Introduction
Summary of the Book How to Live by Sarah Bakewell Before we proceed, let’s look into a brief overview of the book. In a world awash with quick opinions and instant judgments, Montaigne’s approach seems startlingly fresh. Instead of insisting he knew everything, he embraced the fact that he knew very little. Rather than writing sermons or dogmas, he wrote about himself as if anyone might be curious to peer into a wandering, doubting mind. This quiet honesty, rooted in curiosity rather than certainty, offered a gentle blueprint for living more thoughtfully. Montaigne invites readers to walk through a garden of ideas without worrying if they’ll ever leave with a perfect bouquet. By highlighting ordinariness, lingering in doubt, and facing mortality head-on, his perspective implicitly encourages us to slow down, reflect honestly, and remain open to fresh insights. Through him, we find renewed courage to embrace the beautiful complexity of simply being human.
Chapter 1: Experiencing a Chaotic Renaissance World and The Unsteady Foundations of a Thinking Mind.
In sixteenth-century France, the world Montaigne was born into was anything but calm or predictable. Imagine streets where ordinary families never knew if tomorrow would bring a deadly fever, a sudden outbreak of war, or the swift shadow of religious conflict flaring between Catholics and Protestants. The Renaissance was supposed to be a time of intellectual rebirth, humanistic inquiry, and sparkling new ideas. Yet, these bright sparks often coexisted with devastating diseases, bitter factionalism, and violent political upheavals. Daily life was uncertain, and people clung to traditions, faiths, and strict social hierarchies to feel some sense of stability. In this swirling mixture of knowledge and brutality, Montaigne entered the world in 1533 as a child of privilege, but also as a keen observer who would come to question everything around him, including himself.
Montaigne’s family had noble status, which offered him comforts that most never experienced. He was born into a wealthy household just outside the bustling city of Bordeaux. This fortunate position meant that while hunger and fear pressed on the common folk, Montaigne’s earliest memories likely involved soft beds, abundant food, and attentive tutors. Yet the world beyond his estate’s protective walls was brimming with disease and death. Plagues could sweep through entire cities, taking neighbors and family members without warning. War could erupt due to complex religious tensions, and a peaceful day could end in the clamor of armed conflict. Montaigne grew up aware that comfort was fragile and fortune unpredictable. Even in these safe beginnings, the seeds of uncertainty were quietly rooting themselves in his mind.
Human life in the Renaissance was like a vast tapestry woven from wildly different threads. Some threads were rich with the gold of classical learning, rediscovered Latin texts, and humanistic optimism. Others were stained red by massacre and mayhem, woven tightly with fear and suspicion. Against this backdrop, Montaigne’s young mind learned that knowledge and terror walked side by side. Instead of offering final answers, society presented contradictory lessons: trust the church, but note that religious violence raged; respect the king, but sense that political intrigue lurked behind every decision. Perhaps these mixed signals taught Montaigne early on that certainty was elusive. He would carry this sense of complexity and contradiction into his adult life and future writings, making him question what others simply accepted.
Montaigne’s future role as a thinker and writer would spring from this chaotic environment. He would learn to navigate the gulf between comfort and calamity, wealth and deprivation, erudition and ignorance. He would become fascinated by how people coped with fear, managed their beliefs, and searched for meaning in a world so eager to snatch it away. This environment set the stage for him to later ponder the big questions: How should we live when nothing seems stable or secure? How can we trust our minds, our senses, or even our cherished traditions when life’s ground is always shifting? Montaigne’s earliest years, spent within fortified walls and surrounded by intellectual influences, were also shadowed by unpredictability. Thus began his journey to explore the deep and troubled waters of human existence.
Chapter 2: Unlocking Curiosity in a Privileged Childhood and The Quiet Seeds of Intellectual Restlessness.
Montaigne’s youth was anything but ordinary for his time, at least in terms of education. His father, who believed in innovative and humanistic methods of upbringing, arranged for him to learn Latin as a first language. Imagine a household where servants spoke Latin to a young boy so naturally that he absorbed it with his morning bread and milk. By the time most children struggled to read simple words, Montaigne was exploring the grand works of ancient philosophers and poets. This provided him a gateway not only into distant eras but into the realm of original thought, helping him see beyond the confines of his estate’s walls. Though privileged, he developed a curiosity about the world’s workings, feeding on knowledge as if it were a rare, sweet fruit.
