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Transcript

HOW TO READ A BOOK
A Guide to Reading the Great Books
by Mortimer J. Adler
Table of Contents
Preface
PART I . THE ACTIVITY OF READING
CHAPTER ONE To the Average Reader
1 2 3 4
CHAPTER TWO The Reading of "Reading"
1 2 3 4 5
CHAPTER THREE Reading is Learning
1 2 3 4 5 6
CHAPTER FOUR Teachers, Dead or Alive
1 2 3 4 6
CHAPTER FIVE The Defeat of the Schools
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8
CHAPTER SIX On Selfhelp
1 2 3 4
PART II . THE RULES
CHAPTER SEVEN From Many Rules to One Habit
1 2 3 4– 5– 6
CHAPTER EIGHT Catching on From the Title
1 2 3 4 5
CHAPTER NINE Seeing the Skeleton
1 2– 3– 4 5 6 7
CHAPTER TEN Coming to Terms
1 2 3 4 5 6
CHAPTER ELEVEN What's the Proposition and Why
1 2 3 4 5 6 7
CHAPTER TWELVE The Etiquette of Talking Back
1 2 3 4 5
CHAPTER THIRTEEN The Things the Reader Can Say
1 2 3 4 5
CHAPTER FOURTEEN And Still More Rules
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8
PART III . THE REST OF THE READER'S LIFE
CHAPTER FIFTEEN The Other half
1 2 3 4 5
CHAPTER SIXTEEN The Great Books
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Free Minds and Free Men
1 2 3 4
APPENDIX:
GREAT BOOKS OF THE WESTERN WORLD
Imaginative Literature
HISTORY AND SOCIAL SCIENCE
NATURAL SCIENCE AND MATHEMATICS
PHILOSOPHY AND THEOLOGY
GATEWAY TO THE GREAT BOOKS
IMAGINATIVE LITERATURE
CRITICAL ESSAYS
MAN AND SOCIETY
NATURAL SCIENCE
MATHEMATICS
PHILOSOPHICAL ESSAYS
Preface
---In this special edition of How to read a Book, I can make clear what was not entirely
clear when the book was first published in 1940. Readers of the book knew, though its
title did not indicate this with complete accuracy, that the subject was not how to read
any book, but how to read a great book. In 1940 the time was not yet ripe for such a
title, with which the book might not have reached the large audience that it did. Today,
with hundreds of thousands of American families engaged in reading and discussing the
great gooks — books that alone require the kind of reading described — the situation is
much changed. I have therefore added a new subtitle for this edition: A guide to Reading
the Great Books.
How to Read a Book attempts to inculcate skills that are useful for reading anything.
These skills, however, are more than merely useful—they are necessary—for the
reading of great books, those that are of enduring interest and importance. Although one
can read books, magazines, and newspapers of transient interest without these skills, the
possession of them enables the reader to read even the transient with greater speed,
precision, and discrimination. The are of reading analytically, interpretively, and
critically is indispensable only for the kind of reading by which the mind passes form a
state of understanding less to a state of understanding more, and for reading the few
books that are capable of being read with increasing profit over and over again. those
few books are the great books—and the rules of reading here set forth are the rules for
reading them. The illustrations that I have given to guide the reader in applying the rules
all refer to the great books.
When this book was written, it was based on twenty years of experience in reading and
discussing the great books—at Columbia University, at the University of Chicago, and
St. John's College in Annapolis, as well as with a number of adult groups. Since then the
number of adult groups has multiplied by the thousands; since then many more colleges
and universities, as well as secondary schools all over the country, have introduced
courses devoted to reading and discussing the great books, for they have come to be
recognized as the core of a liberal and humanistic education. But, though these are all
advances in American education for which we have good reason to be grateful, the most
important educational event since 1940 has been, in my judgment, the publication and
distribution by Encyclopedia Britanica, Incorporated, of Great Books of the Western
World, which has brought the great books into hundreds of thousands of American
homes, and into almost every public and school library.
To celebrate the fact, this new edition of How to Read a Book carries a new Appendix
that lists the contents of Great Books of the Western World; and also, accordingly, a
revised version of Chapter Sixteen. Turn to page 373 and you will find the great books
listed there into four main groups: imaginative literature (poetry, fiction, and drama);
history and social science; natural science and mathematics; philosophy and theology.
Since 1952, when Great Books of the Western World was published, Encyclopedia
Britannica has added a companion set of books, consisting of shorter masterpieces in all
fields of literature and learning, properly entitled Gateway to the Great Books. You will
find the contents of this set also listed in the Appendix, beginning on page 379.
The present book is, as its subtitle indicates, a guide to reading the things that most
deserve careful reading and rereading, and that is why I recommend it to anyone who
owns Great Books of the Western World and Gateway to the Great Books. But the
owner of these sets has other tools at hand to help him. The Syntopicon, comprising
Volumes 2 and 3 of Great Books of the Western World, is a different kind of guide to
reading. How to Read a Book is intended to help the reader read a single great book
through cover to cover. The Syntopicon helps the reader read through the whole
collection of great books by reading what they have to say on any one of three thousand
topics of general human interest, organized under 102 great ideas. (You will find the
102 great ideas listed on the jacket of this book.) Volume I of Gateway to the Great
Books contains a Syntopical Guide that serves a similar purpose for that set of shorter
masterpieces.
One other Britannica publication deserves brief mention here. Unlike each year's bestsellers that are out of date one year later, the great books are the perennials of
literature—relevant to the problems that human beings face in every year of every
century. That is the way they should be read—for the light they throw upon human life
and human society, past, present, and future. And that is why Britannica publishes an
annual volume, entitled The Great Ideas Today, the aim of which is to illustrate the
striking relevance of the great books and the great ideas to contemporary events and
issues, and to the latest advances in the arts and sciences.
With all these aids to reading and to understanding, the accumulated wisdom of our
Western civilization is within the reach of anyone who has the willingness to put them
to good use.
Mortimer J. Adler
Chicago
September, 1965
PART I .
THE ACTIVITY OF READING
CHAPTER ONE
To the Average Reader
-1This is a book for readers who cannot read. They may sound rude, though I do not mean
to be. It may sound like a contradiction, but it is not. The appearance of rudeness and
contradiction arises only from the variety of senses in which the word "reading" can be
used.
The reader who has read thus far surely can read, in some sense of the word. You can
guess, therefore, what I must mean. It is that this book is intended for those who can
read in some sense of "reading" but not in others. There are many kinds of reading and
degrees of ability to read. It is not contradictory to say that this book is for readers who
want to read better or want to read in some other way than they now can.
For whom is this book not intended, then? I can answer that question simply by naming
the two extreme cases. There are those who cannot read at all or in any way.: Infants,
imbeciles, and other innocents. And there may be those who are masters of the art of
reading—who can do every sort of reading and do it as well as is humanly possible.
