degree acquainted with his singular character. He was a native of Ireland, and a contemporary with Mr. Burke at Trinity College, Dublin, but did not then give much promise of future celebrity. He, however, observed to Mr. Malone, that 'though he made no great figure in mathematicks, which was a study in much repute there, he could turn an Ode of Horace into English better than any of them.'

On Oliver Goldsmith:

When accompanying two beautiful young ladies with their mother on a tour in France, he was seriously angry that more attention was paid to them than to him; and once at the exhibition of the Fantoccini in London, when those who sat next him observed with what dexterity a puppet was made to toss a pike, he could not bear that it should have such praise, and exclaimed with some warmth, 'Pshaw! I can do it better myself.'

Johnson on the poet, Churchill:

I called the fellow a blockhead at first, and I will call him a blockhead still. However, I will acknowledge that I have a better opinion of him now, than I once had; for he has shewn more fertility than I expected.
To be sure, he is a tree that cannot produce good fruit: he only bears crabs. But, Sir, a tree that produces a great many crabs is better than a tree which produces only a few.
__________

Disconcerted a little by this, Mr. Ogilvie then took new ground, where, I suppose, he thought himself perfectly safe; for he observed, that Scotland had a great many noble wild prospects. JOHNSON. 'I believe, Sir, you have a great many. Norway, too, has noble wild prospects; and Lapland is remarkable for prodigious noble wild prospects. But, Sir, let me tell you, the noblest prospect which a Scotchman ever sees, is the high road that leads him to England!' This unexpected and pointed sally produced a roar of applause. After all, however, those, who admire the rude grandeur of Nature, cannot deny it to Caledonia.
An old, old quip, that, seen in many different guises throughout the ages.

Johnson on Boswell's poor relationship with his father:

'Why, Sir, I am a man of the world. I live in the world, and I take, in some degree, the colour of the world as it moves along. Your father is a Judge in a remote part of the island, and all his notions are taken from the old world. Besides, Sir, there must always be a struggle between a father and son while one aims at power and the other at independence.'
‘While one aims at power and the other at independence.’ I can relate to that.

'Idleness is a disease which must be combated; but I would not advise a rigid adherence to a particular plan of study. I myself have never persisted in any plan for two days together. A man ought to read just as inclination leads him; for what he reads as a task will do him little good. A young man should read five hours in a day, and so may acquire a great deal of knowledge.'
Today, educational/informative podcasts and YouTube videos count, don't they?!

'A servant's strict regard for truth, (said he) must be weakened by such a practice. A philosopher may know that it is merely a form of denial; but few servants are such nice distinguishers. If I accustom a servant to tell a lie for ME, have I not reason to apprehend that he will tell many lies for HIMSELF.'
His case for not encouraging the telling of lies. I'm not sure how Johnson would have coped in Colombia!

'Perhaps he who has a large fortune may not be so happy as he who has a small one; but that must proceed from other causes than from his having the large fortune: for, coeteris paribus, he who is rich in a civilized society, must be happier than he who is poor; as riches, if properly used, (and it is a man's own fault if they are not,) must be productive of the highest advantages. Money, to be sure, of itself is of no use; for its only use is to part with it.'
I tend to agree. Better having it than not having it.

'I remember very well, when I was at Oxford, an old gentleman said to me, "Young man, ply your book diligently now, and acquire a stock of knowledge; for when years come upon you, you will find that poring upon books will be but an irksome task."'
I'm not sure about the validity of this.

'Sir, it is no matter what you teach them first, any more than what leg you shall put into your breeches first. Sir, you may stand disputing which is best to put in first, but in the mean time your breech is bare. Sir, while you are considering which of two things you should teach your child first, another boy has learnt them both.'
The curse of procrastination, indecision. Tell me about it!

'Sir, a woman's preaching is like a dog's walking on his hinder legs. It is not done well; but you are surprized to find it done at all.'
No comment!

Though by no means niggardly, his attention to what was generally right was so minute, that having observed at one of the stages that I ostentatiously gave a shilling to the coachman, when the custom was for each passenger to give only six-pence, he took me aside and scolded me, saying that what I had done would make the coachman dissatisfied with all the rest of the passengers, who gave him no more than his due. This was a just reprimand; for in whatever way a man may indulge his generosity or his vanity in spending his money, for the sake of others he ought not to raise the price of any article for which there is a constant demand.
Hear, hear! And a case against the tipping culture. Businesses should pay fair wages and let that be it!