Access to tutors, a private library, and learned mentors meant Montaigne’s mind had fertile soil. He read classical authors—Virgil, Cicero, Seneca, Plutarch—imbibing ideas that had traveled through centuries and empires. Yet this education did more than sharpen his intellect; it shaped his sense of self. He discovered that the human mind could embrace logic, rhetoric, philosophy, and moral inquiry as easily as it could become prey to illusions, superstition, and pride. Here was a boy gifted with remarkable academic training, who realized early on that knowledge itself could be both enlightening and bewildering. It could open doors to understanding life, but also reveal life’s inability to be neatly understood.
Montaigne was not just a sponge for information; he became a thinker who learned that truth was rarely simple. With each text he devoured, he noticed inconsistencies. Some philosophers emphasized virtue and stoic calm; others praised indulgence or strategic cunning. He saw that human reason could point in many directions, suggesting that absolute certainty might be a mirage. This recognition sparked his intellectual restlessness. He did not want prepackaged answers; he craved understanding that could withstand scrutiny. Even at a young age, Montaigne sensed that the world’s complexity required a flexible mind willing to engage with paradox, irony, and doubt. Such openness would later guide him when confronting life’s most unsettling questions, including mortality itself.
In this unique environment, Montaigne was gently nudged away from intellectual complacency. He had the luxury of reading widely and the freedom to interpret what he read with his own mind. This was rare for a nobleman’s son, as many were simply trained to manage estates or handle legal and social duties. Montaigne’s formative years planted in him not only knowledge but a subtle dissatisfaction with easy conclusions. He was being prepared, unknowingly, to navigate the shifting sands of belief and evidence. This restless curiosity was still dormant, but soon it would awaken and challenge him to look at his world—and himself—in ways that other people of his station might never even consider.
Chapter 3: Harsh Encounters With Mortality and The Growing Shadow of Death’s Presence.
As Montaigne stepped into adulthood, life confronted him with an unsettling reality: death was an ever-present companion. In his youth, he had read about it in ancient texts—philosophers spoke freely of mortality and the impermanence of existence. But reading about death in books was one thing. Encountering it around every corner was something else entirely. Family, friends, neighbors, and strangers fell victim to disease, misfortune, or brutal violence. Beloved faces vanished without warning, leaving empty chairs at tables and hollowed echoes in hallways. This unending pattern of loss seeped into Montaigne’s mind, pressing him to question how anyone could live peacefully when existence felt so fragile and finite.
The death of his best friend, Étienne de La Boétie, struck Montaigne like a thunderbolt. This profound loss rattled him, proving that even the warmest bonds could be cut short at a moment’s notice. Then came the deaths of relatives, including his younger brother through a freak accident, and even the heartbreak of losing a child in infancy. With each tragedy, the concept of mortality was no longer an abstract philosophical topic to ponder; it became a personal torment. If everyone could be taken so suddenly, how was one supposed to find meaning, joy, or any form of lasting comfort?
Living amidst sixteenth-century France, Montaigne saw entire communities devastated by famine, epidemics, and the cruelty of religious wars. Houses once filled with laughter and conversation were left silent or reduced to ashes. The idea of a secure, predictable future seemed laughable. Reflecting on these experiences, Montaigne slipped into a morbid preoccupation. He became obsessed with death, its inevitability, and its refusal to provide any reasonable explanation. He wondered: Could there be a way to face death without crumbling beneath its weight? Was there a method to make peace with mortality, to accept it not as an enemy but as part of life’s natural order?
This dark cloud of despair, however, carried the seeds of a critical turning point in Montaigne’s thinking. His mind braced itself for something that might release him from the grip of constant fear. He sought lessons from ancient philosophers who advised not to fear the inevitable. Yet words alone proved insufficient. How could one apply these lofty lessons when mourning was raw and pain seared the heart? Montaigne was trapped, circling between fear and reason, longing for a perspective that could calm his mind. Little did he know that an unexpected event, completely out of his control, would soon flip his understanding of death on its head and show him a path toward living more freely.
