What Kind of a Bore Are You?

SOME months ago I read a little essay entitled ‘What Kind of a Snob Are You?’ which assumed that among the fifty-seven varieties of that genus each person would inevitably find his own particular niche. I am tempted to present a companion piece, in which another four-lettered bugbear looms as an even more obnoxious social pest. For I think I am not underrating human nature in believing that most of us would dislike more to be branded with the word ‘bore’ than with the label ‘snob’—and this in spite of the fact that while a bore may be a thoroughly admirable person, a snob must always carry a taint of something rather contemptible.

It is difficult to define accurately that ‘society offender,’ as Ko-Ko calls him in his incisive little song, whose name appears in the ‘little list’ of those who ‘never will be missed,’ and whose manifestations are so varied. There is the Bore Rampant, and there is the Bore Couchant. The bore who talks too much, too loud, and too insistently, who fixes you with his glittering eye and will not let your attention wander, who comes too often and stays too long, who talks about himself, or — if it is a woman — about her children or her diseases. This, in a general way, is the Bore Rampant. The Bore Couchant is a heavy, sluggish creature, devoid of imagination or tact, a social drone, who refuses to play his part in the game we all tacitly take part in when we mingle with our fellows.

An endeavor to enumerate the qualities that go to make up a bore is as difficult as to define charm. Both elude analysis, and what makes the matter still more confusing is the fact that one man’s charmer may be another man’s bore. But it is a thought not without comfort that, whereas each of us has probably been dubbed a bore by some charming person, it is equally probable that we have also been considered charming by certain bores. I shall set an example of truthfulness and confess to a trait by no means admirable: I should prefer to be called a liar, a hypocrite, a fool, or a knave rather than a bore. I should much prefer to be stupid than boring — and there is a distinction between the two. I should rather be detained at Ellis Island for moral turpitude than marooned in isolated virtue in a crowded drawing room, wearing the badge of social leprosy involved in the word ‘bore.’

I have tried, for my own guidance, to tabulate a few general rules to avoid catching a disease that is, alas, contagious. The first essential is to talk too little rather than too much. Second, avoid detail. A sketch may be crude, inaccurate, and badly executed, but it is not boring. Cromwell’s ‘wart and all’ theory should never be applied in conversation, in which the quality of selection is of its very essence. Third, if you must tell a story — and please don’t do so if you can help it — never imitate the mannerisms or intonations of the people you are describing. I issue this prohibition thus definitely knowing that the real mimic, the artist among raconteurs, cannot be prevented from practising his talent by any dogmatic directions of mine, and thank goodness that it is so. But most of us, when we practise the tempting art of mimicry, are more boring than convincing. Fourth, look interested, and, if possible, be interested in what other people say. Do not let your eyes or your attention wander. A good listener is never a bore. We cannot all handle foils with skill, but we can all toss back the conversational ball when it is thrown at us, and it should be tossed back lightly—not hurled in the face of our opponent, who should be regarded as a partner in the social game rather than as an antagonist.

Of course all these headings may be summed up under the one essential quality — a sense of proportion. For those who like positive and affirmative rules, I append the following recipe for making