SERIOUS READING
Novels are excluded from "serious reading," so that the man who, bent on
self-improvement, has been deciding to devote ninety minutes three times
a week to a complete study of the works of Charles Dickens will be well
advised to alter his plans. The reason is not that novels are not serious--
some of the great literature of the world is in the form of prose fiction--
the reason is that bad novels ought not to be read, and that good novels
never demand any appreciable mental application on the part of the reader.
It is only the bad parts of Meredith's novels that are difficult. A good novel
rushes you forward like a skiff down a stream, and you arrive at the end,
perhaps breathless, but unexhausted. The best novels involve the least
strain. Now in the cultivation of the mind one of the most important factors
is precisely the feeling of strain, of difficulty, of a task which one part of you
is anxious to achieve and another part of you is anxious to shirk; and that f
eeling cannot be got in facing a novel. You do not set your teeth in order to
read "Anna Karenina." Therefore, though you should read novels, you should
not read them in those ninety minutes.
Imaginative poetry produces a far greater mental strain than novels. It
produces probably the severest strain of any form of literature. It is the
highest form of literature. It yields the highest form of pleasure, and
teaches the highest form of wisdom. In a word, there is nothing to
compare with it. I say this with sad consciousness of the fact that the
majority of people do not read poetry.
I am persuaded that many excellent persons, if they were confronted
with the alternatives of reading "Paradise Lost" and going round
Trafalgar Square at noonday on their knees in sack-cloth, would
choose the ordeal of public ridicule. Still, I will never cease advising
my friends and enemies to read poetry before anything.
If poetry is what is called "a sealed book" to you, begin by reading
Hazlitt's famous essay on the nature of "poetry in general." It is the
best thing of its kind in English, and no one who has read it can possibly
be under the misapprehension that poetry is a mediaeval torture, or a
mad elephant, or a gun that will go off by itself and kill at forty paces.
Indeed, it is difficult to imagine the mental state of the man who, after
reading Hazlitt's essay, is not urgently desirous of reading some poetry
before his next meal. If the essay so inspires you I would suggest that
you make a commencement with purely narrative poetry.
There is an infinitely finer English novel, written by a woman, than
anything by George Eliot or the Brontes, or even Jane Austen, which
perhaps you have not read. Its title is "Aurora Leigh," and its author
E.B. Browning. It happens to be written in verse, and to contain a
considerable amount of genuinely fine poetry. Decide to read that
book through, even if you die for it. Forget that it is fine poetry.
Read it simply for the story and the social ideas. And when you
have done, ask yourself honestly whether you still dislike poetry.
I have known more than one person to whom "Aurora Leigh" has
been the means of proving that in assuming they hated poetry they
were entirely mistaken.
Of course, if, after Hazlitt, and such an experiment made in the light
of Hazlitt, you are finally assured that there is something in you which
is antagonistic to poetry, you must be content with history or philosophy.
I shall regret it, yet not inconsolably. "The Decline and Fall" is not to be
named in the same day with "Paradise Lost," but it is a vastly pretty thing;
and Herbert Spencer's "First Principles" simply laughs at the claims of
poetry and refuses to be accepted as aught but the most majestic product
of any human mind. I do not suggest that either of these works is suitable
for a tyro in mental strains. But I see no reason why any man of average
intelligence should not, after a year of continuous reading, be fit to assault
the supreme masterpieces of history or philosophy. The great convenience
of masterpieces is that they are so astonishingly lucid.
I suggest no particular work as a start. The attempt would be futile in the
space of my command. But I have two general suggestions of a certain
importance. The first is to define the direction and scope of your efforts.
Choose a limited period, or a limited subject, or a single author. Say to
yourself: "I will know something about the French Revolution, or the
rise of railways, or the works of John Keats." And during a given period,
to be settled beforehand, confine yourself to your choice. There is much
pleasure to be derived from being a specialist.
The second suggestion is to think as well as to read. I know people who
read and read, and for all the good it does them they might just as well
cut bread-and-butter. They take to reading as better men take to drink.
They fly through the shires of literature on a motor-car, their sole object
being motion. They will tell you how many books they have read in a year.
Unless you give at least forty-five minutes to careful, fatiguing reflection
(it is an awful bore at first) upon what you are reading, your ninety minutes
of a night are chiefly wasted. This means that your pace will be slow.
Never mind.
Forget the goal; think only of the surrounding country; and after a period,
perhaps when you least expect it, you will suddenly find yourself in a lovely
town on a hill.