Most authors would like nothing better than such persons to write for. But a book, such
as this, which is concerned with the art of reading itself and which aims to help its
readers read better, cannot solicit the attention of the already expert.
Between these two extremes we find the average reader, and that means most of us who
have learned our ABC's. We have been started on the road to literacy. But most of us
also know that we are not expert readers. We know this in many ways, but most
obviously when we find from some things too difficult to read, or have great trouble in
reading them; or when someone else has read the same thing we have and shown us
how much we missed or misunderstood.
If you have not had experiences of this sort, if you have never felt the effort of reading
or known the frustration when all the effort you could summon was not equal to the
task, I do not know how to interest you in the problem. Most of us, however, have
experienced difficulties in reading, but we do not know why we have trouble or what to
do about it.
I think this is because most of us do not regard reading as a complicated activity,
involving many different steps in each of which we can acquire more and more skill
through practice, as in the case of any other art. We may not even think there is an art of
reading. We tend to think of reading almost as if it were something as simple and
natural to do as looking or walking. There is no art of looking or walking.
Last summer, while I was writing this book, a young man visited me, He had heard
what I was doing, and he came to ask a favor. Would I tell him how to improve his
reading? He obviously expected me to answer the question in a few sentences. More
than that, he appeared to think that once he had learned the simple prescription, success
would be just around the corner.
I tried to explain that it was not so simple. It took many pages of this book, I said, to
discuss the various rules of reading and to show how they should be followed. I told
him that this book was like a book how to play tennis. As written about in books, the art
of tennis consists of rules for manage each of the various strokes, a discussion of how
and when to use them, and a description of how to organize these parts into the general
strategy of a successful game. The art of reading has to be written about in the same
way. There are rules for each of the different steps you must take to complete the
reading of a whole book.
He seemed a little dubious. Although he suspected that he did not know how to read, he
also seemed to feel that there could not be so much to learn. The young man was a
musician. I asked him whether most people, who can hear the sounds, know how to
listen to a symphony. His reply was, of course not. I confessed I was one of them, and
asked whether he could tell me how to listen to music as a musician expected it to he
heard. Of course he could, but not in a few words. Listening to a symphony was a
complicated affair. You not only had to keep awake, but there were so many different
things to attend to, so many parts of it to distinguish and relate. He could not tell me
briefly all that I would have to know. Furthermore, I would have to spend a lot of time
listening to music to become a skilled auditor.
Well, I said, the case of reading was similar, If I could learn to hear music, he could
learn to read a book, but only on the same conditions. Knowing how to read a book well
was like any other art or skill. There were rules to learn and to follow. Through practice
good habits must be formed. There were no insurmountable difficulties about it. Only
willingness to learn and patience in the process were required.
I do not know whether my answer fully satisfied him. If it didn't, there was one
difficulty in the way of his learning to read. He did not yet appreciate what reading
involved. Because he still regarded reading as something almost anyone can do,
something learned in the primary grades, he may have doubted still that learning to read
was just like learning to hear music, to play tennis, or become expert in any other
complex use of one's senses and one's mind.
The difficulty is, I fear, one that most of us share. That is why I am going to devote the
first part of this book to explaining the kind of activity reading is. For unless you
appreciate what is involved, you will not be prepared (as this young man was not when
he came to see me) for the kind of instruction that is necessary.
I shall assume, of course, that you want to learn. My help can go no further than you
will help yourself. No one can make you learn more of an art than you want to learn or
think you need. People often say that they would try to read if they only knew how. As a
matter of fact, they might learn how if they would only try. And try they would, if they
wanted to learn.
-2I did not discover I could not read until after I had left college. I found it out only after I
tried to teach others how to read. Most parents have probably made a similar discovery
by trying to teach their youngsters. Paradoxically, as a result, the parents usually learn
more about reading than their children. The reason is simple. They have to be more
active about the business. Anyone who teaches anything has to.
To get back to my story. So far as the registrar's records were concerned, I was one of
the satisfactory students in my day at Columbia. We passed courses with creditable
marks. The game was easy enough, once you caught on to the tricks. If anyone had told
us then that we did not know much or could not read very well, we would have been
shocked. We were sure we could listen to lectures and read the books assigned in such
a way we could answer examination questions neatly. That was the proof of our ability.
Some of us took one course which increased our self-satisfaction enormously. I had just
been started by John Erskine. It ran for two years, was called General Honors, and was
open to a select group of juniors and seniors. It consisted of nothing but "reading" the
great books, from the Greek classics through the Latin and medieval masterpieces right
down to the best books of yesterday, William James, Einstein, and Freud. The books
were in all fields: they were histories and books of science or philosophy, dramatic
poetry and novels. We discussed them with our teachers one night a week in informal,
seminar fashion.
That course had two effects on me. For one thing, it made me think I had struck
educational gold for the first time. Here was real stuff, handled in a real way, compared
to the textbook and lecture courses that merely made demands on one's memory. But the
trouble was I not only thought I had struck gold; I also thought that I owned the mine.
Here were the great books. I knew how to read. The world was my oyster.
If, after graduation, I had gone into business or medicine or law, I would probably still
be harboring the conceit that I knew how to read and was well read beyond the ordinary.
Fortunately, something woke me form this dream. For every illusion that the classroom
can nourish, there is a school of hard knocks to destroy it. A few years of practice
awaken the lawyer and the doctor. Business or newspaper work disillusions the boy who
thought he was a trader or a reporter when he finished the school of commerce or
journalism. Well, I thought I was liberally educated, that I knew how to read, and had
read a lot. The cure for that was teaching, and the punishment that precisely fitted my
crime was to having to teach, the year after I graduated, in this very Honors course
which had so inflated me.
As a student, I had read all the books I was now going to teach but, being very young
and conscientious, I decided to read them again- you know, just to brush up each week
for class. To my growing amazement, week after week, I discovered that the books were
almost brand new to me. I seemed to be reading them for the first time, these books
which I thought I had "mastered" thoroughly.
As time went on, I found out not only that I did not know very much about any of these
books, but also that I did not know how to read them very well. To make up for my
ignorance and incompetence I did what any young teacher might do who was afraid of
both his students and his job. I used secondary sources, encyclopedias, commentaries,
all sorts of books about books about these books. In that way, I thought, I would appear
to know more than the students. They wouldn't be able to tell that my questions or
points did not come from my better reading of the book they too were working on.
Fortunately for me I was found out, or else I might have been satisfied with getting by
as a teaching just as I had got by as a student. If I had succeeded in fooling others, I
might soon have deceived myself as well. My first good fortune was in having as a
colleague in this teaching Mark Van Doren, the poet. He led off in the discussion of
poetry, as I was supposed to do in the case of history, science, and philosophy. He was
several years my senior, probably more honest than I, certainly a better reader. Forced
to compare my performance with his, I simply could not fool myself. I had not found
out what the books contained by reading them, but by reading about them.
