Anti-aphorisms for a Modern Age: A Conversation with Donato Loia

Genealogies of Modernity Managing Editor Kirsten Herlin recently had the pleasure of interviewing Donato Loia about his exciting new book, 1095 Short Sentences, where they discussed avoiding the arrogance of aphorisms, capturing impressions of modern life, and operating an elevator at the Milan Cathedral. Donato is currently a visiting assistant professor at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. He’s a long-time friend and supporter of Genealogies of Modernity: Donato attended the 2018 summer seminar on “Possible Modernities Between Medieval and Enlightenment” and has written articles for Genealogies of Modernity on a variety of topics, from the emptiness of St. Peter’s Square during the pandemic to the enigma of being born.

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Kirsten Herlin: First, I’m curious about the epigraph you chose from Kierkegaard’s “The Dog Kennel by the Palace.” To me, it suggests your vision for what a collection of aphorisms can offer: not a grand encyclopedic theory or philosophy of life (which is maybe impossible in our post-Enlightenment age), but something humbler: flashes of fragmentary wisdom and glimpses of insight into the meaning of our common human existence. Even the number 1095—just short of a round 2000—suggests this. Is that on the right track, or did you have something else in mind?

Donato Loia: I appreciate your attention to the epigraph, as it’s central to the entire collection. I’ve always been moved by that passage from Kierkegaard. For those unfamiliar, here’s the passage I included as the epigraph:

Niels Christian Kierkegaard, portrait of Søren Kierkegaard (c. 1840)

“A thinker erects an immense building, a system, a system which embraces the whole of existence and world-history etc.—and if we contemplate his personal life, to our astonishment, this terrible and ludicrous fact, that he himself does not live in this immense—high vaulted palace, but in a barn alongside of it, or in a dog kennel, or at the most in the porter’s lodge. If one were to take the liberty of calling his attention to this by a single word, he would be offended. For he has no fear of being under a delusion, if only he can get the system completed…by means of the delusion.”

The image of the barn and dog kennel casts a shadow over the entire collection. I titled the book 1095 Short Sentences to avoid direct association with aphorisms, which often carry an air of self-importance or a halo of genius—something I wanted to steer clear of. The epigraph reflects my intention to distance the book from that tradition. That said, it is true that several sentences may give the impression of offering wisdom following the tradition of aphoristic thoughts, but the fragmentary nature of the collection, coupled with the recurring, often unanswered questions, should undercut a sense of self-importance.

From the beginning, I had a plan for this book. I knew I wanted to write 1095 sentences and organize them into three sections—Morning, Afternoon, and Evening—each containing 365 sentences. I also thought that these sections could be seen as reflecting different stages of life, perhaps hinting at a “system that embraces the whole of existence.” But there’s no actual system in the book. The speaker moves from subject to subject, often jumping to a new topic without fully exploring the previous one. This lack of system also differentiates the book from self-help or motivational literature. Unlike those books—which often have a clear goal, purpose, or lesson to impart—this book has no such agenda. There’s really nothing I aim to demonstrate, and in that sense, there is no system at all.

More simply, the epigraph also suggests that those who offer advice—especially those who appear thoughtful or well-intentioned—may not always live by the standards they advocate. Including this self-awareness from the outset seemed crucial. The book is filled with contradictions, making it clear that the author struggles to maintain an authoritative stance or firm belief in almost anything.

KH: Speaking of the self-importance of the aphoristic tradition: You describe 1095 as “old-fashioned,” and so I couldn’t help but be reminded of the rich tradition going back to the ancient world of aphoristic collections and meditative journals—I’m thinking of Epictetus’s Enchiridion, Marcus Aurelius’s Meditations, Erasmus’s Adagia, and Adorno’s Minima Moralia. Besides avoiding aphoristic certainty, I’m wondering if there are any other ways you see yourself working within or challenging that tradition? Were there any collections that inspired you while you were composing your own?

Sant'Angelo a Fasanella, Salerno, Italy

DL: While working on this book, I read Marcus Aurelius’s Meditations and received a book of Oscar Wilde's aphorisms, Only Dull People are Brilliant at Breakfast—a fantastic title. I also revisited Augustine’s Confessions and a number of proverbial expressions in Cilentano made their way into the book (I grew up in Salerno, but my family is from a small village of 500 people in Cilento called Sant’Angelo a Fasanella.) Like I said, I don’t think the book fits entirely within the tradition of aphoristic thought—it often leans more toward diaristic strategies, motivational or “anti-motivational” guides, observations, or notes-to-self. There’s certainly an echo of that tradition, but 1095 doesn’t fully align with it. In general, I’m planning an essay on the short sentence form, exploring its structure and considering this book as part of a longer lineage.

