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Poet, essayist, satirist, moralist, and lexicographer, Samuel Johnson (1709-1784) ranks among the greatest and most versatile writers in English. He was the preeminent sage of the 18th century, a man who believed deeply in religion, nature, and truth. The exquisitely polished rhythms and cadences of his prose, with its heavily Latinate diction, reflect a world vision in which reason, order, and balance predominate. A celebrated conversationalist, Johnson was never at a loss for words, and his quick wit and crusty sayings were immortalized by his devoted biographer Boswell. The Life of Samuel Johnson (Boswell, 1791/1961) presents us with an image of an indefatigable writer who conversed easily and brilliantly on any subject. Although he does not dwell on the darker side of his subject's life, Boswell refers briefly to a morbid melancholy that Johnson appeared to inherit from his father. Boswell uses an arresting metaphor in a 1769 biography entry to describe Johnson's turbulent inner struggles:
His mind resembled the vast amphitheatre, the Colisaeum at Rome. In the centre stood his judgement, which, like a mighty gladiator, combated those apprehensions that, like the wild beasts of the Arena, were all
Page 464around in cells, ready to be let out upon him. After a conflict, he drove them back into their dens; but not killing them, they were still assailing him. (p. 427)
Twentieth-century literary scholars, many of them psychoanalytically oriented, have been intrigued by the fierce struggle between Johnson's cool reason and his at times paralyzing fears; and these scholars have entered the lion's den in an effort to understand the nature of his implacable enemy. Johnson's journal entries indicate that, at least from the age of 20, he suffered from intolerable guilt and anxiety, masochistic strivings, violent mood swings, and fears of abandonment. As he grew older, he believed that he was going mad, a prophecy that nearly became self-fulfilling. Despite, or perhaps because of,