My questions about a book were of the sort anyone could ask or answer without having
read the book—anyone who had had recourse to the discussion which a hundred
secondary sources provide for those who cannot or do not want to read. In contrast, his
questions seemed to arise from the pages of the book itself. He actually seemed to have
some intimacy with the author. Each book was a large world, infinitely rich for
exploration, and woe to the student who answered questions as if, instead of traveling
therein, he had been listening to a travelogue. The contrast was too plain, and too much
for me. I was not allowed to forget that I did not know to read.
My second good fortune lay in the particular group of students who formed that first
class. They were not long in catching on to me. They knew how to use the
encyclopedia, or a commentary, or the editor's introduction which usually graces the
publication of a classic, just as well as I did. One of them, who has since achieved fame
as a critic, was particularly obstreperous. He took what seemed to me endless delight in
discussing the various about the book, which could be obtained from secondary sources,
always to show me and the rest of the class that the book itself still remained to be
discussed. I do not mean that he or the other students could read the book better than I,
or had done so. Clearly none of us, with the exception of Mr. Van Doren, was doing the
job of reading.
After the first year of teaching, I had few illusions left about my literacy. Since then, I
have been teaching students how to read books, six years at Columbia with Mark Van
Doren and for the last ten years at the University of Chicago with President Robert M.
Hutchins. In the course of years, I think I have gradually learned to read a little better.
There is no longer any danger of self-deception, of supposing that I have become expert.
Why? Because reading the same books year after year, I discover each time what I
found out the first year I began to teach: the book I am rereading is almost new to me.
For a while, each time I reread it, that I had really read it well at last, only to have the
next reading show up my inadequacies and misinterpretations. After this happens
several times, even the dullest of us is likely to learn that perfect reading lies at the end
of the rainbow. Although practice makes perfect, in this art of reading as in any other,
the long run needed to prove the maxim is longer than the allotted span.
-3I am torn between two impulses. I certainly want to encourage you to undertake this
business of learning to read, but I do not want to fool you by saying that it is quite easy
or that it can be done in a short time. I am sure you do not want to be fooled. As in the
case of every other skill, learning to read well presents difficulties to be overcome by
effort and time. Anyone who undertakes anything is prepared for that, I think, and
knows that the achievement seldom exceeds the effort. After all, it takes time and
trouble to grow up from the cradle, to make a fortune, raise a family, or gain the wisdom
that some old men have. Why should it not take time and trouble to learn to read and to
read what is worth reading?
Of course, it would not take so long if we got started when we were in school.
Unfortunately, almost the opposite happens: one gets stopped. I shall discuss the failure
of the schools more fully later. Here I wish only to record this fact about our schools, a
fact which concerns us all, because in large part they have made us what we are today—
people who cannot read well enough to enjoy reading for profit or profit by reading for
emjoyment.
But education does not stop with schooling, nor does the responsibility for the ultimate
educatiional fate of each of us rest entirely on the school system. Everyone can and
must decide for himself whether he is satisfied with the education he got, or is now
getting if he is still in school. If he is not satisfied, it is up to him to do something about
it. With schools as they are, more schooling is hardly the remedy. One weay out—
perhaps the onlyone available to most people—is to learn to read better, and then, by
reading better, to learn more of what can be learned through reading.
The way out and how to take it is what this book tries to show. It is for adults who have
gradually become aware of how little they got from all their schooling, as well as for
those who, lacking such opportunities, have been puzzled to know how to overcome a
derprivation they need not to regret too much. It is for student in shool and college who
may occasionally wonder how to help themselves to education. It is even for teachers
who may sometimes realize that they are not giving all the help they should, and that
maybe they do not know how.
When I think of this large potential audience as the average reader, I am not neglecting
all the differences in training and ability, in schooling or experience, and certainly not
the different degrees of interest or sorts of motivation which can be brought to this
common task. But what is of primary importance is that all of us share a recognition of
the task and its worth.
We may be engaged in occupations which do not require us to read for a living, but we
may still feel that that living would be graded, in its moments of leisure, by some
learning—the sort we can do by ourselves through reading. We may be professionally
occupied with matters that demand a kind of technical reading in the course of our
work: the physician has to keep up with the medical literature; the lawyer never stops
reading cases; the businessman has to read financial statements, insurance policies,
contracts, and so forth. No matter whether the reading is to learn or to earn, it can be
done poorly or well.
We may be college students—perhaps candidates for a higher degree—and yet realize
that what is happening to us is stuffing, not education. There are many college students
who know, certainly by the time they get their bachelor's degree, that they spent four
years taking courses and finishing with them by passing examinations. The mastery
attained in that process is not of subject matter, but of the teacher's personality. If the
student remembers enough of what was told to him in lectures and textbooks, and if he
has a line on the teacher's pet prejudices, he can pass the course easily enough. but he is
also passing up an education.
We may be teachers in some school, college, or university. I hope that most of us
teachers know we are not expert readers. I hope we know, not merely that our students
can not read well, but also that we cannot do much better. Every profession has a certain
amount of humbug about it necessary for impressing the laymen or the clients to be
served. The humbug we teachers have to practice is the front we put on of knowledge
and expertness. It is not entirely humbug, because we usually know a little more and can
do a little better than our best students. But we must not let the humbug fool ourselves.
If we do not know that our students cannot read very well, we are worse than humbugs:
we do not our business at all. And if we do not know that we cannot read very much
better than they, we have allowed our professional imposture to deceive ourselves.
Just as the best doctors are those who can somehow retain the patient's confidence not
by hiding but by confessing their limitations, so the best teachers are those who make
the fewest pretensions. If the students are on all fours with a difficult problem, the
teacher who shows that he is only crawling also, helps them much more than the
pedagogue who appears to fly in maginficient circles far above their heads.Perhaps, if
we teachers were more honest about our own reading disabilities, less loath to reveal
how hard it is for us to read and how often we fumble, we might get the students interest
in the game of learning instead of the game of passing.
-4I trust I have said enough to indicate to readers who cannot read that I am one who
cannot read much better than they. My chief advantage is the clarity with which I know
that I cannot, and perhaps why I cannot. That is the best fruit of years of experience in
trying to teach others. Of course, if I am just a little better than someone else, I can help
him somewhat. Although none of us can read well enough to satisfy ourselves, we may
be able to read better than someone else. Although few of us read well for the most
part, each of us may do a good job of reading in some particular connection, when the
stakes are high enough to compel the rare exertion.
