First of all, I would like to ask everyone to pay special attention to the question mark at the end of my question. For this question, even if I can answer it for myself, this answer only applies to myself and not to you. Therefore, the only advice one person can give to another person about reading is: don't listen to any advice, just follow your own nature, use your own reason, and make your own conclusions.
If we can reach an agreement on this point, I feel that I have the right to make some opinions or suggestions, because you will never allow them to restrict your own independence, and this kind of Independence is the most important quality a reader has. Because, after all, what rules can be made about books? The Battle of Waterloo was fought on that day—that much is certain. But is Hamlet a better play than King Lear? No one can say.
On this issue, everyone can only make their own decision. It would destroy the spirit of freedom if we invite pundits in thick leather robes and frock coats into our libraries to tell us what books to read and what values ??we place on the books we read. , and the spirit of freedom is the breath of life in the temple of books. Everywhere else we can be bound by routine and routine—only here we have no routine to follow.
However, to enjoy freedom, of course we must also impose certain restrictions on ourselves. We cannot waste our energy in vain and ignorantly, spraying half the house with water just to water a rose bed. We must develop our abilities accurately and powerfully on the spot. But, most likely, this is the first problem we have to face in the library. What is "on the spot"? It may suddenly look like it's just a bunch of miscellaneous things. Poems and novels, histories and memoirs, dictionaries and blue books; books written in every language by men and women of every temperament, every nation, every age, crowded the shelves. Outside, donkeys brayed, women chatted at water pumps, and foals galloped in the fields. Where do we start? How can we make sense of this vast mass of confusion so as to derive the deepest and widest pleasure from the books we read?
It seems very simple: since there are various categories of books (novel, biography, poetry), we just need to classify them and find out what each should give us. But few ask from books what they can give us. When we read, our thoughts are often vague and contradictory: we demand that novels must be true, poems must be false, biographies must beautify people, and history must reinforce our prejudices. When we read, if we can eliminate all such prejudices first, it will be a praiseworthy start. Instead of giving orders to the author, try to become the author himself. Be his collaborator and accomplice.
If you hold back, hold back, and judge at the outset, you are preventing yourself from getting the fullest possible meaning from the book you are reading. But if you open your mind as widely as possible, the almost imperceptible signs and hints in the twists and turns of the book's opening sentences will lead you to a character very different from any other. before. Immerse yourself in these things, become familiar with them, and soon you will find that the author is giving you, or trying to give you something far more specific.
A thirty-chapter novel (if we first consider how to read a novel) is a created thing that is as fixed and tightly controlled as a building. But language is not like bricks, it cannot be touched; the reading process is more time-consuming and complicated than the viewing process. Perhaps the easiest way to understand the various elements that go into a novelist's creation is not to read but to write, to do it yourself and experiment with the risks and difficulties in using language. So, just think back to an incident that left a clear impression in your mind - for example, when you were walking on the street, you met two people talking: a tree was swinging; an electric light was swaying; the tone of the conversation was both a little bit... Funny, and a little sad; that moment seemed to contain some complete illusion, some pure idea.
However, when you try to put the event back together using language, you find that it breaks into hundreds of fragments of impressions. Some impressions must be diminished, others strengthened; in the process you may completely lose control of the emotion itself. So, put aside your vague and messy manuscripts, and open a book by some great novelist (Defoe, Austen, or Hardy). At this time you can better appreciate their superb skills. At this time, we are not only facing the author, Defoe, Austen or Hardy, but also living in a different world.
In Robinson Crusoe, for example, we seem to be walking on a smooth road; things happen one after another; details and the order of details - that is everything. But if the open air and adventure meant everything to Defoe, they meant nothing to Austen. Her world was the living room, the people talking, their personalities revealed through the many reflections of their conversations.
And when we are accustomed to living room life and its various impressions, as soon as we approach Hardy, we are rotated in the opposite direction. The wilderness is all around us and the stars are above us. Another side of the soul is also exposed at this time - the dark side prevails in loneliness, rather than the bright side shown in social situations. What we are facing now is not the relationship between people, but the relationship between people, nature and destiny. However, even though these worlds are so different, each world has its own world and is harmonious.