KH: Here are just a few of my favorite sentences from the collection: “Morning 95:” “If you cannot convince them, confuse them” and “Afternoon 24:” “Among all the things you could save money on, never skimp on olive oil.” At the risk of violating “Morning 92,” do you have any favorites? Are there any you don’t like?

DL: I really like “Morning 95,” too. As someone currently pursuing an academic career path, I think mastering that skill is indispensable for anyone on this rather insane journey. “Afternoon 24” is another favorite—simple, but essential advice. So far, I haven’t found any sentences I dislike, but don’t ask me the same question in a year—or even six months. My answer might be completely different.

Actually, let me try to find one I’m not as fond of. Here’s one that doesn’t seem particularly clever to me: “Afternoon 352”—“My impression is that every art history student is an aspiring bourgeois. I am a clear example of this.” I’m not sure this is a great sentence, because most art history students I know already come from bourgeois or upper-class backgrounds, so there’s no need for them to aspire to that social status—they already belong to it. I myself come from a family that comfortably considers itself “middle class,” so there’s no aspiration to become bourgeois—I already am.

Fortunately, I also include in the book “Morning 184:” “No one is exempt from the possibility of speaking nonsense, and the more you talk, the greater the chances are that you do so.”

And I try not to pick favorites. The sentences are sensitive; they get offended easily.

KH: You talked a bit about your “ideal reader, but not about how, ideally, you think the book should be read. Let’s be honest: 1095 sentences is a lot of sentences. Do you think this book is best appreciated by reading chronologically, cover to cover, or browsing at random; by reading the Morning sentences in the morning, and the Evening sentences in the evening; by taking in one a day, like a vitamin; or reading sections all at once?

DL: I asked Deborah to make the praises for the book somewhat ironic, and one of them includes a remark from my friend Peter Worger, who said, “Wow, I didn’t realize there were one thousand.” So yes, you’re right…But there could have been 1905 or even 10950, so ultimately it’s not that overwhelming. Also, considering the book costs $18, each sentence comes out to about 1.64 cents—it’s a pretty good deal.

As for your question, I must admit I’m the type of reader who tries to read books I enjoy from cover to cover. For books I’m less interested in, I tend to skim or jump around, though I often still attempt to read sequentially, even with collections of essays.

Ideally, I hope readers will go through the sentences in sequence, from 1 to 1095, starting with the morning and ending with the evening ones. But beyond that, I don’t prescribe a specific way of reading. I hope the book encourages a kind of old-fashioned interactivity—pausing, reflecting, maybe even disagreeing with the sentences, and entering into a conversation with the writer.

Every writer hopes, first and foremost, that their work will be recognized. But the even greater challenge is finding someone who wants to engage in a dialogue—not directly with the author, but with the book itself. That’s the ultimate aspiration for anyone who tries to write.

KH: I was struck by something Deborah Shapiro wrote in the introduction to the volume: the thought she had about the joy of coffee was both “trite” but “entirely true.” It seems true to me that anyone like you who tackles the themes that people have thought about and written about for perhaps all of human history (as you say, “habits, desires, sex, work, daily life—the usual suspects”) will be faced with the problem of originality and how to say something new. Was this a challenge you faced? If so, do you have any insights about how to avoid or even embrace cliches while writing the truth? 

DL: The book, in many ways, is an attempt to grapple with things that might seem trite, obvious, and indeed, banal, but as one of my favorite sentences—also included in the book—states, “the banal, usually, is the hard part.” This quote comes from the Italian poet Edoardo Sanguineti, whose work I deeply admire.

I don’t feel confident enough to say that I was writing the truth, though I was almost always trying to express things I felt were truthful. I think there’s a significant difference between attempting to be truthful and actually writing the truth. Ultimately, the truth is often such a mess that I wouldn’t claim that this was my project.

I’m still not entirely sure what my project is, apart from trying to better understand the life and time in which I am living. There was a moment in art history—and in some ways, we are still in that moment—when the conventional wisdom was: "Tell your story, and you’ll be interesting." I don’t think that’s my project. My project was more along the lines of: "Try to think, and maybe you’ll be interesting."

KH: In 1095, you contemplate careerism, writing, academia, the field of art history. As academics, we’re trained to write primarily for an academic audience—articles in peer-reviewed journals, the university press monograph, etc. What has your experience been like writing and publishing a book that is outside the conventional academic genres? 

DL: I wrote this book without a strict deadline. I gave myself three years to write the short sentences, then planned to revise and publish them—but that was the only deadline I set. In academic writing, you usually establish a working schedule and often have a set deadline, especially when commissioned. You also have to consider what your colleagues already know, the expectations of the field, and the current conversations. But none of that applied to this project.