Chapter 4: The Shattering Horse Ride and The Revelations of a Gentle Death Experience.
One fateful day, as Montaigne rode through the countryside near his estate, he experienced an incident that would forever alter his perspective. In those days, traveling through rural areas was no pleasant afternoon outing. Horses stumbled on uneven paths, and danger might lurk behind dense trees or in the unpredictable behavior of one’s own riders. Suddenly, Montaigne felt a massive impact from behind—a violent collision that hurled him through the air. For a moment, consciousness fled. When it returned, he believed he’d been shot. Pain should have been overwhelming. Fear should have gripped his heart. Instead, he found himself floating in a strange calmness, as though his mind had detached from suffering’s claws.
This near-death experience was nothing like Montaigne had imagined. Instead of screaming agony, he sensed an unusual lightness. Everything felt distant and oddly serene. Sure, his body was injured and vomiting blood, and to onlookers it must have seemed horrific. But inside his mind, Montaigne felt as if he hovered gently above the turmoil, no panic, no terror. It was a revelation. Could it be that death itself, that monstrous shadow looming over everyone, was not as unbearable as people feared? This momentary brush with the end suggested that nature had given human beings a merciful release in their final hours, a softening of the edges that might make death more tolerable than the living imagine.
After recovering, Montaigne reflected deeply on this event. The lesson was both startling and liberating: if death approached with a quiet easing of pain, why waste life dreading it? Why poison precious days with fear of something that might be gentler than expected? He realized that his terror of mortality was a self-imposed chain. Freed by this new understanding, Montaigne saw an opening to embrace life’s fleeting joys. Instead of brooding over the inevitable end, he might learn to float lightly over hardships, as he had done during that accident. In short, he found a key to reducing the anguish he had carried for years.
This shift in thinking would ripple through his existence. Montaigne had gained a perspective that eased the emotional burden weighing upon his heart. He began to reason that if the final transition was not horrendous, then his energy would be better spent appreciating each moment. He could turn to enjoying his books, savoring fine wine, or engaging in spirited debates with friends. He could accept life’s mysteries with less torment. This insight did not make him reckless—it made him curious. He wanted to see if he could live in a world framed by a calmer stance toward death. Little did he know that this newfound serenity would guide him towards the greatest project of his life: writing a very different kind of book.
Chapter 5: Retiring to the Tower and Writing Into the Tangled Depths of His Own Mind.
Liberated from his crushing fear, Montaigne decided to reshuffle his life’s priorities. He withdrew from legal and political duties and settled onto his rural estate, intending to live out his days in quiet peace. He envisioned a retirement defined by reading, thinking, and the gentle pleasures of a comfortable home. Yet, once the initial novelty wore off, he felt restless. The mind he carried—rich with readings, reflections, and lingering anxieties—refused to sit still. With no pressing tasks, his imagination soared into strange territories, conjuring odd creatures of thought and unruly emotions. It was as though, in the absence of structure, his mental world became a wild garden overrun with vines of doubt, curiosity, and memory.
This inner turmoil nudged him toward a solution: writing. By putting pen to paper, Montaigne could observe his own mind at work. Instead of trying to force his thoughts into silence, he could track them, let them wander, and record their meanderings. If his mind produced chimera-like ideas, then he would follow them through the pages, seeing what insights they might yield. He approached writing not as a grand scholarly exercise but as an intimate experiment on himself. He called these pieces Essays, meaning attempts or trials. Through them, he attempted to capture the fluid, untamed nature of his consciousness.
Montaigne took inspiration from ancient philosophers like Seneca, who advised occupying one’s mind with worthy subjects to stave off boredom and gloom. But Montaigne extended this advice further. He didn’t just study external matters—he studied himself. His surroundings, his sensations, his memories, and even his fears became subjects worthy of investigation. This perspective meant that the material of his essays was not something distant and grand, but something immediate, personal, and genuine. He examined how he reacted to events, how he thought about death, how he savored a piece of fruit, or how he became irritated by a small annoyance. Everything was relevant because everything flowed into the current of his mental life.