The creators of every world carefully abide by the laws of his own perspective, so no matter how heavy a burden they place on our understanding, they will never use it like some small writers do. We are puzzled because young writers often introduce different kinds of reality into a novel. In this way, from one great novelist to another - from Austen to Hardy, from Peacock (Thomas Love, Peacock (1785-1866), British novelist and poet, Snow Ly's friend) to Trollope (Ann Trollope (1815-1882), British novelist.), from Scott to Meredith - it's like being pulled up by the roots, first Throw it this way and then the other direction. Reading a novel is a difficult and complex art. If you intend to make use of all that the novelist (the great artist) has to offer you, you must possess not only an extremely fine sense of perception, but also an extremely bold imagination.
But a glance at the miscellaneous collection of books on the shelves will tell you that the authors are rarely "great artists"; and often, many books are not literary works at all. For example, those biographies and autobiographies that are crowded together with novels and poems, those biographies of great figures, those biographies of people who have died long ago and have been forgotten, can we not read them just because they are not "literary works"? Have they? Or should we say that we still have to read them, but in a different way and with a different purpose? For example, in the evening, we are wandering in front of a house. At this time, the lights have been turned on and the curtains have not been drawn. Each floor of the house shows us a section of life, and our curiosity is spontaneous. Student - Can't we read biographies with the attitude of satisfying this kind of curiosity first? At this time, we are full of curiosity about the lives of these people: their servants are chatting, the gentlemen are dining, a girl is dressing herself up for the party, and an old lady is sitting at the window knitting. who are they? What kind of people are they? What are their names? What is their occupation, and what kind of thoughts and experiences do they have?
Biographies and memoirs answer questions like these and illuminate many of these homes; they show us how people went about their daily business, toiled, failed, succeeded, ate, drank, Hate, love until death. Sometimes, while we watch, the house dims, the iron fence disappears, and we go to the sea; we hunt, sail, and fight; we are among savages and soldiers; we go to great battles.
Otherwise, if we were happy, we could stay here in England, in London, but the scene would still change; the streets would become narrower, the houses smaller, and they would be very crowded and framed. The rhombus-shaped glass windows emitted a foul smell. We meet the poet Dunne, who was forced to escape from a house because the walls were so thin that the children's voices could penetrate them when they cried. We can follow him through the path written in the book, all the way to Kennan (British place name), to Lady Bedford's garden, which was a famous gathering place for nobles and poets; and then, We moved to the large house under the hills in Wilton (British place name) to listen to Sidney reading "Arcadia" to his sister (Sidney asked his sister Pembroke to a pastoral romance at the behest of the Countess); then roam the marshes and see the heron that frequently appears in that famous romance; and then follow another Lady of Pembroke, Anne Clifford. Travel north to her moors, or plunge into the city, only to meet Gabriel Harvey in a black swan costume with Spencer (Harvey (15457-1630) and Al. (1552-1599), both English poets and friends, must not laugh out loud when debating poetry issues.
There is nothing more interesting than stumbling through the darkness and splendor of Elizabethan London. But you can't stay there forever.
Because Temple (William Temple (1628-1699), English diplomat and essayist) and Swift, Harry and St. John (English politicians of the eighteenth century, all Tories) beckon to us; It would take hours and hours to sort out their arguments and decipher the personalities of each of them; if we tire of them, we can walk on past a bejeweled man in black. Madam, go to Dr. Johnson, Goldsmith, and Garrick; or, if you like, cross the Channel to meet Voltaire, Diderot, and Madame de Vande. -1780), her family's salon was a frequent hangout for famous scholars such as Voltaire); then returned to England and where Lady Bedford's garden was once located, Pope (Pope (1688-1744), British poet ) who later also lived in Tokennan (some places and some people’s names keep recurring like this!), and then to Walpole (Walpool (1717-1797): British novelist)’s home in Strawberry Hill .
But Walpole introduced us to a host of new acquaintances, many homes to visit, and many doorbells to ring, for example, at Mrs. Bayliss' doorstep. We are likely to hesitate for a moment, for, behold, Thackeray comes along too; he is the friend of the woman whom Walpole loves; and so it is only necessary to go from friend to friend, from this garden To go to that garden, from this house to that house, we are walking from one end of English literature to the other, and we often wake up suddenly and find that we are back in the same place before our eyes - if we can still grasp this moment before us. Words that are clearly distinguished from all the lost moments in the past.
Then, this can also be used as a way for us to read biographies and letters; we can use them to illuminate many windows of the past era; we can look at the lives of famous people who have died long ago. What habits they have in their daily lives? Sometimes we can also imagine: Since we are so close to them, we might accidentally discover some of their secrets; we can also take out a play or a poem they wrote and have a look at it in front of them. What different effects will it produce if you read it in front of the author? But this leads to other problems.