Moreover, I wanted to develop a relationship with a publisher—get to know someone first, and then see if there was a way to publish the book. So rather than sending the book around, I started by asking a few friends. In particular, I asked my friend, Filmmaker Andrew Bujalski, if he knew any writers who were also publishers. He mentioned his friend Deborah, whom he knew from Boston. After moving to Chicago, I met Deborah for coffee, and we hit it off. I knew she was a professional and highly skilled writer—her support in the writing of the final version of the book was outstanding. So I asked if she’d be interested in reading the book, and she said she’d like to publish it. And here we are.

There’s also something else that strongly separates this book from academic writing. In academia, you always try to exhaust an argument, aiming for the greatest comprehensiveness and rigor possible. Nothing could be further from this book. I often circle around topics, jumping from one subject to another without necessarily diving deep into a theme. Some might see this as a weakness, but I believe it’s essential to the book’s character. I wanted to capture a certain impression of everyday life, where thoughts arise and disappear, and many ideas blend together in a way that can be confusing and chaotic. Although I tried to loosely organize the book around subject matter, I knew I wanted to keep the thoughts as free and non-comprehensive as possible. This is a book without a theorema.

KH: Now that 1095 is published, what comes next? Do you have any new projects you’re working on that we should stay tuned for in the coming years?  

DL: Right now, I'm primarily focused on academic writing. I'm working on an essay about the presence of African arts in Theaster Gates's work, starting another essay on Arthur Jafa, and finishing a review essay on five exemplary books on art and religion from the 1970s to today.

I also have a short story project that I've been contemplating for some time. My last professional experience in Italy was as a guardian at the Milan Cathedral, where part of my job involved operating the elevator that took tourists to the terraces. Everyone disliked the monotony of those two or three hours of just pressing buttons and ensuring no more than nine tourists entered the elevator at a time. But I always found it quite fascinating.

KH: Do you still keep a journal of short sentences? Are there any missing from this collection? Or, maybe I can put it differently: if you could add one sentence, what would it be?  

DL: Yes, I still have the habit of keeping a Leuchtturm notebook on my desk to jot down short sentences, though I haven’t been as diligent since finishing the book. Let me randomly open one of these new notebooks…They are right here next to me. Okay, here’s one that seems fitting: “Just get your work done to the best of your abilities, and if everyone notices, that’s great; if not, just let it be.”

KH: Finally, are there any questions about 1095 that you haven’t been asked that you’re either surprised you haven’t been asked or wished you’ve been asked?

DL: Yes, it’s surprising how no one wants to talk about love, sex, and pornography. They’re truly intractable topics.

KH: Okay, I spoke too soon! One final question for you: where can our readers pick up a copy of 1095?

DL: It's currently available to pre-order here. Copies will ship in late August/early September. I hope you’ll check it out and tell your friends—and your non-friends. If you are a student, please feel free to use the student discount code: "STUDENT."

To celebrate, we've also got a few events lined up in Chicago and Texas, where copies will also be available. We’re having a book release party in Chicago at The Whistler, Wednesday, 9/18 from 6–8 p.m. Then, I will be reading with Miles Matis-Uzzo and Hannah Spector, with a conversation moderated by Stephanie Yue Duhem at Alienated Majesty Books in Austin, TX, Tuesday, 10/1 at 6:30 p.m. Lastly, I will be reading with Stalina Villarreal and Roberto Tejada at Basket Books and Art in Houston on Wednesday, 10/2 at 7:30 p.m.

Donato Loia (he/him) is a visiting assistant professor at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. In 2023, he received a PhD in Art History from The University of Texas at Austin. For his academic and curatorial work, he has received awards from Humanities Texas—the state affiliate of the National Endowment for the Humanities—and the German Academic Exchange Service (DAAD). His essays have appeared in Religion and the Arts, New Blackfriars, Visual Studies, and Mise-en-Scène: The Journal of Film and Visual Narration, among other places. He has also written for Genealogies of Modernity and The Brooklyn Rail. His first book, 1095 Short Sentences, was published by B-Side Editions.

Kirsten Hall Herlin is an assistant professor of literature in the Center for Arts and Letters at the University of Austin. Formerly, she served as the director of the literature program at Ave Maria University. She graduated from Hillsdale College and completed her PhD in English at the University of Texas at Austin. Her research focuses on religion and eighteenth-century British literature, and her work has been published in academic journals such as Modern Philology, Renascence, and Notes & Queries. She has also appeared as a guest on National Review’s podcast, The Great Books, and has written articles for The Weekly Standard and The New Atlantis.