The Lost Art of Reading Part 3

It was at about this point that The Presiding Genius of the State of Ma.s.sachusetts took up the subject, and after modulating a little and then modulating a little more, he was soon listening to himself about a book we had not read, and I sat in my chair and wrote out this.

IX

The Bugbear of Being Well Informed--A Practical Suggestion

1. This Club shall be known as the Ignoramus Club of ----.

4. Every member shall be pledged not to read the latest book until people have stopped expecting it.

5. The Club shall have a Standing Committee that shall report at every meeting on New Things That People Do Not Need to Know.

6. It shall have a Public Library Committee, appointed every year, to look over the books in regular order and report on Old Things That People Do Not Need to Know. (Committee instructed to keep the library as small as possible.)

8. No member (vacations excepted) shall read any book that he would not read twice. In case he does, he shall be obliged to read it twice or pay a fine (three times the price of book, net).

11. The Club shall meet weekly.

12. Any person of suitable age shall be eligible for membership in the Club, who, after a written examination in his deficiencies, shall appear, in the opinion of the Examining Board, to have selected his ignorance thoughtfully, conscientiously, and for the protection of his mind.

13. All persons thus approved shall be voted upon at the next regular meeting of the Club--the vote to be taken by ballot (any candidate who has not read _When Knighthood Was in Flower_, or _Audrey_, or _David Harum_--by acclamation).

Perhaps I have quoted from the by-laws sufficiently to give an idea of the spirit and aim of the Club. I append the order of meeting:

1. Called to order.

2. Reports of Committees.

3. General Confession (what members have read during the week).

4. FINES.

5. Review: Books I Have Escaped.

6. Essay: Things Plato Did Not Need to Know.

7. Omniscience. Helpful Hints. Remedies.

8. The Description Evil; followed by an ill.u.s.tration.

9. _Not_ Travelling on the Nile: By One Who Has Been There.

10. Our Village Street: Stereopticon.

11. What Not to Know about Birds.

12. Myself through an Opera-Gla.s.s.

13. Sonnet: Botany.

14. Essay: Proper Treatment of Paupers, Insane, and Instructive People.

15. The Fad for Facts.

16. How to Organise a Club against Clubs.

17. Paper: How to Humble Him Who Asks, "Have You Read----?"

18. Essay, by youngest member: Infinity. An Appreciation.

19. Review: The Heavens in a Nutsh.e.l.l.

20. Review. Wild Animals I Do Not Want to Know.

21. Exercise in Silence. (Ten Minutes. Entire Club.)

22. Essay (Ten Minutes): _Encyclopaedia Britannica_, Summary.

23. Exercise in Wondering about Something. (Selected. Ten Minutes. Entire Club.)

24. Debate: Which Is More Deadly--the Pen or the Sword?

25. Things Said To-Night That We Must Forget.

26. ADJOURNMENT. (Each member required to walk home alone looking at the stars.)

I have sometimes thought I would like to go off to some great, wide, bare, splendid place--nothing but Time and Room in it--and read awhile.

I would want it built in the same general style and with the same general effect as the universe, but a universe in which everything lets one alone, in which everything just goes quietly on in its great still round, letting itself be looked at--no more said about it, nothing to be done about it. No exclamations required. No one standing around explaining things or showing how they appreciated them.

Then after I had looked about a little, seen that everything was safe and according to specifications, I think the first thing I would do would be to sit down and see if I could not read a great book--the way I used to read a great book, before I belonged to civilisation, read it until I felt my soul growing softly toward it, reaching up to the day and to the night with it.

I have always kept on hoping that I would be allowed, in spite of being somewhat mixed up with civilisation, to be a normal man sometime. It has always seemed to me that the normal man--the highly organised man in all ages, is the man who takes the universe primarily as a spectacle. This is his main use for it. The object of his life is to get a good look at it before he dies--to be the kind of man who can get a good look at it.