We must ask: To what extent will a book be affected by the author's life experience? ——This person in life goes to the author of the instruction manual. How reliable is this? Moreover, since language is so sensitive and easily susceptible to the influence of the author's character, to what extent should we reject and to what extent should we reject the sympathy and disgust that this person arouses in our hearts? Accept it? These are the questions that weigh on us as we read biographies and letters, and questions to which we must answer ourselves, for it would be too dangerous to be entirely guided by the preferences of others when it comes to a question so purely personal. .
However, we can also read this type of books for another purpose, not to illuminate literary works or to become familiar with celebrities, but to improve and exercise our own creative abilities. . Isn't there an open window on the right side of the bookshelf? What a pleasure it would be to stop reading and look out the window! The scene was so inspiring precisely because of its unconsciousness, its irrelevance, its eternal flux: horses galloping in circles in a field, a woman filling her bucket by a well. Filled with water, a donkey raised its head high and let out a long, piercing cry. Most of the books in any library are nothing more than records of fleeting moments in the lives of men, women and donkeys like this.
Any literature, once it becomes obsolete, will always accumulate its scrap pile, and will always leave behind its aging, trembling and feeble language about the bygone era and the forgotten world. records made. However, if you are interested in reading used books, you will be shocked and even impressed by the traces of human life that have been abandoned and left to rot. It may have been a letter—but what a picture it painted! They may only be a few words - but what visions they conjure up!
Sometimes, you will come across a complete story, full of wit and appeal, and complete from beginning to end, as if it was written by a great novelist, but in fact it is just an actor from the old era. Tate Wilkinson (British actor), is recalling the strange experience of Captain Jones; or it is just a young lieutenant under the Duke of Wellington who fell in love with a beautiful girl in Lisbon; or it is just Maria Allen (British Ten The second wife of the eighth-century musician Charles Burney (the daughter of his first husband) dropped the needlework in her hands in the empty living room, sighing and saying how she wished she had accepted Dr. Burney's well-intentioned advice. Li Xi did not run away with her. These materials have no value and can be discarded completely, but when the horses outside the window are running in circles on the fields, a woman is filling her bucket with water at the well, and a donkey is neighing, at this time, occasionally look through these scraps. Stacks of books, how fascinating it is to pull out a few rings, a few pairs of scissors or a few broken noses from the distant past!
But we will eventually get tired of reading old books.
We would tire of searching through old books to find just what we needed to complete the half-truth that Wilkinson, Bunbury, and Maria Allen could give us. They do not have the artist's ability to control and reduce material; they cannot even tell the whole truth of their own lives; they leave incomplete what could have been a well-ordered story. All they can offer us is factual material, and factual material is a low form of creation. Hence the desire to put an end to imperfect representations and approximations, to stop searching for the nuances of human character, and to enjoy a greater degree of abstraction, a purer truth in creation.
Therefore, we create that kind of situation, which is strong and erotic, without paying attention to details, but using a certain regular and recurring beat to emphasize the atmosphere. Its natural expression is Poetry; when we are almost able to write poetry, it is also a good time to read poetry.
Westerly wind, when will you blow?
Let the light rain fall gently.
When will my love return to my arms?
I can sleep peacefully on my bed. (Poetry by an unknown British poet in the 16th century)
The impact of the poem is strong and straightforward. In that moment, there will never be anything other than being moved by this poem. Other feelings. What a depth we were plunged into at once! There is nothing to hold on to; nothing to stop us from flying. The illusion that the novel gives people is gradually formed; the effect of the novel is psychologically prepared; but when people read these four lines, who will stop and ask who wrote the poem, or think of Deng Xiaoping in their hearts? Eun's family or Sidney's secretary, or else, how about involving these four lines in the complicated past years and the continuous change of generations? Poets are always our contemporaries. The moment we first read the poem, our body and mind are concentrated and contracted, just like when our personal emotions are violently impacted. But later on, the feeling expands its circle in our hearts like ripples, extending to distant meanings; then rational exploration and comments begin, and we become aware of echoes and reflections.