When invited to dine, even with an intimate friend, he was not pleased if something better than a plain dinner was not prepared for him. I have heard him say on such an occasion, 'This was a good dinner enough, to be sure; but it was not a dinner to ASK a man to.'
I, on the contrary, am pretty happy to eat almost anything, especially if somebody else is paying for it. Or cooking it!

1764, aged 55:

He this year says:—'I have now spent fifty-five years in resolving; having, from the earliest time almost that I can remember, been forming schemes of a better life. I have done nothing. The need of doing, therefore, is pressing, since the time of doing is short . . .'
Live with a sense of urgency: advice I need to follow.

1765:

Nothing could be more fortunate for Johnson than this connection. He had at Mr. Thrale's all the comforts and even luxuries of life; his melancholy was diverted, and his irregular habits lessened by association with an agreeable and well-ordered family. He was treated with the utmost respect, and even affection.
It's like when I get a fully-equipped, nice house to look after, my melancholy is diverted, to an extent!

'[Y]ou are to calculate, and not pay too dear for what you get. You must not give a shilling's worth of court for six-pence worth of good. But if you can get a shilling's worth of good for six-pence worth of court, you are a fool if you do not pay court.'
Make sure you're up in the deal.

'We cannot prove any man's intention to be bad. You may shoot a man through the head, and say you intended to miss him; but the Judge will order you to be hanged. An alleged want of intention, when evil is committed, will not be allowed in a court of justice. Rousseau, Sir, is a very bad man . . .'

On his favourite subject of subordination, Johnson said, 'So far is it from being true that men are naturally equal, that no two people can be half an hour together, but one shall acquire an evident superiority over the other.'
Quite. But we all have something in which we excel. I think!

On thinking of those who are in a worse situation than ourselves:
This, I [Boswell] observed, could not apply to all, for there must be some who have nobody worse than they are. JOHNSON. 'Why, to be sure, Sir, there are; but they don't know it. There is no being so poor and so contemptible, who does not think there is somebody still poorer, and still more contemptible.'

BOSWELL. 'Then the vulgar, Sir, never can know they are right, but must submit themselves to the learned.' JOHNSON. 'To be sure, Sir. The vulgar are the children of the State, and must be taught like children.' BOSWELL. 'Then, Sir, a poor Turk must be a Mahometan, just as a poor Englishman must be a Christian?' JOHNSON. 'Why, yes, Sir; and what then? This now is such stuff as I used to talk to my mother, when I first began to think myself a clever fellow; and she ought to have whipt me for it.'
But we vulgar folk can now read and think for ourselves — most of us anyway! And who knows the truth when it comes to religious belief?

February 1767:

His Majesty enquired if he was then writing any thing. He answered, he was not, for he had pretty well told the world what he knew, and must now read to acquire more knowledge.
The King, as it should seem with a view to urge him to rely on his own stores as an original writer, and to continue his labours, then said 'I do not think you borrow much from any body.' Johnson said, he thought he had already done his part as a writer. 'I should have thought so too, (said the King,) if you had not written so well.'—Johnson observed to me, upon this, that 'No man could have paid a handsomer compliment; and it was fit for a King to pay. It was decisive.'
Kind of my approach; I try to be original!

His Majesty having observed to him that he supposed he must have read a great deal; Johnson answered, that he thought more than he read; that he had read a great deal in the early part of his life, but having fallen into ill health, he had not been able to read much, compared with others . . .
Thinking more than reading. My problem is that I think much more than I do. A peso for my thoughts — if only!
'That fellow seems to me to possess but one idea, and that is a wrong one.'

1768:

He said he had lately been a long while at Lichfield, but had grown very weary before he left it. BOSWELL. 'I wonder at that, Sir; it is your native place.' JOHNSON. 'Why, so is Scotland YOUR native place.'
I can relate; when I feel a little lost in my birthplace.

He praised Signor Baretti. 'His account of Italy is a very entertaining book; and, Sir, I know no man who carries his head higher in conversation than Baretti. There are strong powers in his mind. He has not, indeed, many hooks; but with what hooks he has, he grapples very forcibly.'
Play well the cards one is dealt; if one can read the cards, that is!

1769, aged 60:

One evening about this time, when his Lordship did me the honour to sup at my lodgings with Dr. Robertson and several other men of literary distinction, he regretted that Johnson had not been educated with more refinement, and lived more in polished society. 'No, no, my Lord, (said Signor Baretti,) do with him what you would, he would always have been a bear.' 'True, (answered the Earl, with a smile,) but he would have been a DANCING bear.' . . .
. . . by applying to him the epithet of a BEAR, let me impress upon my readers a just and happy saying of my friend Goldsmith, who knew him well: 'Johnson, to be sure, has a roughness in his manner; but no man alive has a more tender heart. He has nothing of the bear but his skin.'