How any one can go through a whole life--sixty or seventy years of it--with a splendour like this arching over him morning, noon, and night, flying beneath his feet, blooming out at him on every side, and not spend nearly all his time (after the bare necessaries of life) in taking it in, listening and tasting and looking in it, is one of the seven wonders of the world. I never look out of my factory window in civilisation, see a sunset or sh.o.r.e of the universe,--am reminded again that there is a universe--but I wonder at myself and wonder at It. I try to put civilisation and the universe together. I cannot do it. It's as if we were afraid to be caught looking at it--most of us--spending the time to look at it, or as if we were ashamed before the universe itself--running furiously to and fro in it, lest it should look at us.

It is the first trait of a great book, it seems to me, that it makes all other books--little hurrying, petulant books--wait. A kind of immeasurable elemental hunger comes to a man out of it. Somehow I feel I have not had it out with a great book if I have not faced other great things with it. I want to face storms with it, hours of weariness and miles of walking with it. It seems to ask me to. It seems to bring with it something which makes me want to stop my mere reading-and-doing kind of life, my ink-and-paper imitation kind of life, and come out and be a companion with the silent shining, with the eternal going on of things.

It seems to be written in every writing that is worth a man's while that it can not--that it shall not--be read by itself. It is written that a man shall work to read, that he must win some great delight to do his reading with. Many and many a winter day I have tramped with four lines down to the edge of the night, to overtake my soul--to read four lines with. I have faced a wind for hours--been bitterly cold with it--before the utmost joy of the book I had lost would come back to me. I find that when I am being normal (vacations mostly) I scarcely know what it is to give myself over to another mind for more than an hour or so at a time.

If a chapter has anything in it, I want to do something with it, go out and believe it, live with it, exercise it awhile. I am not only bored with a book when it does not interest me. I am bored with it when it does. I want to interrupt it, take it outdoors, see what the hills and clouds think, try it on, test it, see if it is good enough--see if it can come down upon me as rain or sunlight or other real things and blow upon me as the wind. It does not belong to me until it has found its way through all the weathers within and the weathers without, until it drifts with me through moods, events, sensations, and days and nights, faces and sunsets, and the light of stars,--until it is a part of life itself. I find there is no other or shorter or easier way for me to do with a great book than to greet it as it seems to ask to be greeted, as if it were a world that had come to me and sought me out--wanted me to live in it. Hundreds and hundreds of times, when I am being civilised, have I not tried to do otherwise? Have I not stopped my poor pale, hurried, busy soul (like a kind of spectre flying past me) before a great book and tried to get it to speak to it, and it would not? It requires a world--a great book does--as a kind of ticket of admission, and what have I to do, when I am being civilised, with a world--the one that's running still and G.o.dlike over me? Do I not for days and weeks at a time go about in it, guilty, shut-in, and foolish under it, slinking about--its emptied miracles all around me, mean, joyless, anxious, unable to look the littlest flower in the face--unable----. "Ah, G.o.d!"

my soul cries out within me. Are not all these things mine? Do they not belong with me and I with them? And I go racing about, making things up in their presence, plodding for shadows, cutting out paper dolls to live with. All the time this earnest, splendid, wasted heaven shining over me--doing nothing with it, expecting nothing of it--a little more warmth out of it perhaps, a little more light not to see in----. Who am I that the gra.s.ses should whisper to me, that the winds should blow upon me?

Now and then there are days that come, when I see a flower--when I really see a flower--and my soul cries out to it.

Now and then there are days too, when I see a great book, a book that has the universe wrought in it. I find my soul feeling it vaguely, creeping toward it. I wonder if I dare to read it. I remember how I used to read it. I all but pray to it. I sit in my factory window and try sometimes. But it is all far away--at least as long as I stay in my window. It's all about some one else--a kind of splendid wistful walking in a dream. It does not really belong to me to live in a great book--a book with the universe in it. Sometimes it almost seems to. But it barely, faintly belongs to me. It is as if the sky came to me, and stooped down over me, and then went softly away in my sleep.

X

The Dead Level of Intelligence

Your hostess introduces you to a man in a drawing-room. "Mr. C---- belongs to a Browning Club, too," she says.