The student who is generally superficial may, for a special reason, read some one thing
well. Scholars who are as superficial as the rest of us in most of their reading often do a
careful job when the text is in their own narrow field, especially if their reputations hang
on what they say. On cases relevant to his practice, a lawyer is likely to read
analytically. A physician may similarly read clinical reports which describe symptoms
he is currently concerned with. But both these learned men may make similar effort in
other fields or at other times. Even business assumes the air of a learned profession
when its devotees are called upon to examine financial statements or contracts, though I
have heard it said that many businessmen cannot read these documents intelligently
even when their fortunes are at stake.
If we consider men and women generally, and apart from their professions or
occupations, there is only one situation I can think of in which they almost pull
themselves up by their bootstraps, making an effort to read better than they usually do.
When they are in love and are reading a love letter, they read between the lines and in
the margins; they read the whole in terms of the parts, and each part in terms of the
whole; they grow sensitive to context and ambiguity, to insinuation and implication;
they perceive the color of words, the odor of phrases, and the weight of sentences.They
may even take the punctuation into account. Then, if never before or after, they read.
These examples, especially the last, are enough to suggest a first approximation of what
I mean by "reading." That is not enough, however. What this is all about can be more
accurately understood only if the different kinds and grades of reading are more
definitely distinguished. To read this book intelligently—which is what this book aims
to help its readers do with all books—such distinctions must be grasped. that belongs to
the next chapter. Here suffice it if it is understood that this book is not about reading in
every sense but only about that kind of reading which its readers do not do well enough,
or at all, except when they are in love
CHAPTER TWO
The Reading of "Reading"
-1One of the primary rules for reading anything is to spot the most important words the
author uses. Spotting them is not enough, however. You have to know how they are
being used. Finding an important word merely begins the more difficult research for the
meanings, one or more, common or special, which the word is used to convey as it
appears here and there in the text.
You already know "reading" is one of the most important words in this book. But, as I
have already sugggested, it is a word of many meanings. If you take for granted that you
know what I mean by the word, we are likely to get into difficulties before we proceed
much further.
This business of using language to talk about language—specially if one is campaigning
against its abuse—is risky. Recently Mr. Stuart Chase wrote a book which he should
have called Words bout Words. He might then have avoided the barb of the critics who
so quickly pointed out that Mr. Chase himself was subject to the tyranny of word. Mr.
Chase recognized the peril when he said , "I shall frequently be caught in my own trap
by using bad language in a plea for better."
Can I avoid such pitfalls? I am writing about reading and so it would appear that I do
not have to obey the rules of reading but of writing. My escape may be more apparrent
than real, if it turns out that a writer should keep in mind the rules which govern
reading. You, however, are reading about reading. You cannot escape. If the reules of
reading I am going to suggest are sound, you must follow them in reading this book.
But, you will say, how can we follow the rules until we learn and understand them? To
do that we shall have to read some part of this book without knowing what the rules are.
The only way I know to help out of this dilemma is by making you reading-conscious
readers as we proceed. Let us start at once by applying the rule about find and
interpreting the important words.
-2When you start out to investigate the various senses of a word, it is usually wise to
begin with a dictionary and your own knowledge of common usage. If you looked up
"read" in the large Oxford Dictionary, you would find, first, that the same four letters
constituted an obsolete noun referring to the fourth stomach of a ruminant, and the
commonly used verb which refers to a mental activity involving words or symbols of
some sort. You would know at once that we need not bother with the obsolete noun
except, perhaps, to note that reading has something to do with rumination. You would
discover next that the verb has twenty-one more or less closely related meanings, more
or less common.
One uncommon meaning of "to read" is to think or suppose. This meaning passes into
the more usual one of conjecturing or predicting, as when we speak of reading the stars,
one's prm, or one's future. That leads eventually to the meaning of the word in which it
refers to perusing books or other written documents. There are many other meanings,
such as verbal utterance ( when an actress reads her lines for the director); such as
detecting what is not perceptible from what is (when we asy we can read a person's
character in his face); such as instruction, academic or personal (when we have someone
read us a lecture).
The slight variations in usage seem endless; a singer reads music; a scientist reads
nature; an engineer reads his instruments; a printer reads proof; we read between the
lines; we read something into situation, or someone out of the party.
We can simplify matters by noting what is common to many of these senses; namely,
that mental activity is involved and that, in one way or another, symbols are being
interpreted. That imposes a first limitation on our use of the word. We are not concerned
with a part of the intestinal tract, nor are we concerned with enunciation, with speaking
something out loud. A second limitation is need, because we shall not consider—except
for some points of comparison—the interpretation, clairvoyant or otherwise, of natural
signs such as stars hands, or faces. We shall limit ourselves to one kind of readable
symbol, the kind which men invent for the purposes of communication—the words of
human language. This eliminates the reading of other artificial signs such as the pointers
on dials of physical apparatus, thermometers, gauges, speedometers, and so forth.
Henceforth, then, you must read the word "reading," as it occurs in this text, to refer to
the process of interpreting or understanding what presents itself to the senses in the form
of words or other sensible marks. This is not arbitrary legislation about what the word
"reading" means. It is simply a matter of defining our problem, which reading the in the
sense of receiving communication.
Unfortunately, that is not simple do do, as you would realize at once if someone asked:
"What about listening? Isn't that receiving communication, too?" I shall subsquently
discuss the relation of reading and listening, for the rules of good reading are for the
most part the rules of good listening, though perhaps harder to apply in the latter case.
Suffice it for the present to distinguish reading from listening by restricting the
communication being received to what is written and printed rather than spoken.
I shall try to use the word "reading" in the limited and special sense noted. But I know
that I will not succeed without exception. It will be impossible to avoid using the word
in some of its other senses. Sometimes I sha;; be thoughtful enough to mention
explicitly that I am shifting the meaning. Other times I may suppose that the context is
sufficient warning to you. Infrequently ( I hope ) I may shift the meaning without being
aware of it myself.
Be stout, gentle reader, for you are just beginning. What has gone before is just
preliminary to finding out the even narrower sense in which the word "reading" will be
used. We must now face the problem which the first chapter indicated. We must
distinguish between the sense in which you can read this book, for instance, and are
now doing so, and the sense in which you may learn from it to read better or diferently
than you now can.
Notice that I said "better" or "differently." The one word points to diffrence in degrees
of ability, the other to a distinction in kinds. I suppose we shall find that the better
reader can also do a different kind of reading. The poorer can probably do only one
kind—the simplest kind. Let us first examine the range of ability in reading to
determine what we mean by "better" and "poorer."
-3One obvious fact shows the existence of a wide range of degrees in ability to read. It is
that reading begins in the primary grades and runs through every level of the
educational system. Reading is the first of the three R's. It is first because we have to
learn to read in order to learn by reading. Since what we have to learn, as we ascend in
our education, becomes more difficult or complex, we must improve our ability to read
proportionately.