Mr. Seward heard him once say, that 'a man has a very bad chance for happiness in that state, unless he marries a woman of very strong and fixed principles of religion.' He maintained to me, contrary to the common notion, that a woman would not be the worse wife for being learned; in which, from all that I have observed of Artemisias, I humbly differed from him.

When I censured a gentleman of my acquaintance for marrying a second time, as it shewed a disregard of his first wife, he said, 'Not at all, Sir. On the contrary, were he not to marry again, it might be concluded that his first wife had given him a disgust to marriage; but by taking a second wife he pays the highest compliment to the first, by shewing that she made him so happy as a married man, that he wishes to be so a second time.'
I presume that her having been married before had, at times, given him some uneasiness; for I remember his observing upon the marriage of one of our common friends, 'He has done a very foolish thing, Sir; he has married a widow, when he might have had a maid.'

'I'd smile with the simple, and feed with the poor.'
JOHNSON. 'Nay, my dear Lady, this will never do. Poor David! Smile with the simple;—What folly is that? And who would feed with the poor that can help it? No, no; let me smile with the wise, and feed with the rich.'
I need to ‘smile with the wise and feed with the rich’ more often.

The General [Paoli] talked of languages being formed on the particular notions and manners of a people, without knowing which, we cannot know the language. We may know the direct signification of single words; but by these no beauty of expression, no sally of genius, no wit is conveyed to the mind.
To truly get a language of a people, one needs to understand their culture.

I proposed, as usual upon such occasions, to order dinner to be served; adding, 'Ought six people to be kept waiting for one?' 'Why, yes, (answered Johnson, with a delicate humanity,) if the one will suffer more by your sitting down, than the six will do by waiting.'

This little incidental quarrel and reconciliation, which, perhaps, I may be thought to have detailed too minutely, must be esteemed as one of many proofs which his friends had, that though he might be charged with bad humour at times, he was always a good-natured man; and I have heard Sir Joshua Reynolds, a nice and delicate observer of manners, particularly remark, that when upon any occasion Johnson had been rough to any person in company, he took the first opportunity of reconciliation, by drinking to him, or addressing his discourse to him; but if he found his dignified indirect overtures sullenly neglected, he was quite indifferent, and considered himself as having done all that he ought to do, and the other as now in the wrong.
I do relate to such a mindset.

1770, aged 61:

Speaking of a dull tiresome fellow, whom he chanced to meet, he said, 'That fellow seems to me to possess but one idea, and that is a wrong one.'

1771, aged 62:

'When I review the last year, I am able to recollect so little done, that shame and sorrow, though perhaps too weakly, come upon me.'
I hear you, Samuel. Most of my years have been thus!
__________________________________________________________
Listen to The Corrigan Cast podcast here.

Facebook: Wrong Way Corrigan — The Blog & IQuiz "The Bogotá Pub Quiz".

Friday, 27 March 2026

Market influencers

@wwaycorrigan

[For an audio/vlog version of this story, click here.]

I've made it clear here before that I'm not a big fan of marketing. Or, to be more exact, marketing agencies.

Image is a collage of cheese, scenery, coffee and bread, beer, soup, and a glacier.
A few of Wrong Way's favourite things, in a Colombian context.

Having once worked in such an agency, I've seen all the blood, guts and tripe that go into producing the seductive sausage that's finally served to the public. Marketing agencies are slaughterhouses for decency and truth. And in my radio broadcasting days, I saw how the marketing department influenced on-air content, not just for commercial fluff but even hard news and current affairs. The impartial journalist, how do.

Inert influence

Now, granted, there are few, if any, industries that don't indulge in acts of embellishment. Or that aren't in some way economical with the truth.

Take the case of the real estate agent who puts a quaint retiree-ready rural house in the west of Ireland on the market, stating that it's close to a regular bus route to the nearest town. Technically correct. The only snag is that the bus route in question is solely for the school run. Pretty useless for an elderly individual or couple.

Tourism is another major culprit: Elevate the dubious positives to celestial levels; make no mention of, or at the very least downplay, the downsides.

Thus, in such a charlatan-controlled world, best practice is to be sceptical of pretty much all recommendations until you can be proved otherwise. After all, what one person finds acceptable is unacceptable to another.

That I am such a sceptic is one reason — of many — why I could never make it as a social media influencer. I do find it hard to lie. Honestly.

