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 feeling
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.
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.