From this vantage point, Montaigne’s tower library became both a physical retreat and a symbolic space where he could wrestle openly with his mind. He had no desire to present himself as a heroic figure or a brilliant scholar. Rather, he depicted himself as a flawed, ordinary man trying to understand what it meant to live well. Without a fixed agenda or a thesis to prove, he allowed his pen to drift alongside his thoughts. Each page reflected his shifting moods and evolving insights. Little by little, these Essays would build into a mosaic of human experience, capturing the genuine texture of one individual’s journey through uncertainty, suffering, pleasure, and wonder.
Chapter 6: Embracing Ordinariness and the Courage to Write From the Common Ground of Humanity.
In an age when autobiographical writing was often viewed with suspicion—seen as vain, prideful, or trivial—Montaigne had the audacity to focus on himself. Yet he claimed no grand achievements. He described himself as mediocre, with limited imagination and a scattered intellect. Instead of presenting greatness, he embraced the very idea of being ordinary. This was a surprising move. Most writers of the time preferred to celebrate the exceptional—the legendary heroes, saints, and scholars. Montaigne did the opposite. He believed it was precisely his ordinariness that made him a suitable subject. If he could lay bare his shortcomings, inconsistencies, and doubts, others might recognize themselves in his pages.
Montaigne’s willingness to display his imperfections was an act of trust in humanity. He wagered that readers would not scorn him for his commonness, but rather appreciate his candor. After all, we all share the conditions of being human: frailty, confusion, curiosity, and the inability to know it all. By shining a light on his own flawed nature, Montaigne made a universal statement: we are all ordinary in our own ways, and that ordinariness connects us. Rather than pushing readers away, his imperfections could bring them closer, encouraging empathy and mutual understanding. Where others feared shame, Montaigne found a bridge to his audience.
Embracing mediocrity did not mean settling for ignorance or complacency. On the contrary, Montaigne’s acceptance of his limitations pushed him to remain open and humble. If he knew so little, he reasoned, then he must always be ready to learn more. If his mind was prone to wander, then he should let it roam, questioning assumptions, testing ideas, and looking at matters from multiple perspectives. This stance created a form of intellectual freedom. Instead of being trapped in a rigid identity as a wise man or a fool, he could shift between roles, acknowledging errors, learning from them, and moving forward.
Thus, the Essays transformed personal ordinariness into something valuable. By exploring himself as an everyman rather than a genius, Montaigne suggested that self-study did not require special credentials. Anyone could reflect honestly on their life and discover something meaningful in the process. This radical inclusivity paved the way for future thinkers and writers to draw on their personal experiences, voices, and vulnerabilities without shame. It was an antidote to the pride and pretension that blocked true understanding. Montaigne’s approach opened a new literary door, one that allowed a writer’s ordinary life to speak extraordinary truths about what it means to be human.
Chapter 7: Montaigne’s Mind in Motion and The Art of Free-Flowing Thought on the Page.
The uniqueness of Montaigne’s writing lay in his refusal to shape his essays into neat arguments. Instead, he allowed himself to roam intellectually, shifting direction as new thoughts emerged. He might begin by considering a historical anecdote, then recall a personal memory, then jump to a philosophical reflection, and then question everything he had just said. This was not sloppy writing; it was a deliberate attempt to mimic how the human mind actually worked. Our thoughts rarely come in tidy boxes. They meander, circle back, contradict themselves, and pick up threads of memory or fantasy along the way. By preserving this fluidity, Montaigne’s essays conveyed a truth deeper than any single conclusion.
Each essay was like a journey without a fixed destination. Rather than leading readers down a straight path to a grand conclusion, Montaigne took them on a winding tour of his mental landscape. He showed them the sights he stumbled upon—some fascinating, some odd, and some mundane. Through this process, readers could glimpse how he formed ideas, not just what those ideas were. As a result, reading Montaigne was like joining him for a walk through a forest of thought, pausing now and then to marvel at a strange tree or a bird’s call, only to realize that the forest itself was the main attraction, not just one particular tree.
This approach invited readers to participate actively. Instead of being told what to think, they were given the raw material of a mind at work. They could agree, disagree, or travel in their own direction once the essay ended. Montaigne’s willingness to show uncertainty encouraged readers to embrace their own doubts. It granted them permission to question traditional authorities or conventional wisdom without feeling guilty. If Montaigne, a nobleman with access to the finest education, could admit to confusion and changing his mind, then surely ordinary readers could do so too.