OK, maybe I'm being a bit bitter and disingenuous here. Not all successful influencers have built their empires on lies. Some are more genuine than others. And they've managed to find the keys to success. I most likely could learn much from them.
'I think I have a better understanding of what's nutritious than the jackrabbit and mule. I certainly wouldn't tuck into lead pipes. Not sober, anyway.'
I'm not too certain whom I could influence, all the same. My interests are not to everyone's tastes. Or, now that I'm actually thinking about it, my interests are quite basic, arguably too run-of-the-mill for those seeking amazing, top-rated experiences.

In terms of travelling, for example, when I rock up to a new place, I tend not to seek out its culinary delights, should it have some. Nor do I eagerly endeavour to discover all its recognised tourist attractions, especially if there is one must-see sight that is, as I see it, little more than a money-making racket. I prefer to spend my money on pursuits that I know I'll enjoy. In some cases, that means simply doing what I normally do, but just in a different environment.

In Colombia, this is sipping on an agreeably priced, unsweetened panadería tinto (black coffee), going for unaccompanied wanders, and, come nightfall, finding a sit-in tienda selling beers that are also agreeably priced. Simple pleasures.

Wrong Way recommendations

My standards are not exacting. Once something meets my fairly minimalist needs, I'm likely to give it at least a pass mark. I think I've always been thus, but this trait may have become more pronounced during my years in Colombia.

So, a recommendation from me about most things is best treated with caution. 'It's grand.' That's my default setting. And that's the Irish definition of grand, which means 'fine' or 'OK'.

One could go as far as to say that I'm similar to the jackrabbit and the mule, in the way that Mark Twain described their likeness for sagebrush in his book, Roughing it:

'[T]heir testimony to its nutritiousness is worth nothing, for they will eat pine knots, or anthracite coal, or brass filings, or lead pipe, or old bottles, or anything that comes handy, and then go off looking as grateful as if they had had oysters for dinner.'

In my defence, I think I have a better understanding of what's nutritious than the jackrabbit and mule. I certainly wouldn't tuck into lead pipes. Not sober, anyway. I do have some standards, after all. I would, for one, rate oysters higher than pine knots. I think so anyway; I can't remember ever having eaten either one.

So I do value what I consider to be beautiful or worthy of praise. Whether you agree with me or not on such matters, that's your business. If you've made it this far, it shows a vote of confidence, of sorts, for my musings, if nothing else. And you can rest assured that I believe in what I market here. The same cannot be said of many of those professional marketers and influencers.
__________________________________________________________
Listen to The Corrigan Cast podcast here.

Facebook: Wrong Way Corrigan — The Blog & IQuiz "The Bogotá Pub Quiz".

Wednesday, 11 March 2026

Vichada vacillation

@wwaycorrigan

[For an audio/vlog version of this story, click here.]

Almost nine years have passed since I achieved the feat, if it can be called such, of visiting all six of Colombia's regions. Those regions are, in the order in which I first set foot in them, the Andean, Caribbean, Pacific, Orinoco, Amazon, and Insular.

Image shows passenger boats docked at Puerto Gaitán on the River Manacacías in Colombia's Meta department.
These boats offer a way to Vichada, if one is truly willing to go.

It was my semi-sponsored trip to San Andrés in April 2017 that completed the sextet, eight years after I had first entered Colombia as a backpacker. At the time, the accomplishment didn't register with me. Oh, how ignorant I was back then!

Troublesome trio

These regions, as it is, are defined by what makes them distinct as regards their natural features. They are not, however, administrative or political entities. In that context, it's the departments that define Colombia, of which there are 32. An easy one to remember for Irish folk that, considering how the island of Ireland has 32 counties.

Mentioning the land of my birth, three of Colombia's departments are bigger in area than it, while the Meta department is almost equal in size to it. As a whole, Colombia is over 13 times larger than Ireland.

As for these departments, I've been in 29 of the 32. The three I haven't visited are Guainía and Vaupés, which are part of the Amazon region, and Vichada in the Orinoco. They are three of the most difficult to reach, too, well cut off from the far more densely populated Andean powerhouse as they are.

I do, however, often think that I should make a greater effort to tackle this trio.

Vichada? Reach harder

It was with that in mind that saw me take a five-hour bus journey from my base of San Martín in the Meta department to Puerto Gaitán, also in Meta, by the banks of the River Manacacías. From there, the plan was to take a fluvial route north-east to Vichada, thereby making it the thirtieth department to be graced by my presence; such an honour for it.