Literacy is everywhere the primary mark of education, but it has many degrees, from a
grammar-school diploma, or even less, up to a bachelor's degree or a Ph.D. But, in his
recent commentary on American democracy, called Of Human Fredom, Jacques Barzun
cautions us not to be misled by the boast that we have the most literate population in the
world. "Literacy in this sense is not education; it is not even 'knowing how to read' in
the sense of taking in quickly and correctly the message of the printed page, to say
nothing of exercising a critical judgement upon it."
Supposedly, gradations in reading go along with graduations from one educational
level to another. In the light of what we know about American education today, that
supposition is not well founded. In France it is still true that the candidate for the
doctor's degree must show an ability to read sufficient to admit him to that higher circle
of literacy. What the French call explication de texte is an art which must be practiced at
every educational level and in which improvement must be made before one moves up
the scale. But in this country there is often little discenible difference between the
explication which a high-school student would give and one by a college senior or even
a doctoral candidate. When the task is to read a book, the high-school students and
college freshmen are often better, if only because they are less thoroughly spoiled by
bad habits.
The fact that there ie something wrong with American education, so far as reading is
concerned, means only that the gradations have become obscure for us, not that theydo
not exist. Our task is to remove that obscurity. To make the distinction in grades of
reading sharper, we must define the criteria of better and worse.
What are the criteria? I think I have already suggested what they are, in the previous
chapter. Thus, we say that one man is a better reader than another if he can read more
difficult material. Anyone would agree, if Jones is able to read only such things as
newspaper and magazines, whereas Brown can read the best current nonfiction books,
such as Einstein and Infeld's Evolution of Physics or Hoben's Mathematics for the
Millions, that Brown has more ability than Jones. Among readers at the Jones level,
further discrimination may be made between those who cannot rise abouve the tabloids
and those who can master The New York Times. Between the Jones and the Brown
group, there are still others measured bythe better and worse magazines, better and
worse current fiction, or by nonfiction books of a more popular nature than Einstein or
Hogben, such as Gunther's Inside Europe or Heister's An American Doctor's Odyssey.
And better and Brown is the man who can read Euclid and Descartes as well as Hogben,
or Galileo and Newton as well as Einstein and Infeld's discussion of them.
The first criterion is an obvious one. In many fields we measure a man's skill by the
difficulty of the task he can perform. The accuracy of such measurement depends, of
course, on the independent precision with which we can grade the tasks in difficulty.
We could be moving in circles if we said, for instance, that the more difficult book is
one which only the better reader can master. That is true, but not helpful. In order to
understand what makes some books more difficult to read than others, we would have to
know what demands they make on the skill of the reader. If we knew that, we would
know what distinguishes better and worse readers. In other words, the difficulty of the
reading ability, but it does not tell us what the difference is in the reader, so far as his
skill is concerned.
The first criterion has some use, nevertheless, to whatever extent it is true that the more
difficult a book is the fewer readers it will have at any given time. There is some truth in
this, because it generally the case that, as one mounts the scale of excellence in any
skill, the number of practitioners diminishes: the higher, the fewer. Counting noses,
therefore, gives us some independent indication of whether one thing is more difficult to
read than another. We can construct a crude scale and measure men accordingly. In a
sense, that is the way all the scales, which employ reading tests made by the educational
psychologists, are constructed.
The second criterion takes us further, but is harder to state. I have already suggested the
distinction between active and passive reading. Strictly, all reading is active. What we
call passive is simply less active. Reading is better or worse according as it is more or
less active. And one reader is better than another in proportion as he is capable of a
greater range of activity in reading. In order to explain this point, I must first be sure
that you understand why I say that, strictly speaking, there is no absolutely passive
reading. It only seems that way in contrast to more active reading.
No one doubts that writing and speaking are active undertakings, in which the writer or
speaker is clearly doing something. Many people seem to think, however, that reading
and listening are entirely passive. Nowork need be done. they think of reading and
listening as receiving communication from someone who is actively giving it. So far
they are right, but then they make the error of supposing that receiving communication
is like receiving a blow, or a legacy, or a judgement from the court.
Let me use the example of baseball. Catching the ball is just as much an activity as
pitching or hitting it. The pitcher or batter is the giver here in the sense that his activity
initiates the motion of the ball. The catcher or fielder is the receiver in the sense that
his activity terminates it. Both are equally active, though the activities are distinctly
different. If anything is pasive here, it is the ball; it is pitched and caught. It is the inert
thing which is written and read, like the ball, is the passive object common to the two
activities which begin and terminate the process.
We can go a step further with this analogy. A good catcher is one who stops the ball
which has been hit or pitched. The art of catching is the skill of knowing how to do this
as well as possible in every situation. So the art of reading is the skill of catching every
sort of communication as well as possible. But the reader as "catcher" is more like the
fielder than the man behind the plate. The catcher signals for a particular pitch. He
knows what to expect. In a sense, the pitcher and catcher are like two men with but a
single thought before the ball is thrown. Not so, however, in the case of the batter and
fielder. Fielders may wish that batters would obey signals from them, but that isn't the
way game is played. So readers may sometimes wish that wiriters would submit
completely to their desires for reading matter, but the facts are usually otherwise. The
reader has to go after what comes out into the field.
The analogy breaks down at two points, both of which are instructive. In the first place,
the batter and the fielder, being on opposite sides, do not have thesame end in view.
Each thinks of himself as successful only if he frustrates the other. In contrast, pitcher
and catcher are successful only to the extent that they co-operate. Here the realtion of
writer and reader is more like that between the men on the battery. The writer certainly
isn't trying not to be caught, although the reader may often think so. Succesful
communication occurs in any case where what the writer wanted to have received finds
its way into the reader's possession. The writer's and reader's skill converge upon a
common end.
In the second place, the ball is a simple unit. It is either a completely caught or not. A
piece of writing, however, is a complex object. It can be received more or less
completely, all the way from very little of what the writer intended to the whole thing.
The amount the reader gets will usually depend on the amount of activity he puts into
the process, as well as upon the skill with which he excutes the different mental acts that
are involved.
Now we can define the second criterion for judging reading ability. Given the same
thing to read, one man reads it better than another, first, by reading it more actively, and
second, by performing each of the acts involved more successfully. These two things
are related. Reading is a complex activity, just as writing is. It consists of a large
number of separate acts, all of which must be performed in a good reading. Hence, the
man who can perform more of these various acts is better able to read.
-4I have not reallytold you what good and bad reading are. I have talked about the
differences only in a vague and generala way. Nothing else is possible here. Untill you
know the rules which a good reader must follow, you will not be able to understand
what is involved.
I know of no short cut by which you can be shown now, clearly and in detail, what I
hope you will see before you have finished. You may not see it even then. reading a
book on how to play tennis may not sufficient to make you perceive from the side lines
the various shades of skill in playing. If you stay on the side lines, you will never know
how it feels to play better or worse. Similarly, you have to put the rules of reading into
practice before you are really able to understand them and competent to judge your own
accomplishment or that of others.