Strong poetry can cover a wide range of emotions. We only need to make a comparison to first appreciate the power of the two-line poem that goes straight to the point:
I want to fall down like a tree and find my own graveyard,
Everything is empty , only remembering my sorrow. (Lines from the play "The Maiden's Tragedy" (1619) co-written by British Shakespeare's contemporary playwrights Beaumont and Fletcher)
Relish the ups and downs of the rhythm in the following poem:
In the hourglass, every moment
is calculated by the sinking of sand grains;
Our life passes by in vain,
Time Exhausted in any pleasure, heading to the grave,
In the end, everything ends in sorrow;
People, tired of their debauchery, return home,
While sighing, he counted the yellow sand carefully.
The grains of sand fell away, and his long sleep ended his catastrophic career. (Lines from the play "Lover's Sorrow" (1628) by the British playwright John Ford (1856-1639))
Look again at the quiet and thoughtful mood in this poem:
Whether we are young or old,
our destiny, the center and destination of our lives
is, and can only be, to be with the infinite;
Also with the hope that never dies,
There is also the effort, desire and expectation,
That effort, it will always exist. (A passage from the fourth part of the long poem "The Prelude" by the British poet William Wordsworth)
Put it together with these four lines of absolutely perfect and infinitely lovely verses:
Look, the patrolling moon rises high into the sky.
It is unobstructed and does not stop anywhere.
She rises gently and softly.
Only one or two stars accompany her. (Line from the long poem "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" by the British poet Coleridge)
Or, compare this dazzling imagination:
This man haunts the forest ,
Wandering, non-stop,
Suddenly looking, in the dense forest,
A sea of ??fire is burning,
Slowly rolling A fire started,
He had an idea and thought:
Crocuses were blooming on the treetops. (Unknown source)
Now, let us think about the poet's colorful artistic techniques; think about his ability to make us both actors and audiences; think about his familiarity Character, the ability to create both Falstaff and Lear; think of his ability to both compress and expand and unfold.
"Let's just compare" - this sentence tells the secret and admits the complexity of reading. The first step just mentioned, to accept the impressions in the book with the greatest comprehension ability, is only half of the whole process; if we want to get the full pleasure from the book written by another person, we must complete the whole process. process. We must judge these various impressions; we must form a fixed and lasting image out of these fleeting images.
But don't be too hasty. Wait until the dust has settled and the arguments and questions have died down; go for a walk, talk, tear the dried petals from the roses, or go to sleep. And then, suddenly, without even thinking about it - because that's how nature planned this transition - the book was back, but different.
It emerges completely in the mind, and a complete book is very different from the fragmentary impression received based on scattered words and sentences. All details are placed in their appropriate positions. The whole form, from beginning to end, is clearly visible to us: it is a barn, a pigsty, or a cathedral. Now we can compare books with books as we compare buildings with buildings. But this act of comparison also means a change in our attitude; we are no longer the author's friends, but his judges; just as as friends we can be considerate and sympathetic, so as judges we can be harsh. It's not too harsh.
Aren’t those books that waste our time and abuse our sympathy criminals? Aren’t the authors who write false books, fabricated books, books that fill the air with rot and viruses, not insidious enemies, corruptors and defilers of society as a whole? Let us then judge them severely, and let us compare each book with the greatest works of its kind.
Fortunately, there are a number of books whose evaluations have been predetermined clearly hanging in our minds: "Robinson Crusoe", "Emma", and "The Return of the Native". Let us compare the novels we are reading with them - even the most recent and trivial novel has a right to be judged with the best. The same is true with poetry - when the intoxication with melodic rhythm calms down and the dazzling brilliance of words disappears, a whole imaginary shape will appear before our eyes, and we must compare it with "King Lear", "King Lear" and "King Lear". "Fidel," and the "Prelude"; otherwise, if not with these works, then with those works of the same kind which we consider to be the best. We may be sure that the novelty of new poetry and fiction is only a very superficial feature of it, and that the standards by which we judge older works need only be slightly modified, not reinvented.
However, if you think that the second step of the reading process, that is, judgment and comparison, is as simple as the first step - you only need to open your mind broadly to the countless impressions that come to you. , that would be too stupid. To continue the reading process without the book in front of you, to compare one overall impression with another, to have read widely enough and to have enough judgment to make a lively and enlightening comparison - this is a thing Difficult things. Even more difficult is to go further: "I demand that it be not only a book of this kind, but a book of some value; therefore, it fails here, it succeeds there; it is well written here, It’s not well written there.”