The original idea was to head for Vichada's capital, Puerto Carreño, right on the Orinoco River, marking the border with Venezuela. It's a journey of over 600 kilometres downriver, which can be done in about 12 hours in a large speedboat powered by three motors that can carry 60 or so passengers. However, due to the dry season, no boats were going that far.
'Was it really worth such an investment merely to say I'd visited my thirtieth department?'
There is a bus route, but that takes at least 36 hours over what is mostly a dirt track. And, currently, there's only one service per week, which passes through Puerto Gaitán every Saturday night. That had and has much less appeal than the thoughts of the boat trip. If Colombia did intercity trains — and I don't know why it doesn't — a railway line along the mostly flat land between Meta's capital, Villavicencio, and Puerto Carreño would be rather useful. One can dream.

Had the bus been a good bit cheaper than the boat ticket, then I may have considered it, but it's around the same price, which is close to 400,000 pesos one-way. So doubling that for the return trip and adding in the price of refreshments and a couple of nights' accommodation, put the cost in the one-million-peso bracket. That's close to 230 euros, which some of you may think isn't that much. But one million pesos would get me two months' rent, with change, in San Martín.

For the record, there are flights to Puerto Carreño from both Bogotá and Villavicencio. My research tells me they cost roughly the same as the river and road options. I, however, like the idea of the slightly less fixed approach offered when travelling by river or road: a case of being able to go at a moment's notice, to a certain extent. And one gets to see more of the country in the process.

Having ruled out Puerto Carreño, I still had the option of making it to western Vichada. Even in the dry season, the speedboat is able to reach the town of La Primavera, a journey of about six hours, 250 kilometres away. The costs involved are roughly half of those to get to Puerto Carreño.

However, even though I'd initially considered, indeed, was mentally preparing myself for the far more expensive trip to Puerto Carreño, something was holding me back from taking the shorter, cheaper spin to La Primavera. 'What's the point?' questions began circulating in my mind. Vichada vacillation, so to put it: Was it really worth such an investment merely to say I'd visited my thirtieth department?

OK, it's a bit unfair on Vichada to say that I see going there as little more than a box-ticking exercise. No doubt it has its own unique charms.

Midges of the Manacacías

Yet, what had seemed almost non-negotiable when leaving San Martín, after less than 24 hours in Puerto Gaitán, my perspective changed: I began to think that visiting Vichada was almost absurd, considering the costs involved and my less-than-stable financial situation. All I really needed, in retrospect, was simply a break from the San Martín monotony, to check out new environs. And Puerto Gaitán provided that, even though I did little of note there.

Well, I did bathe in the seasonally shallow Manacacías. Initially, I wasn't too concerned about its far-from-limpid waters. But having been told that there are swallow holes, I was a little more cautious the next time I went for a dip. None of the many other bathers seemed too perturbed, all the same.

Its gold-coloured sandy shores were an inviting spot to soak up some sun. Alas, this had to be abruptly abandoned due to incessant attacks from bloodsucking flies, something akin to midges. So much for some serene rest and relaxation on the river bank. But, do tell, what pursuits in life aren't completely pest-free?

The Manacacías itself, swallow-hole concerns aside, was refreshing, offering a partial escape from the fairly intense heat. Thirty-eight degrees Celsius can be classed as intense, can't it? There was, mercifully, a strong breeze blowing most of the time, making the heat somewhat more tolerable. I was told, though, that this welcome gale doesn't come a-calling as much as one might like it to.

It is, all the same, more frequent than my visits to Vichada. But I'll huff and I'll puff my way there yet, I'm sure of it. I am, by the way, not completely against taking a sponsored trip, should one be on offer; something similar to my visit to Tame, Arauca in 2017 would be welcome. Just putting it out there.
__________________________________________________________
Listen to The Corrigan Cast podcast here.

Facebook: Wrong Way Corrigan — The Blog & IQuiz "The Bogotá Pub Quiz".

Friday, 13 February 2026

A nonfiction addiction

@wwaycorrigan

[For an audio/vlog version of this story, click here.]

Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, A Christmas Carol, Animal Farm, Brave New World, Crime and Punishment, Great Expectations, Heart of Darkness, Metamorphosis, 1984, Steppenwolf, The Brothers Karamazov, The Handmaid's Tale, The Man with Two Left Feet, War and Peace.

Image is of three few nonfiction books to the left with the caption 'A nonfiction addiction' to the right in white font on a yellow background.
It's an addiction that our writer feels he should be doing much more of. 