But I can do one thing more here which may help you get the feel of what reading is. I
can distinguish different types of reading for you.
I dicovered this way of talking about reading under the dire necessity which a lecture
platform sometimes imposes. I was lecturing about education to three thousand schoolteachers. I had reached the point where I was bemoaning the fact that college students
couldn't read and that nothing was being done about it. I cluld see from their faces that
they didn't know what I was talking about. Weren't they teaching the children how to
read? In fact, that was being done in the very lowest grades. Why should I be asking
that four years of college be spent primarily in learning to read and in reading great
books?
Under the provocation of their general incredulity, and their growing impatience with
my nonsense, I went further. I said that most people could not read, that many university
professors I knew could not, that probably my autidnce cound not read either. The
exaggeration only made matters worse. They knew they cound read. They did it every
day. What in the world was this idiot on the platform raving about? Then it was that I
figured out how to explain. I doing so, I distinguished two kinds of reading.
The explanation went something like this. Here is a book, I said, and here is your mind.
The book consists of language written by someone for the sake of communicating
something to you. Your success in reading is determined by the extent to which you get
all that writer intended to communicate.
Now, as you go through the pages, either you understand perfectly everything the author
has to say or you do not. If you do, you may have gained information, but you could not
have increased your understanding. If, upon effortless inspection, a book is completely
intelligble to you, then the author and you are as two minds in the same mold. The
symbols on the page merely express the common understanding you had before you
met.
Let us take the second alternative. You do not understand the book perfectly at once.
Let us even assume—what unhappily is not always true—that you understand enough to
know that you do not understand it all. You know there is more in the book than you
understand and, hence, that the book contains something which can increase your
understanding.
What do you do then? You can do a number os things. You can take the book to
someone else who, you think, can read better than you, and have him to explain the
parts that troubled you. Or you can get him to recommend a textbook or commentary
which will make it all plain by telling you what the author meant. Or you may decide, as
many students do, that what's over your head isn't worth bothering about, that you
understand enough, and the rest doesn't matter. If you do any of these things, you are
not doing the job of reading which the book requires.
That is done in one way only. Without external help, you take the book into your study
and work on it. With nothing but the power of your mind, you operate on the symbols
before you in such a way that you gradually lift yourself from a state of understanding
less to one understanding more. Such elevation, accomplished by the mind working on a
book, is reading, the kind of reading that a book which challenges your understanding
deserves.
Thus I roughly defined what I meant by reading: the process whereby a mind, with
nothing to operate on but the symbols of the readable matter, and with no help from
outside, elevates itself by the power of its own operations. The mind passes from
understanding less to understanding more. The operations which cause this to happen
are the various acts which constitute the art of reading. "How many of these acts do you
know?" I asked the three thousand teachers. "What things would you do by yourself if
your life depended on understanding something readable which at first persual left you
somewhat in the dark?"
Now their faces frankly told a different story. They plainly confessed that they wouldn't
know what to do. They signified, moreover, that they would be willing to admit there
was such an art and that some people must possess it.
Clearly not all reading is of the sort I have just described. We do a great deal of reading
by which we are in no way elevated, though we may be informed, amused, or irritated.
There would appear to be several types of reding: for information, for entertainment, for
understanding. This sounds at first as if it were only a difference in the purpose with
which we read. That is only partly so. In part, also, it depends on a difference in the
thing to be read and the way of reading. You cannot gain much information from the
funny sheet or much intellectual elevation from an almanac. As the things to be read
have different values, we must use tham accordingly. We must satisfy each of our
different purposes by going to the sort of material for each. More than that, we must
know how to satisfy our purposes by being able to read each sort of material
appropriately.
Omitting, for the present,, reading for amusement, I wish to examine here the other two
main types: reading for information and reading to understand more. I think you will see
the relation between these two types of reading and the degrees of reading ability. The
poorer reader is usually able todo only the first sort of reading: for information. The
better reader can do that , of cousre, and more. He can increase his understanding as
well as his store of facts.
To pass from understanding less to ounderstanding more, by your own intellectual effort
in reading, is something like pulling yourself up by your bootstraps. I certainly feels that
way. It is a major exertion. Obvilusly, it would be a more active kind of reading,
entailing not only more varied activity but more skill in the performance of thevarious
acts required. Obviously, too, the things which are usually regarded as more difficult to
read, and hence only for the better reader, are those which are most likely to deserve and
demand this type of reading.
Things you can comprehend without effort, such as magazines and newspapers, require
a minimim of reading. You need very little art. You can read in a relatively passive way.
For everyone who can read at all, there is some material of this sort, though it may be
different for different individuals. What for one man requires no or little effort may
demand genuine exertion from another. How far any man may get by expending every
effort will depend on how much skill he has or is able to acquire, and that is somehow
relative to his native intelligence.
The point, however, is not to distinguish good and bad readers accoring to the favors or
deprivations of birth. The point is that for each individual there exists two sorts of
readable matter: one the one hand, something which he can read effortlessly to be
informed, because it communicates nothing which he cannot immediately comprehend;
on the other, something which is above him, in the sense of challenging to to make the
effort t understand. It may, of course, be too far above him, forever beyond his grasp.
But this he cannot tell until he tries, and he cannot try untill he develops the art of
reading—the skill to make the effort.
-5Most of us do not know what the limits of our comprehension are. We have never tried
our powers to the full. It is my honest belief that almost all of the great books in every
field are within the grasp of all normally intelligent men, on the condition, of course,
that they acquire the skill, necessary for reading them and make the effort. Of course,
those more favored by birth will reach the goal more readily, but the race is not always
to the swift.
There are severalminor points here which you must observe. It is possible to be
mistaken in your jedgement of something your reading. You may thing you understand
it, and be content with what you get fron an effortless reading, whereas in fact much
may have escaped you. The first maxim of sound practice is an old one: the beginning
of widson is a just appraisal of one's ignorance. So the beginning of reading as a
conscious effort to understand is an accurate perception of the line between what is
intelligible and what is not.
I have seen many students read a difficult book just as if they were reading the sports
page. Sometines I would ask at the beginning of a class if they had any questions about
the text, if there was anything they did not understand. Their silence answered in the
negative. At the end of two hours, during which they could not answer the simplest
questions leading to an interpretation of the book, they would admit their deficiency in a
puzzled way. They were puzzled because they were quite honest in their belief that they
had read the text. They had, indeed, but not in the right way.
If they had allowed themselves to be puzzled while reading, instead of after the class
was over; if they had encouraged themselves to note the things they did not understand,
instead of putting such matters immediately out of mind, they might have discovered
that the book in fornt of them was different from their usual diet.