To complete this part of the reader’s task requires great imagination, insight and knowledge. I am afraid that it is difficult for anyone to have such talent; even the most confident one. Man can only find the germs of these talents in himself. Wouldn't it be smarter to simply waive this part of the reading task and let the critics, the authoritative experts in thick leather robes and gowns, decide for us the absolute value of the book? However, no! We may emphasize the value of induction; we may try to hide ourselves when we read. However, we also know that we cannot fully share the same feelings, nor can we completely bury ourselves; because there is always a troublemaker whispering in our hearts: "I hate, I love", and we can't make him stop. make a sound.
Indeed, it is precisely because we have hatred and love that our relationship with poets and novelists is so close, so we cannot tolerate the appearance of another unrelated person in the middle. Even if we disagree with others, even if we are wrong in judgment, our taste, that emotional lifeline that can thrill our body and mind, is still our main light; we learn by emotion; we must not suppress our own inclinations , making it impoverished. But, over time, we may be able to cultivate our taste and bring it under certain constraints. When it has devoured books of all kinds greedily and promiscuously—poetry, novels, histories, biographies—then it ceases to read and longs for space above the diversity and incongruity of the living world. , at this time, we will find that it has changed a bit, it is not so greedy, but more thoughtful.
It not only brings us judgments about this book or that book, but also begins to tell us certain unique characteristics of certain books. It says: Listen, what is this called? It may read to us first "King Lear" and then "King Agamemnon" in order to reveal to us this unique characteristic. Thus, guided by our own tastes, we may boldly go beyond the confines of a single book and seek those characteristics that group certain books into a class; we may give them names and lay down certain laws, Putting our feelings in order. Such classification can make us feel a deeper and rarer pleasure.
However, the survival law of laws has always been broken in contact with books themselves - it is easier and more stupid to formulate laws in a vacuum that have no connection with objective facts - then, here In order to stabilize ourselves in this difficult attempt, it is best to turn to those rare writers who can enlighten us on the subject of literature as an art.
For example, the well-thought-out critical articles written by Coleridge, Dryden (John Dryden (1631-1700), British poet and critic) and Johnson, as well as many The unthought-through utterances of poets and novelists are often surprisingly pertinent—they can illuminate and illuminate the clouds of vague concepts that swirl in the clouds and mists deep within our souls. Fixed in shape. However, when we ask them for advice, our minds must be filled with questions and opinions that have been accumulated in our own reading process before they can be helpful to us. They have no power over us if we merely gather under their authoritative influence like a flock of sheep lying in the shade of a hedgerow. And we can understand their judgment only when it conflicts with our judgment and conquers it.
Now that this is so, and since reading a book as it should be read requires the rare qualities of imagination, insight, and judgment, you may conclude that literature is a very complex art, then , even if we read books for a lifetime, we will not be able to make any valuable contributions to literary criticism.
Yes, we can only remain readers; we cannot wear the halo that belongs to those rare people called critics. However, we as readers still have our own responsibility and even importance. The standards we set and the judgments we made quietly dispersed into the air and became the atmosphere that writers breathed as they worked.
We create a kind of sensibility that, although it cannot appear on the pages of books and magazines, still affects writers. Especially now, when literary criticism is, for certain reasons, in a state of flux, the reader's sensitivity, as long as it is cultured, lively, distinctive, and sincere, is of great value. Because now book reviews are like animals lining up on a shooting range. The critic only needs one second to load the bullets, aim at them, and then shoot at them. Therefore, even if he regards the hare as a tiger and the hawk as a barn We can forgive him for missing the chickens inside, and wasting all his ammunition on a cow grazing peacefully in a distant field. If in addition to the inaccurate gunfire in newspapers and periodicals, writers can feel that there is another kind of comment, it is the public opinion of ordinary readers - they just read for the love of reading, read leisurely, and are not professional Read sexually, their judgments are sometimes very sympathetic and sometimes very harsh - doesn't this help writers improve the quality of their work? If we can make books sounder, more substantial, and more colorful through our methods, it will be well worth the effort to achieve this goal.
However, who studies and what is the desired purpose? Aren’t some of the pursuits we continue to pursue beneficial in themselves? Isn’t fun the ultimate goal? Isn't reading just such a career? At least, I have sometimes dreamed that the Day of Judgment is coming, when the conquerors, the judges, the statesmen come to receive their rewards—their crowns, their laurels, their immortal names carved in marble, At this time, when the Almighty God saw us approaching with our beloved books under our arms, He turned around and said to St. Peter with some jealousy: "See, these people don't need rewards. We don't have any here." Give them something. They like to read.
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