“Publishing, being a business, offers the most objective conditions for teaching and for evaluating how successfully the trainee is learning his job; editing, too, less sharply defined but seeking to be a profession, offers some opportunities for knowing whether one is learning one’s trade; but writing, at least a craft and at its best an art, aspiring to the unique, is the most difficult of all to learn.”
Every writer understands the struggle captured in these lines. Jacques Barzun | Columbia University Libraries The sentiment perfectly articulates the elusive nature of literary creation. Unlike a standard trade where you can measure proficiency with objective metrics, writing exists in a gray area. It constantly shifts between technical skill and artistic expression.
However, a fascinating mystery surrounds this famous observation. Most literary enthusiasts confidently attribute these words to Jacques Barzun, the celebrated historian and cultural critic. Indeed, you will find his name attached to this quote on countless websites and in numerous speeches.
Yet, history tells a different story. Jacques Barzun did not write this sentence. Instead, the credit belongs to Morris Philipson, a distinguished figure in the publishing world. This case of mistaken identity reveals much about how we consume information. Furthermore, it highlights the often-overlooked relationship between an author and their editor.
The Roots of the Misattribution
To understand how this confusion began, we must look at the physical book itself. The quote appears in a collection of essays titled On Writing, Editing, and Publishing. Jacques Barzun is the primary author listed on the cover. Consequently, most readers assume he wrote every word contained between the bindings.
This assumption, while logical, ignores the structural nuances of publishing. Source Morris Philipson served as the Director of The University of Chicago Press during that era. He contributed the foreword to Barzun’s collection. Specifically, Philipson wrote this insightful comparison in the opening pages of both the 1971 first edition and the 1986 second edition. .
Readers often skip the fine print. When someone finds a brilliant passage in a book credited to Barzun, they naturally ascribe the words to him. Over time, this error compounded. Quotation databases scraped the text, ignored the specific context of the foreword, and solidified the connection to Barzun.
Analyzing the Wisdom: Craft vs. Business
Philipson’s observation resonates because it highlights a fundamental truth about creative work. He juxtaposes writing against publishing and editing. Publishing operates as a business. Therefore, it has a bottom line. You can measure success through sales, distribution numbers, and profit margins. A trainee in publishing knows if they are succeeding because the data tells them so.
Editing sits in the middle. Philipson describes it as “less sharply defined.” An editor seeks professional status, and there are standards for grammar, style, and structure. You can learn these rules. Thus, an editor can gauge their progress, even if the metrics are softer than in pure business.
Writing, however, stands alone. Philipson argues that it aspires “to the unique.” This is the crux of the difficulty. You can master the craft—grammar, syntax, vocabulary—but the art requires something unteachable. A writer must create something that has never existed before. There is no checklist for soul or voice. Consequently, learning to write is an endless, often solitary journey without a clear finish line.
Echoes in the Cultural Conversation
Interestingly, Philipson was not the only thinker in the mid-20th century to use this specific framing. The distinction between “craft” and “art” permeated the cultural dialogue of the 1960s. Creative professionals across various fields grappled with the same dichotomy.
For example, the actor George Peppard expressed a strikingly similar sentiment regarding his own profession. In a 1964 interview with The Christian Science Monitor, Peppard noted that acting is a craft at its least and an art at its best. He emphasized that charm alone could no longer sustain a career. Instead, he argued that actors needed deep knowledge of their trade.
This parallel suggests a broader zeitgeist. Intellectuals and artists during this period sought to legitimize their creative struggles. They wanted to define the boundary where technical skill ends and true artistry begins. Philipson applied this lens to literature, while others applied it to performance.
The Importance of Correct Attribution
Why does it matter who wrote the sentence? After all, the wisdom remains valid regardless of the author. Nevertheless, accuracy is the bedrock of non-fiction and scholarship. When we erase Morris Philipson’s name, we lose the context of his perspective.
Philipson wrote from the viewpoint of a publisher observing the ecosystem. He wasn’t just a writer complaining about difficulty. He was an industry leader analyzing the machinery of book production. He understood the business side (publishing), the refinement process (editing), and the raw creation (writing).
His background gives the quote more weight. He admits that his own side of the industry (business) is easier to learn than the writer’s task. This is a profound concession. Usually, business figures claim their work is the hardest. Philipson, however, humbly bows to the difficulty of the artist’s struggle.
Conclusion
“Writing, at least a craft and at its best an art, aspiring to the unique, is the most difficult of all to learn.” This statement serves as both a warning and a badge of honor for writers. It acknowledges that the path is arduous and the destination undefined.
We owe it to Morris Philipson to credit him for this insight. While Jacques Barzun contributed immensely to the world of letters, this specific gem belongs to his editor and publisher. As we continue to share this quote in writing circles and workshops, let us correct the record. By doing so, we respect the very craft of writing that Philipson so eloquently described.