At the Century Association in New York City, a major criterion for membership is being a good conversationalist. Candidates for admission are expected to sit down with the admissions committee and converse — not lecture — for at least half an hour. The club’s website says that prospective members may be “of any occupation as long as their breadth of interests and qualities of mind and imagination make them sympathetic, stimulating, and congenial companions in a society of authors and artists.” Understandably, the club interview has been known to induce anxiety.

With the 2022 wedding season in full swing, it seems fitting to consider what goes into being a good conversationalist. After all, many of us will find ourselves this summer seated next to both strangers and family members. At these happy events, we’ll be expected to have good conversations. One question is whether we’ll be adequately prepared to be congenial companions.

That’s becoming an old-fashioned idea. Many people today think they’ve contributed by simply showing up. We all know people who attend a gathering and seemingly believe that their mere presence is enough. They may sit and eat in silence, rarely offering a comment — perhaps an occasional chuckle or grumble. If they do say something, it might have to do with the weather, their own maladies, or any number of inanities. They’d probably be shocked to hear that many people consider it a social obligation to be interesting.

Inviting them to an event is tricky: They might, after all, accept. Then someone will have the burden of trying to talk with them. The ideal situation, with such obligatory invitations issued reluctantly, is to have enough probable acceptances among them to fill a table.

Lest you think I’m criticizing introversion and praising extroversion, I emphatically deny that. Introverts are often superb conversationalists because they draw out other people and ask pertinent questions. They’re often highly sensitive to others’ feelings and therefore excellent at reading the interests of their interlocutors.

Strong extroverts, by contrast, can be poor conversationalists in various ways — mostly involving monopolistic tendencies. We’ve all experienced having someone ask us a question on the pretense of showing an interest in our views. But hardly a syllable gets uttered in response before such a person announces, “Well let me tell you what I think,” followed by an extended disquisition on usually banal ideas.

Conversation involves self-restraint, one aspect of which is avoiding the temptation to top other people’s stories. At some point Groucho Marx realized that he had this bad habit: “It was killing conversation. When you’re always trying for a topper you aren’t really listening.”

And then there are the bores who don’t even pretend to involve others in their monologues. They just begin “holding forth” as if everyone within earshot would naturally be enthralled by whatever account they’ve launched into. They often make it impossible for others to get a word in: They start another sentence before taking a breath, so that any attempt at give-and-take seems like an unwelcome interruption.

Many personality types engage in such behavior, as we’ve seen online during the pandemic. Sometimes when a socially starved person gets the floor, the rambling begins, and there will be no transition back to others without some overt awkwardness: either an abrupt shift of topic by some other speaker who senses, rightly, that the group can no longer tolerate the interminable blather, or else a hasty series of sign-offs as people simply rebel at the speaker’s solipsistic intrepidity.

Admittedly, much depends on the position of the speaker vis-à-vis the group. An acknowledged raconteur is not just allowed but encouraged to hold forth. In Austin, Texas, in the 1980s, the writer John Henry Faulk would be encouraged, at parties, to tell stories. People would listen with rapt attention as every well-placed word fell artfully from his lips. On the rare occasions when he might be interrupted, he’d incorporate the comment with a smooth, witty transition that delighted the audience. But it was all about knowing the audience. It always is.

Given all the pressures involved in being an effective conversationalist, one might be tempted to adopt the just-show-up attitude. People might think they won’t be judged if they can just manage to go unnoticed. Say as little as possible: Be a conversational cipher. Suppress the idea that the wedding party invested money to have you there, that you had a social obligation to talk for your supper, and that you might have been a conversational killjoy.

People, as we know, are social animals. We interact with each other, which means there should be give-and-take. That’s the key to effective conversation. As Francis Bacon wrote in one of his famous essays (“On Discourse”), “the honourablest part of talke, is to give the occasion; and again to moderate and passe to somewhat else; for then a man leads the daunce.” He extolled the mixing of questions with brief assertions, and of jesting with seriousness. Perhaps the most tedious “conversations” are those in which you pass an hour or two with someone who never once thinks to ask you a question.

It’s commonplace today to speak of our “national conversation.” This metaphorical phrase seems almost insincere, especially when you consider that it necessarily entails the three subjects normally considered conversationally taboo: politics, religion, and money. These subjects sow division. And so it seems unlikely that any “national conversation” will meet Emerson’s standard of “wise, cultivated, genial conversation” amounting to “the last flower of civilization.” Let’s hope it’s not the last flower.