The Wit’s Guide to Dilettantes

Or, the gatecrasher’s revenge

The Dilettanti Society, Joshua Reynolds, 1777-8

If someone calls you a dilettante, should you be offended, amused, or merely confused? It depends where you look up the definition: Once you would have been a lover of the arts, someone who dabbles without expertise, but now you might be accused of passing yourself off as more knowledgeable than you actually are.

“Dilettante: a philanderer who seduces the several arts and deserts each in turn for another.”
— Oliver Herford

The original Society of Dilettanti, pictured above, was a squad of eighteenth-century Englishmen who’d returned from a Grand Tour excited to learn more about Greek and Roman culture. Their motto was “seria ludo,” roughly translated as serious things discussed lightly, and from the beginning their commitment was questioned. It was, one critic sniffed, “a club, for which the nominal qualification is having been in Italy, and the real one, being drunk.” Instead of staying in their lanes, they were swerving all over the highway.

“It's only in England that dilettantism is considered a bad thing. In other countries it’s called interdisciplinary research.”
— Brian Eno

The evolution of the word dilettante reflects how we think about amateurs and professionals. The word amateur comes from the Latin word for lover, someone who so adores what they do that they do it not only for no reward but, in the words of G.K. Chesterton, “even practices it without any hope of doing it well. Such a man must love the toils of the work more than any other man can love the rewards of it.”

Similarly, the word dilettante originally highlighted motivation, not competence:

“As a true dilettante in the best sense of the word, one who plays for the pure delight  — that is, the diletto — of playing, he was utterly relaxed physically, chatting with us during the early breaks to explain the course of the game and casually lighting a cigarette.” 
— Stefan Zweig, Chess Story

Why, then, are we so down on those who pile high their plates at life’s rich buffet? Are we worried they are going to stick their heads under the sneeze shields? The culprit, I would suggest, is the rise of the professions. With more education came stricter standards and higher barriers to entry. Regulatory capture, the stifling professionalization of everything, forces tree trimmers and hair braiders to acquire formal accreditation. Why, they’re even letting pros into the Olympics, the world’s foremost amateur hour.

“A professional is a man who can do his job when he doesn’t feel like it. An amateur is a man who can’t do his job when he does feel like it.”
— James Agate

But the aura of the professionals has faded. The Best and the Brightest lost the Vietnam War while the garage tinkerers built Silicon Valley. Books like David Epstein’s Range commend those who cross disciplines, celebrating their lack of hubris. “Dilettantes who were pitted against the experts were no more clairvoyant,” Epstein writes, “but at least they were less likely to call future events either impossible or sure things.” 

“If the world should blow itself up, the last audible voice would be that of an expert saying it can’t be done.”
— Peter Ustinov

A great writer, by my estimation, is one who leapfrogs from genre to genre, landing on lilypads of delight. I’m thinking here of Francis Spufford, who churns out consistently remarkable books on everything from Arctic exploration to Soviet industry, and of course the inimitable Geoff Dyer.

Dyer writes novels, essays, reportage, and usually a blend of all three. He calls himself a gatecrasher, someone who has made a career of “turning up uninvited at an area of expertise, making myself at home, having a high old time for a year or two, and then moving on elsewhere.” For the intellectual nomad, “it’s not what you know that’s important; it’s what your passion gives you the potential to discover.” In his thoroughly enjoyable latest book The Last Days of Roger Federer, he offers this sideways defense of dilettantism:

“I’ve never had any big goals, ambitions, or dreams but I’ve always had so many little schemes, dodges, scams, hobbies, and interests on the go that I’ve never felt the lack of a larger purpose or the need for loftier consolation.”

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Quote Vote

“It is the dull man who is always sure and the sure man who is always dull.”
— H.L. Mencken

I’m not sure what to write about next, so hopefully you, dear reader, will make it interesting by voting below! (Here’s your track record to date. Keep it up!)

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Speaking of…

Geoff Dyer’s listlessness

Revenge travel for people who can’t be bothered to do it

Francis Spufford’s listfulness

The art of the list

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GWQ No. 168 is a cri du coeur, but in English. A perfect dilettante is the kind of person who campaigns to have coq au vin made France’s national bird. Maybe an American can do that for NyQuil chicken? I would but I’ve already lost interest. Perhaps a polymath is just a persistent dilettante? My little dodges, schemes, and scams include Elements of Wit: Mastering The Art of Being Interesting. Honour the root of the word amateur by tapping the ❤️ below.