Dr Johnson number 1 - Would that it were impossible

 I love the whole idea of Dr Johnson, and not just because he is sort of the patron saint of lexicography, with which I was involved for about 25 years of my career. He was, of course, the person who brought the first fairly modern-looking (but very idiosyncratic) dictionary of English to the party in 1755 when he finally brought to fruition the 'Dictionary of English' for Longman, among other publishing partners. And if someone tells me in a pedantic way about all the other dictionaries that predated or accompanied it to the market, I will just snort in a very Johnsonian way and say "Details, mere details, the stuff of floor-sweepings and dust-carters..."

But Johnson was also a fine writer, a polemicist, a pamphleteer and someone who was much loved by his friends as wise and good, even if clearly a part-time or full-time curmudgeon. The portrait that we get of him in Boswell's biography is well-rounded and striking, and he always had an eye and an ear for a good quote. I am sure that all the time spent poring over his slips for the 42,000 words in the dictionary made him want to use them all at least once. And with that viewpoint I do feel a certain propinquity, let it be said.

But one of my favourite Johnson anecdotes turns upon music and musical taste and is just as apt now as it was then. This is the set-up:

A friend of Johnson had purchased for them a pair of tickets to see the hot young tyro violin virtuoso who had come over to play London (probably from Rome or Milan, or Verona). Imagine the Oasis reunion level of ticket demand, and Johnson and pal were in row 1. 

The tyro warmed up and started to play, faster and faster, hitting every tenth position with perfect intonation and timing, running up long glissandos and crescendos and lots of other things ending in 'O', showing all of the variation that a long-trained, enthusiastic and possibly exceptionally talented young violinist can do. I do imagine lots of curly locks being tossed back so as not to impede the rapid movement of the bow.

But I feel Johnson may have hit the port a bit early that day, for despite the genius in front of him, he was starting to flag. And lets be honest, to snore. The friend noticed this and, feeling sharply the artistic loss to the Doctor and possibly the price of the tickets, he nudged Johnson and enquired whether he realised just how difficult this piece was.

"Would that it were impossible." was Johnson's and the absolutely best response one can make. I am reminded of it much when listening to prog rock, or furious classical piano, or someone filling a good reel with more rolls than it can take, or a bodhran solo, or any recitation of the 'flight of the bumble bee'

Would that it were impossible.