Let me summarize now the distinction between these two types of reading. We shall
have to consider both because the line between what is readable in one way and what
must be read in the other is often hazy. To whatever extent we can keep the two kinds of
reading distinct, we can use the word "reading" in two distinct senses.
The first sense is the one in which we speak of ourselves as reading newspapers,
magazines, or anything else which, according to our skill and talents, is at once
thoroughly intelligible to us. Such things may increase the store of information we
remember, but they cannot improve our understanding, for our understanding was equal
to them before we started. Otherwise, we would have felt the shock of puzzlement and
perplexity which comes form getting in over our depth—that is, if we were both alert
and honest.
The second sense is the one in which I would say a man has to read something that at
first he does not completely understand. Here the thing to be read is initially better than
the reader. The writer is communicating something which can increase the reader's
understanding. Such communication between unequals must be possible , or else one
man could never learn from another, either through speech of writing. Here by
"learning" I mean understanding more, not remembering more informatiion which has
the same degree intelligibility as other information you already possess.
There is clearly no difficulty about getting new information in the course of reading if,
as I say, the novel facts are of the same sort as those you already know, so far as their
intelligibility goes. Thus, a man who knows some of the facts of American history and
understands them in a certain light can readily acquire by reding , in the first sense,
more such facts and understand them in the same light. But suppoes he is reading a
history which seeks not merely to give some more facts but to throw a new and,
perhaps, more profound light on all the facts he knows. Suppose there is greater
understanding here than he possesses before he starts to read. If he can mamage to
acquire that greater understanding, he is reading in the second sense. He has literally
elevated himself by his own activity, though indirectly, of couurse, this was made
possible by the writer who had something to teach him.
What are the conditions under which this kind of reading takes place? There are two. In
the first place, there is initial inequality in understanding. The writer must be superior to
the reader, and his book must convey in readable form the insights he possesses and his
potential readers lack. In the second place, the reader must be able to overcome this
inequality in some degree, seldom perhaps fully, but always approaching equality with
the writer. To the extent that equality is approached, the communication is perfectly
consummated.
In short, we can learn only from our betters. We must know who they are and how to
learn from them. The man who has this sort ofknowledge possesses the art of reading in
the sense with which I am specially concerned. Every one probably has some ability to
read in this way. But all of us gain more by our efforts through applying them to more
rewarding materials.
CHAPTER THREE
Reading is Learning
-1ONE rule of reading, as you have seen, is to pick out and interpret the important words
in a book. There is another and closely related rule: to discover the important sentences
and to understand what they mean.
The words "reading is learning" make a sentence. That sentence is obviously important
for this discussion. Infact, I would say that it is the most important sentence so far. Its
importance is indicated by the weightiness of the words which compose it. They are not
important words but also ambiguous ones, as we have seen in the case of "reading."
Now, if the word "reading" has meanings, and similarly the word "learning," and if that
little word "is" takes the prize for ambiguity, you are in no position to affirm or deny the
sentence. It means a number of things, some of which may be true and some false.
When you have found out the meaning of each of the three words, as I have used them,
you will have discovered the proposition I am trying to convey. Then, and only then,
can you decide whether you agree with me.
Since you know that we are not going to consider reading for amusement, you might
charge me with inaccuracy for not having said: "Some reading is learning." My defense
is on which you as a reader will soon come to anticipate. The context made it
unnecessary for me to say "some." It was understood that we we going to ignore reading
for amusement.
To interpret the sentence, we must first ask: What os learning? Obviously, we cannot
discuss learning adequately here. The only brief way out is to make a rough a
approximation in terms of what everybody knows: that learning is acquiring knowledge.
Don't run away. I am not going to define "knowledge." If I tried to do that, we would be
swamped by the number of other words which would suddenly become inportant and
demamd explication. For our purposes your present understanding of "knowledge" is
sufficient. You have knowledge. You know that you know and what you know. You
know the diffenence between knowing and not knowing something.
If you were called upon to give a philosophical account of the nature of knowledge, you
might be stumped; but so have many philosophers been. Let us leave them to their
worries, and proceed to ue the word "knowledge" on the assumptiion that we understand
each other. But, you may onject, even if we assume that we have a sufficient grasp of
what we mean by "knowledge,"there are other difficulties in saying that learning is
acquiring knowledge. One learns how to play tennis or cook. Playing tennis and
cooking are now knowledge. They are ways of doing something which require skill.
The objection has point. Although knowledge is involved in every skill, having a skill is
having something more than knowledge. The person who has skill not only knows
something but can do something which the person lacking it cannot do at all or as well.
There is a familiar distinction here, which all of us make when we speak of knowing
how(to do something) as opposed to knowing that (something is the case). One can
learn how as well as that. You have already acknowledged this distinction in
recognizing that one has to learn how to read in order to learn from reading.
An initial restriction is thus imposed on the word "learning" as we are using it. Reading
is learning only in the sense of gaining knowledge and not the skill. You cannot learn
how to read just by reading this book. All you can learn is the nature of reading and the
rules of the art. That may help you learn how to read, but it is not sufficient. I addition,
you must follow the rules and practice the art. Only in that way can the skill be required,
which is something over and above the knowledge that a mere book can communicate.
-2So far, so good. But now we must turn to the distinctioin between reading for
information and reading ro understanding. In the preceding chapter, I suggested how
much more active the ltter sort of reading must be, and how it feels to do it. Now we
must consider the difference in what you get out of these two kinds of reading. Both
information and understanding are knowledge in some sense. Getting more information
is learning, and so is coming to understanding what you did not understand before.
What is the difference?
To be informed is to know simply that something is the case. To be enlightened is to
know, in addition, what it is all about: why it is the case, what its connections are with
other facts, in what respects it is the same and different, and so forth.
Most of us are acquainted with this distinction in terms of the difference between being
able to remember something and being able to explain it. If you remember what an
author says, you have learned something from reading him. If what he says is true, you
have even learned something about the world. But whether it is a fact about the book or
the world, you have gained nothing but information if you have exercised only your
memory. Yo have not been enlightened. That happens only when, in addition to
knowing what an author says, you know what he means and why he says it.
A single example may help us here. What I am going to report happened in a class in
which we were reading Thomas Aqhinas's treatise on the passions, but the same thing
has happened in countless other classes with many different sorts of material. I asked a
student what St. Thomas had to say about the order of the passions. H e quite correctly
told me that love, according to St. Thomas, is the first of all the passions and that the
other emotions, which he named accurately, follow in a certain order. Then I asked him
what it meant to say this. He looked startled. Had he not answered my question
correctly? I told him he had, but repeated my request for an explanation. He had told me
what St. Thomas said. Now I wanted to know what St. Thomas meant. The student
tried, but all he could do was to repeat, in slightly altered order, the same words he had
used to answer my original question. It soon became obvious that he did not know what
he was talking about, even though he would have made a good score on any
examination which went no further than my original questions or questions of a similar
sort.