Those are a selection of the fiction books I've read over the last few years. I currently have another few on the go, but I've yet to finish them, hence they're not included.

I refer to them to point out that I do read such works. Yet, I'm usually more content delving into nonfiction, with history, politics, biographies and memoirs being my particular favourites.

Fact crazier than fiction

One reason for this preference is that the writing style of nonfiction is usually, although not always, a little more straightforward than novels. Or at least nonfiction doesn't tend to go into overdrive just to describe certain everyday activities or sights, such as supping on a cup of coffee or staring up at the sky.

I'm not a fan of what I consider to be overwrought text, of overly descriptive prose. Or, to try to put my own creative touch on it, passages that are a fog of flowery language. A little alliteration can work well, after all.

Some novels are more guilty of this descriptive debauchery than others. The ones mentioned at the start are generally in the clear on this charge. And, thus, they are clearer and more enjoyable to read.

That I'm not a follower of flashy fiction matches with my fairly minimalist lifestyle and overall personality, I surmise: 'Keep it simple, stupid.' Being mostly economically inactive these days means I've little choice but to live a simpler existence.
'Digitised versions of books on a device are far inferior to having a real copy in hand, where you can physically turn the pages.'
This isn't to suggest that nonfiction is prosaic compared to other genres. Stories about events that are happening and have happened, about people who are living and have lived, are just as compelling as, if not more compelling than, those that people have concocted in their imaginations.

Another factor for my nonfiction preference is that in my younger days, I was more of a newspaper man when it came to reading. I was generally too restless to sit down for long periods with a novel or something similar. When I did start to read long-form literature, I gravitated more towards nonfiction, largely because, I figure, it was like reading a newspaper, just one with a higher word count and a more focused theme.

There's nothing too revelatory in that. As the great English writer Dr Samuel Johnson put it, 'a man should read whatever his immediate inclination prompts him to.' He does qualify this by stating that those who wish to expand their knowledge will most likely have to read material that isn't always to their inclination. But when it comes to reading for enjoyment or relaxation, then obviously it makes sense to go with material that matches your likes.

Digitised dilemma

One of the biggest impediments I have to reading more these days is in getting access to the books I want, in physical form that is. Digitised versions of tomes on a device are far inferior to having a real copy in hand, where you can physically turn the pages.

The chief reasons why I'm forced into the inferior option are, for one, that it's hard to get hold of English-language books in Colombia, particularly in peripheral regions. Additionally, as a mild rover with no fixed abode, it's not that practical to be hauling books around with me from place to place.

Digitised versions weigh nothing, bar the memory they take up on my phone and on cloud storage. And with a restricted budget, the availability, for free, of thousands of classics at gutenberg.org is quite the resource.

So, whether it's nonfiction or fiction, having material to read isn't my problem, even if it isn't in my preferred format.

That I don't get through as many books as I'd like to is more to do with my being what I'll term a ruminating reader. My mind is guilty of wandering, not necessarily in an easily distracted sense, but more a case of thinking about what I'm reading and applying it to situations in my own life. I assume that's a normal enough practice, isn't it?
__________________________________________________________
Listen to The Corrigan Cast podcast here.

Facebook: Wrong Way Corrigan — The Blog & IQuiz "The Bogotá Pub Quiz".

Friday, 6 February 2026

In Brendan O'Connor we trust: Letter to the editor

@wwaycorrigan

I must say that I'm somewhat relieved to get this out in the open.

It's not that I've come to hate Brendan O'Connor, a presenter on the popular weekend 11 am to 1 pm slot on Ireland's national radio, RTÉ One. No. Hate is overstating it. It's just that from the covid-19 pandemic onwards, he has steadily become something of a holier-than-thou host, talking down to his sinful listeners who he seems to think are in dire need of redemption.

This is at its worst in the Sunday newspaper review-panel segment from 11 am to midday.

I go into more detail in my latest letter published in the Irish Examiner, available at https://www.irishexaminer.com/opinion/yourview/arid-41788121.html. It's also posted as an image below.

Now, you might be asking yourself why I continue to listen to him if he bothers me so much. Well, it's a case of keeping an ear to my enemies, so to put it. One has to at least try to understand their thinking in order to overcome them. 

Copy of Brendan Corrigan's letter to the Irish Examiner in which he disses RTÉ Radio One's Brendan O'Connor show.
Saint Brendan the Pious: O'Connor's radio show has become insufferable.


Friday, 23 January 2026

Let's get physical

@wwaycorrigan

[For an audio/vlog version of this story, click here.]