Novels are excluded from "serious reading," so that the man who, bent on
self-improvement, has been deciding to devote ninety minutes three times
a week to a complete study of the works of Charles Dickens will be well
advised to alter his plans. The reason is not that novels are not serious--
some of the great literature of the world is in the form of prose fiction--
the reason is that bad novels ought not to be read, and that good novels
never demand any appreciable mental application on the part of the reader.
It is only the bad parts of Meredith's novels that are difficult. A good novel
rushes you forward like a skiff down a stream, and you arrive at the end,
perhaps breathless, but unexhausted. The best novels involve the least
strain. Now in the cultivation of the mind one of the most important factors
is precisely the feeling of strain, of difficulty, of a task which one part of you
is anxious to achieve and another part of you is anxious to shirk; and that f
eeling cannot be got in facing a novel. You do not set your teeth in order to
read "Anna Karenina." Therefore, though you should read novels, you should
not read them in those ninety minutes.
Imaginative poetry produces a far greater mental strain than novels. It
produces probably the severest strain of any form of literature. It is the
highest form of literature. It yields the highest form of pleasure, and
teaches the highest form of wisdom. In a word, there is nothing to
compare with it. I say this with sad consciousness of the fact that the
majority of people do not read poetry.
I am persuaded that many excellent persons, if they were confronted
with the alternatives of reading "Paradise Lost" and going round
Trafalgar Square at noonday on their knees in sack-cloth, would
choose the ordeal of public ridicule. Still, I will never cease advising
my friends and enemies to read poetry before anything.
If poetry is what is called "a sealed book" to you, begin by reading
Hazlitt's famous essay on the nature of "poetry in general." It is the
best thing of its kind in English, and no one who has read it can possibly
be under the misapprehension that poetry is a mediaeval torture, or a
mad elephant, or a gun that will go off by itself and kill at forty paces.
Indeed, it is difficult to imagine the mental state of the man who, after
reading Hazlitt's essay, is not urgently desirous of reading some poetry
before his next meal. If the essay so inspires you I would suggest that
you make a commencement with purely narrative poetry.
There is an infinitely finer English novel, written by a woman, than
anything by George Eliot or the Brontes, or even Jane Austen, which
perhaps you have not read. Its title is "Aurora Leigh," and its author
E.B. Browning. It happens to be written in verse, and to contain a
considerable amount of genuinely fine poetry. Decide to read that
book through, even if you die for it. Forget that it is fine poetry.
Read it simply for the story and the social ideas. And when you
have done, ask yourself honestly whether you still dislike poetry.
I have known more than one person to whom "Aurora Leigh" has
been the means of proving that in assuming they hated poetry they
were entirely mistaken.
Of course, if, after Hazlitt, and such an experiment made in the light
of Hazlitt, you are finally assured that there is something in you which
is antagonistic to poetry, you must be content with history or philosophy.
I shall regret it, yet not inconsolably. "The Decline and Fall" is not to be
named in the same day with "Paradise Lost," but it is a vastly pretty thing;
and Herbert Spencer's "First Principles" simply laughs at the claims of
poetry and refuses to be accepted as aught but the most majestic product
of any human mind. I do not suggest that either of these works is suitable
for a tyro in mental strains. But I see no reason why any man of average
intelligence should not, after a year of continuous reading, be fit to assault
the supreme masterpieces of history or philosophy. The great convenience
of masterpieces is that they are so astonishingly lucid.
I suggest no particular work as a start. The attempt would be futile in the
space of my command. But I have two general suggestions of a certain
importance. The first is to define the direction and scope of your efforts.
Choose a limited period, or a limited subject, or a single author. Say to
yourself: "I will know something about the French Revolution, or the
rise of railways, or the works of John Keats." And during a given period,
to be settled beforehand, confine yourself to your choice. There is much
pleasure to be derived from being a specialist.
The second suggestion is to think as well as to read. I know people who
read and read, and for all the good it does them they might just as well
cut bread-and-butter. They take to reading as better men take to drink.
They fly through the shires of literature on a motor-car, their sole object
being motion. They will tell you how many books they have read in a year.
Unless you give at least forty-five minutes to careful, fatiguing reflection
(it is an awful bore at first) upon what you are reading, your ninety minutes
of a night are chiefly wasted. This means that your pace will be slow.
Never mind.
Forget the goal; think only of the surrounding country; and after a period,
perhaps when you least expect it, you will suddenly find yourself in a lovely
town on a hill.
![[KOTNO]Narrot](/data/avatars/l/1/1031.jpg?1052155060){kind=avatar}
