Arthur Schopenhauer seldom appears in the same sentence as Fred Astaire, but it is a mark of the wit of Joseph Epstein's new book about Astaire that he makes a quote from the 19th century German philosopher seem a useful way of understanding the man that many -- including such authorities as Balanchine and Baryshnikov -- consider the 20th century's greatest dancer.

Toward the end of "Fred Astaire" (Yale Icons of America Series, $22) Epstein asks if Astaire, for whom his admiration is total and passionate (as is that of any sensible person) was a genius. He then cites the distinction Schopenhauer makes between genius and talent. "Talent is like a marksman who hits a target that the rest cannot reach; genius, one who hits a target they cannot even sight."

Astaire, through his singlemindedness and perfectionism, made the absolute most of his talent. He did not consider himself a visionary, widening the understanding of what dance could be. But by achieving the full potential of his talent, he continues to provide extraordinary pleasure for millions of people the world over.

The specialness of Astaire is something quite remarkable. Though I spent many years as an entertainment journalist and was often at parties filled with celebrities, the only time I can say I was genuinely thrilled to see one was many years ago, when I happened to be having lunch in the King Cole Room of the St. Regis, which had recently been renovated, and Astaire wandered in to look at Maxfield Parrish's mural.

My friend Anne Kronenfeld, who was a dancer, lived in Hollywood in the '70s (where she used to talk about "getting back to the States.") She was introduced to him on a sound stage. In the course of their conversation he nonchalantly shifted his weight from one side of the body to another, which she still considers the most beautiful thing she's ever seen.

Epstein gives a full account of Astaire's career. He starts by discussing the odd fact that someone as physiclly unprepossessing as Astaire could have gotten into films in the first place. he does not shy away from discussing Astaire's ears, noting that Clark Gable and Cary Grant also had ears that stuck out. "As a big-eared man myself, stick-out division, I am a close student of these appendages," he writes. "My authoritative opinion is that Astaire would have looked rather more freakish with small ears that clung to his skull."

He analyzes movies I confess I never even heard of (just as well, in Epstein's estimate), as well as the legendary ones. Biographically, there isn't much to say. Astaire was an intensely private person. None of the more extensive biographies provides anything juicy, and a book like this, which is about what he achieved, would not be the proper place to add to our knowledge of, say, whom he slept with.

As Epstein puts it, "A pure performer, he scarcely existed outside the realm of performance."

He does go into the complex relationship Astaire had with Ginger Rogers. Neither was apparently fond of the other. I was surprised (and a little disappointed) that when Astaire was given the American Film Institute's Lifetime Achievement Award he let it be known that he didn't want her invited.

Epstein is also good at putting Astaire into the context of his culture. It was an extraordinary moment. Sound movies were only a few years old when Hollywood took a gamble on this physically unattractive but dazzling dancer. He helped define the way this fairly new medium could explore and exploit dance. (In this respect perhaps he was more of a genius than either Epstein or Schopenhauer would acknowledge.)

Equally important, it was a miraculous time for popular music (much of the best of which was written for him.) That so many great composers should have been working at the moment he appeared -- Gershwin, Berlin, Porter, Kern -- added to the richness of what he did. In discussing "Easter Parade," Epstein has a funny aside, "Why is it that Jewish songwriters composed all the popular songs for Christian holidays? How come Cole Porter never wrote a song for Rosh Hashonah or Noel Coward one for Purim?"

I have been an admirer of Epstein's writing since 1972, when I came across an essay in The American Scholar about the true meaning of The Counterculture. The supposed rebels against convention, he pointed out, were now behind counters, selling things like beads, leather goods and candles. In the years since then I have enjoyed his writing on contemporary literature (a particularly witty one on Joan Didion and Renata Adler and an incisive one on Gabriel Garcia Marquez, which reassures readers who didn't finish "A Hundred Years of Solitude" that perhaps 50 years was plenty) as well as a recent book on snobbery and one on another man we both seem to admire profoundly, Alexis de Tocqueville.

His elegant prose and patrician sensibility are a perfect match for the incomparable subject of this book.