What emerged from this style was a profoundly human voice. Montaigne wrote not as a distant lecturer but as a companion who shared his inner processes with honesty. The essays became a space where intellect and emotion intertwined, where personal stories stood alongside ancient philosophies, and where the act of thinking was celebrated more than arriving at any particular conclusion. By practicing this free-flowing approach, Montaigne created a literary form that reflected the complexity, unpredictability, and richness of real life. In doing so, he challenged future generations of writers and thinkers to acknowledge that truth is not a rigid fortress, but a current we navigate moment by moment.
Chapter 8: Dwelling in Doubt and The Embrace of Uncertainty as a Path to Understanding.
Montaigne recognized that no matter how widely he read or how thoughtfully he reflected, certainty would remain out of reach. Instead of fearing this fact, he learned to accept it. Influenced by Stoic and Epicurean philosophies, as well as by skepticism, Montaigne concluded that living well meant learning how to exist comfortably amid doubt. In a world brimming with countless opinions, ideas, and beliefs—many of them contradictory—he realized that insisting on absolute truths often bred arrogance and conflict. By acknowledging the limits of his knowledge, he unlocked a gentler way of thinking, one that replaced smug confidence with humility and open-mindedness.
To Montaigne, doubt was not a weakness; it was a tool for growth. If he could question his own assumptions, he could learn something new. If he could consider an opposing perspective without dismissing it outright, he might expand his understanding. This attitude allowed him to navigate the intellectual landscape like an explorer rather than a conqueror. Instead of trying to crush opposing viewpoints, he examined them. Instead of clinging to a single philosophy, he sampled many. This approach made reading his essays a liberating experience. Readers saw that they, too, could hold multiple possibilities in mind, recognize the complexity of issues, and resist the temptation of easy answers.
Such openness mirrored the unpredictability Montaigne observed in life itself. If politics, religion, and health could shift dramatically from one year to the next, then why should our minds remain rigid? Accepting uncertainty also fostered tolerance. If he could accept that he did not know everything, then he could also understand that others, however wrong they seemed, might have reasons for their views. Embracing doubt did not mean giving up on truth entirely; it meant being patient and careful in seeking it, and knowing that absolute certainty might never be attainable.
Montaigne’s skeptical stance was not bleak or cynical. Rather, it allowed him to find serenity in the midst of chaos. By not demanding that the world fit neatly into his mental boxes, he avoided the frustration that arises when reality contradicts our expectations. Letting doubt into his heart let him breathe easier and live more harmoniously. It gave him the freedom to enjoy simple pleasures—good wine, old books, friendly conversations—without forcing them to carry some grand ultimate meaning. Instead of fighting uncertainty, he floated with it, finding a gentle wisdom that guided him toward kindness, curiosity, and empathy. This quiet wisdom would become a hallmark of the Montaignean way of living.
Chapter 9: Renown in a Torn Kingdom and Navigating the Treacherous Waters of Public Life.
When Montaigne’s essays first appeared in 1580, they took French high society by surprise. Readers discovered a voice unlike any they had known: personal, questioning, and free of the heavy moralizing common in the literature of the time. The collection gained popularity, attracting praise from none other than King Henri III. Almost overnight, Montaigne evolved into a figure of intrigue and admiration. This recognition pulled him from his rural retreat back into the whirlpool of political and public affairs. He served as Mayor of Bordeaux, wrestling with the city’s challenges and the plague of civil strife that engulfed the nation.
France was then torn apart by religious conflicts between Catholics and Protestants. These wars were not polite disagreements; they involved massacres, betrayals, and deep-rooted hatreds. Montaigne suddenly found himself in a dangerous landscape, tasked with brokering peace and advising powerful figures, including Catherine de’ Medici and eventually Henri IV. His mediations placed him in the crossfire of opposing factions. At times, he risked robbery and imprisonment. Once held briefly in the Bastille, Montaigne saw firsthand how words could become weapons and how easily political ambition could crush goodwill.
