scholars of the Renaissance. His interests were as narrow as they were
intense: he loved literature when it clothed philosophy, and
philosophy when it left logic for life, but he almost ignored science,
scenery, music, and art. He smiled at the systems of astronomy that
then strutted the stage, and the stars smiled with him. In all his
multitudinous correspondence there is no appreciation of the Alps,
or the architecture of Oxford and Cambridge, or the painting of
Raphael or the sculpture of Michelangelo, who were working for
Julius II when Erasmus was in Rome (1509); and the lusty singing of
the Reformed congregations would later offend his educated ears. His
sense of humor was usually subtle and refined, occasionally
Rabelaisian, often sarcastic, once inhuman, as when he wrote to a
friend, on hearing that some heretics had been burned, "I would pity
them the less if they raise the price of fuel now that winter is
coming on." `061474 He had not only the natural egoism or
selfishness of all men, but also that secret and cherished egotism, or
self-conceit, without which the writer or artist would be crushed in
the ruthless rush of an indifferent world. He loved flattery, and
agreed with it despite frequent disclaimers. "Good judges," he told
a friend, "say that I write better than any other man living." `061475
It was true, though only in Latin. He wrote bad French, spoke a
little Dutch and English, "tasted Hebrew only with the tip of the
tongue," `061476 and knew Greek imperfectly; but he mastered Latin
thoroughly, and handled it as a living tongue applicable to the most
un-Latin nuances and trivia of his time. A century newly enamored of
the classics forgave most of his faults for the lively brilliance of
his style, the novel charm of his understatements, the bright dagger
of his irony. His letters rival Cicero's in elegance and urbanity,
surpass them in vivacity and wit. Moreover, his Latin was his own, not
imitatively Ciceronian; it was a living, forceful, flexible speech,
not an echo 1,500 years old. His letters, like Petrarch's, were
coveted by scholars and princes only next to the stimulus of his
conversation. He tells us, perhaps with some literary license, that he
received twenty letters a day and wrote forty. `061477 Several volumes
of them were published in his lifetime, carefully edited by their
author so conscious of posterity. Leo X, Adrian VI, Queen Marguerite
of Navarre, King Sigismund I of Poland, Henry VIII, More, Colet,