'Let's get physical, physical; I wanna get physical, let's get into physical.'

Let's get physical: Image shows Brendan 'Wrong Way' Corrigan lifting a beer crate from a stack of beer crates in a tienda bar in San Martín de los Llanos, Meta, Colombia.
Wrong Way Corrigan gets put through his paces at Walter's tienda.
Those lyrics, as some of you may recognise, are from the song Physical, originally recorded by the late Olivia Newton-John in 1981.

Considering how the rest of the song goes — 'let me hear your body talk' comes after the lyrics we've just quoted — the physical Newton-John sang about is not quite the one I have in mind here. While the setting for the music video is a gym, a little bit more than a solid, individual workout is suggested.

A problem to work out

Now, I'm not against intimate physicality per se, but the workout I want to talk up is one that doesn't require a partner. It can either be physical labour or planned exercise, the latter important for those whose regular lives are devoid of much movement, which is the case for many in high-income nations. Whatever form it takes, the idea is that it gets one's heart racing, lungs pumping and sweat glands exuding.

As somebody who is not a fan of gyms and whose current work life tends not to be that physical, I try to do my best to work up a sweat in other ways: Kinaesthetic exercises at home; walk when and where I can and do so with purpose and power; in general, the aim is to be as energetic as possible in daily tasks that require movement.

Ideally, though, I prefer it when a chore I undertake naturally involves an amount of physical exertion in order to get it done. In this way, I don't have to find a time to fit in exercise into my daily routine: a case of exercise necessarily coming with what one has to do or wants to do.

Alas, these days, it's rare enough that any work I'm charged with is of a physical nature — getting aggressive with frustrating technology doesn't really count.

So getting the opportunity to do some hard-ish labour is something of an enjoyable novelty.

This was the case over the Christmas period just gone.

Walter's Mitty

Walter, the owner of one of my preferred tienda bars in San Martín de los Llanos, asked me to lend him a helping hand on what is one of his busiest nights of the year: Christmas Eve running into Christmas morning.
'Receiving gruff orders reminds me of the times I worked on building sites where intellectually challenged labourers exercised the tiny bit of power they enjoyed by barking out instructions at their perceived inferiors.'
It'd be a stretch to say I was honoured to be asked — I'd visions of an old practice in Ireland where a drunkard helps out in his local in return for booze — but it was going to be a novelty for me and so worth a try. More importantly, it would give me something additional to do as I drank — I was allowed to gently imbibe during my shift — on a night that I'm largely indifferent towards in these parts.

My main task was to keep Walter's four deep-fridge-freezers stocked with both bottles and cans of beer as well as fulfilling the orders of customers, with the vast majority buying crates of booze to take home. So there was a lot of hauling of beer crates here and there, stocking and restocking, with little rest time. And while I could restock at a decent speed, the overworked fridges were struggling to cool down the beer, such was the turnover.

Even after we pulled down the see-through shutters at 4 am to organise things for the next opening, the odd reveller continued to rock up looking to keep the liquor flowing and the party going.

Seeing as how Walter asked me back to help him again on New Year's Eve, I took it as a sign that I performed well. Or at least I wasn't a complete failure.

One of the biggest drawbacks was that at times I failed to understand Walter when he gave me an order. In my defence, I've noticed that even native Spanish speakers sometimes struggle to understand Walter because his speech isn't the clearest due to missing front teeth.

I'm also not great at taking orders, especially ones delivered gruffly, of which Walter was occasionally guilty. Receiving orders in such a style reminds me of the times I worked on building sites where intellectually challenged labourers exercised the tiny bit of power they enjoyed by barking out instructions at their perceived inferiors.

The intensity and duration were ratcheted up a few notches on that New Year's Eve/morning — the busiest period of the whole year for Walter. This shift was of 12 hours, 5 pm to 5 am, as opposed to an eight-hour one the previous time.

Not only that, but Walter asked me to return to help him from 10 am to 5 pm on New Year's Day, so in a sense it could be said I did a 24-hour shift, split by an extended morning break.

Rugby roll

With just a trickle of customers on New Year's Day compared to what went before, my main task was to bring crates full of beer to the tienda from a small storehouse at the back of the premises, some 30 metres away. I also had to take the crates stocked with empties from the tienda to the storehouse.

As most of this 30-metre distance has a smooth, tiled surface — in between the tienda and the storehouse is a motel managed by Walter's sister — the easiest and most enjoyable way to carry out this task was by pushing the crates, stacked five-high, along the floor. It felt like I was in a rugby maul, with shouts of heave from the imaginary spectators driving me on. Something to that effect. It did get the heart racing, lungs pumping and sweat glands exuding in any case.