Despite this turmoil, Montaigne continued to write and revise his essays. He added hundreds of new passages, doubling their length, and publishing new editions. He seemed unable to stop exploring his thoughts, even as the world around him descended into chaos. Perhaps writing served as his anchor, a mental safe haven where he could think quietly, wrestle with uncertainties, and keep alive that gentle spirit of doubt and tolerance he had cultivated. While diplomats and soldiers fought to control the nation’s fate, Montaigne fought his own war inside the pages of his book, struggling to understand human nature and to make sense of endless conflict.
Serving in public roles tested Montaigne’s principles. Could he remain true to his open-mindedness and skepticism while navigating a political arena defined by entrenched loyalties and violent extremism? He tried to maintain balance, urging moderation where others called for purges, advising patience where others demanded swift judgment. The tension between his private philosophical explorations and his public responsibilities formed a dramatic contrast. Yet, he never abandoned the spirit of inquiry and understanding that shaped his essays. Amid swords and suspicion, he remained a quiet voice advocating dialogue, reflection, and the difficult art of listening. His fame thus became both an opportunity and a burden, but he faced it with the same fluid acceptance he applied to all aspects of life.
Chapter 10: Montaigne’s Endless Revisions and The Ever-Growing Influence of His Essays.
Montaigne never declared his essays finished. Even after publishing new editions, he kept revisiting them, adding thoughts, adjusting sentences, and letting new ideas seep into old passages. When he died in 1592, he left behind notes for further revisions, hinting that this work of self-exploration would have continued as long as he drew breath. The essays were not a static monument. They were a living process, a testament that self-understanding and understanding of the world are never truly complete. This openness frustrated those who craved final statements but delighted those who admired the honesty of an ongoing intellectual journey.
In the centuries after his death, Montaigne’s essays quietly influenced some of the greatest minds in history. Philosophers like Descartes and Pascal found sparks in his skepticism. Friedrich Nietzsche admired his psychological insight. Ralph Waldo Emerson and Virginia Woolf appreciated his personal voice and artistic freedom. Even William Shakespeare, it is said, encountered Montaigne’s words. The essays crossed borders and centuries, seeping into libraries, lectures, and conversations. They challenged readers to think differently, question old assumptions, and allow themselves to be human—not perfect, not all-knowing, but curious and willing to grow.
Montaigne’s legacy lies in the recognition that an ordinary life can be a worthy subject of study, and that a flexible mind is often wiser than a rigid one. By sharing his doubts, confusions, and shifting viewpoints, he opened a path toward a more tolerant and understanding attitude. He showed that self-examination and honest reflection could be more illuminating than grand proclamations of truth. His essays encouraged readers to trust their own experiences, to test their beliefs, and to approach life’s complexities with humility and openness.
This quiet revolution in literature and thought has never ceased. Montaigne’s influence endures not as a doctrine to memorize but as a style of thinking, a method of writing, and a way of engaging with the world. His Essays were a mirror where countless readers have glimpsed their own humanity. They still invite people to walk alongside him, to observe how a single human mind can tangle with love, fear, friendship, loss, knowledge, and ignorance—all without demanding final answers. This gentle encouragement to keep questioning, to remain curious, and to allow the world’s uncertainties to breathe freely, remains Montaigne’s greatest gift to all who seek to know themselves and the world they inhabit.
All about the Book
Discover the art of living through philosophical insights in ‘How to Live’ by Sarah Bakewell. This enchanting guide weaves timeless wisdom with practical advice, inspiring readers to embrace the essence of life with joy and mindfulness.
Sarah Bakewell, an esteemed author and scholar, captivates audiences with her engaging narratives that blend philosophy with everyday life, fostering a deep understanding of ethical living and personal fulfillment.
Philosophers, Psychologists, Life Coaches, Educators, Writers
Reading Philosophy, Meditation, Journaling, Public Speaking, Exploring New Ideas
Existentialism, Mindfulness, Personal Development, Philosophical Inquiry
To live is to experience the world unfiltered, to embrace uncertainty and the depth of our choices.
Alain de Botton, Elizabeth Gilbert, Arthur C. Brooks
The Thomas Jefferson Book Award, The Belles Lettres Prize, The Best Book of the Year by The New York Times
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