It was my favourite chore of the whole experience for the following reasons: It had a decent physical element to it, working different muscles; I was left to my own devices doing it, with the added bonus of not having to deal with tipsy and occasionally annoying clientèle; and I'm fairly sure Walter was quite pleased that I did it rather than him. Small, rotund Walter wouldn't strike one as the most athletic man about town. Although with practice, he could hold his own in the front row of a rugby scrum.

I must add that Walter did pay me for my labour. For the first shift on 24 December, I thought my payment was going to be in kind, basically free beer and food, the latter being a not-too-shabby Christmas dinner. But I got a decent enough cash payment, too. Had I not been paid for that initial stint, I would have been less inclined to return. Although seeing as how I dislike New Year's Eve, I probably would have gone back to help out regardless; a different way to pass the night.

I'm not, however, looking to go full-time as a tienda bar assistant. I have other ways to get physical activity into my daily routine. And I do like to be my own boss, when and where I can.
__________________________________________________________
Listen to The Corrigan Cast podcast here.

Facebook: Wrong Way Corrigan — The Blog & IQuiz "The Bogotá Pub Quiz".

Friday, 9 January 2026

Reigning cats over dogs

@wwaycorrigan

[For an audio/vlog version of this story, click here.]

'Do you prefer cats or dogs?'

My almost instinctive answer to that, what some see as a character-defining question, had been to pick the canines over the felines. Had been, that is. These days, I'm much less certain.
In the battle of cats versus dogs, Wrong Way Corrigan is on the feline's side.
Demanding dogs: The canines are more of a pain than the felines.

Deadly dogs

Truth is, I've had too many encounters with annoying dogs over the years that I can't live the lie that I particularly like them. And it's not a case of a couple of curs giving the rest of their more refined furry friends a bad name. No, for each slightly acceptable dog I meet, there's at least two that I wish didn't exist.

With cats, while I can't say I'm too fond of them either, at least they usually leave humans to their own devices, outside of when they want food, which is understandable.

More specifically, a domesticated cat is highly unlikely to start meowing frantically at me as I pass by its place of residence or wherever it happens to be, never mind show a desire to attack me physically. In contrast, many dogs not only make an unholy racket on seeing somebody, nay anything, but some are keen to go to battle.
'Barmy barking happens too frequently to be shrugged off as a tolerable dog idiosyncrasy.'
Even with non-aggressive, docile dogs, most have a tendency to get overly excited when they see other beings approaching. Tone it down, Lassie. For a witty insight into what might be behind this whining, yelping nature, P.G. Wodehouse's short story, The Mixer, is well worth a read.

Cool cats

Cats, in general, are just far more chilled and less excitable. I can't recall even one occasion when they woke me up from my sleep and proceeded to keep me awake with their screaming. With dogs, barmy barking happens too frequently to be shrugged off as a tolerable idiosyncrasy.

The most annoying cat trait that I can think of is their fondness to brush up against one's legs. That can be quite annoying. But they can rather easily be persuaded to stop doing it. And it doesn't tend to last too long in any case. Plus, they're unlikely to do it to a stranger.

Some dog lovers point to the fact that your pet cat will resort to eating you if faced with starvation, were it to be trapped alongside your dead body. A loyal dog, so it goes, would choose to starve to death alongside its owner in such a scenario. Ergo, cats are selfish, dogs are not.

But what does it matter when you're dead? You're not going to feel or know that your cat started eating your body. On this score, cats can be seen as being more practical.

What's more, it may not be complete loyalty that's at play with a dog. It could be thinking that it'll be accused of killing its master — an act a cat would most likely be incapable of doing — should it start tucking into his corpse. Granted, this is making dogs out to be more intelligent than they are.

Taking it that cats are low maintenance, seem to prefer solitude and silence over multitudes and madness — and aren't known to be great swimmers — then it's only natural that I'd be more comfortable in their company than with dogs. I think I have more of a feline personality than a canine one, minus the fondness for lounging about for hours on end.

This does not mean I'm a cat man in all instances. It's just in this specific case, comparing them with dogs. Other pets are available, after all.

If I were forced to have a non-human companion, I think I'd opt for something other than a cat or a dog. I'm just not sure what I'd choose.
__________________________________________________________
Listen to The Corrigan Cast podcast here.

Facebook: Wrong Way Corrigan — The Blog & IQuiz "The Bogotá Pub Quiz".