I tried to help him. I asked him whether love was first in the sense of being a cause of
other emotions. I asked him how hate and anger, hope and fear, depended on love. I
asked him about the relations of joy and grief to love. And what is love? Is love hunger
for food and thirst for drink, or is it only what wonderful feeling which is supposed to
make the world go round? Is the desire for money of fame, knowledge or happiness,
love? In so far as he could answer these questions by repeating more or less accurately
the words of St. Thomas, he did. When he made errors in reporting, other members of
the class could make any headway with explaining what it was all about.
I still tried another tack. I asked them, begging their pardon, about their own emotional
experience. They were all old enough to have had a few passions. Did they ever hate
anybody, and did it have anything to do with loving that person or somebody else? Had
they ever experience a sequence of emotions, one of which somehow led into another?
They were very vague, not because they were embarassed or because they had never
been emotionally upset but because they totally unaccustomed to thinking about their
experience in this way. Clearly they had not made any connection between the words
they had read in a book about the passions and their own experiences. These things were
as in worlds apart.
It was becoming apparent why they did not have the faintest understanding of what they
had read. It was just words they had memorized to be able to repeat somehow when I
shot an question at them. That was what they did in other courses. I was asking too
much of them.
I still persisted. Perhaps, if they could not understand Aquinas in the light of their own
experience, they might be able to use the vicarious experience they got from reading
novels. They had read some fiction. Here and there some of them had even a great
novel. Did passions occur in these stories? Were there different passions and how were
they related? They did as badly here as before. They answered by telling me the story in
a superficial summary of the plot. They understood the novels they had read about as
little as they understood St. Thomas.
Finally, I asked whether they had ever taken any other courses in which passions or
emotions had been discussed. Most of them had had an elementary course in
psychology, and one or two of them had even heard of Freud, and perhaps read a little
of him. When I discovered that they had made no connection whatsoever between the
physiology of emotion, in which they had probably passed creditable examinations, and
the passions as St. Thomas discussed them; when I found out they could not even see
that St. Thomas was making the same basic point as Freud, I realized what I was up
against.
These students were college juniors and seniors. They could read in one sense but not
in another. All their years in school they had been reading for information only, the sort
of information you have to get from something assigned in order to answer quizzes and
examinations. They never connected one book with another, one course with another, or
anything that was said in books or lectures with what happened to them in their own
lives.
Not knowing that there was something more to do with a book than commit its more
obvious statements to memory, they were totally innocent of their dismal failure when
they came to class. According to their lights, they had conscientiously prepared the
day's lesson. It had never occured to them they might be called upon to show that they
understood what they had read. Even when a number of such class sessions began to
make them aware of this novel requirement, they were helpless. At best they became a
little more aware that they did not understand what they were reading , but they could
do little about it. Here, near the end of their schooling, they were totally unskilled in the
art of reading to understand.
-3When we read for information, we require facts.When we read to understand, we learn
not only facts but their significance. Each kind of reading has its virtue, but it must be
used in the right place. If a writer does not understand more than we do, or if in
particular passage he makes no effort to explain, we can only informed by him, not
enlightened. But if an author has insights we do not possess and if, in addition, he has
tried to convey them in what he has written, we are neglecting his gift to us if we do not
read him differently from the way in which we read newspapers or magazines.
The books we acknowledge to be great or good are usually those which deserve the
better sort of reading. It is true, of course, that anything can be read for informational as
well as understanding. One should be able to remember what the author said as well ass
know what he meant. In a sense, being informed is prerequisite to being enlightened.
The point, however, is not to stop at being informed. It is as wasteful to read a great
book solely for information as to use a fountain pen for digging worms.
Montaigne speaks of "an abecedarian ignorance that precedes knowledge, and a
doctoral ignorance that comes after it." The one is the ignorance of those who, not
knowing their ABC's, cannot read at all. The other is the ignorance of those who have
misread many books. They are, as Pope rightly calls them, bookful of blockheads,
ignorantly read. There have always been literate ignoramuses who have read too widely
and not well. The Greeks had a name for such mixture of learning and folly, which
might be applied to the bookish but poorly read of all ages. They are all sophomores.
Being well read too often means the quantity, too seldom the quality, of reading. It was
not only the pessimistic and misanthropic Schopenhauer who inveighed against too
much reading, because the found that, for the most part, men read passively and glutted
themselves with toxic overdoses of unassimilated information. Bacon and Hobbes made
the same point. Hobbes said: "If I read as many books as most men"—he meant
"misread"—"I should be as dull-witted as they." Bacon distinguished between "books to
be tasted, others to be swalled, and some few to be digested." The point that remains the
same throughout rest on the distinction between different kinds of reading appropriate to
different kinds of literature.
-4We have made some progress in interpreting the sentence "reading is learning." We
know that some, but not all, learning can be achieved through reading: the acquisition of
knowledge but not of skill. If we concluded, however, that the kind of reading which
results in increased information or understanding is identical with the kind of learning
which results in more knowledge, we would be making a serious error. We would be
saying that no one can acquire knowledge except through reading, which is clearly
false.
To avoid this error, we must now consider one further distinction in types of learning.
This distinction has a significant bearing on the whole business of reading, and its
relation to education generally. (If the point I am now going to make is unfamiliar to
you, and perhaps somewhat difficult, I sugget that you take the following pages as a
challenge to your skill in reading. This is a good place to begin active reading—marking
the important words, noting the distinctions, seeing how the meaning of the sentence
with which we started expands.
In the history of education, men have always distinguished between instruction and
discovery as sources of knowledge. Instruction occurs when one man teachers another
through speech or writing. We can, however, gain knowledge without being taught. If
this were not the case, and every teacher had to be taught what he inturn teaches others,
there would be no beginning in the acquisition of knowledge. Hence, there must be
discovery—the process of learning something by research, by investigation, or by
reflection, without being taught.
Discovery stands to instruction as learning without a teacher to learning through the
help of one. In both cases, the activity of learning goes on the one who learns. It would
be a great mistake to suppose that discovery is active learning and instruction passive.
There is no passive leraning, as there is no complete passive reading.
The difference between the two activities of learning is with respect to the materials on
which the learner works. When he is being taught or instructed, the learner acts on
something communicated to him. He performs operations on discourse, written or oral.
He learns by acts of reading or listening. Note here the close relation between reading
and listening. If we ignore the mimor differences between these two ways of receiving
communication, we can say that reading and listening are the same art—the art of being
taught. When, however, the learner proceeds without the help of any sort of teacher, the
operations of learning are performed on nature rather than discourse. The rules of such
learning constitute the art of discovery. If we use the word "reading" loosely, we can
say that discovery is the art of reading nature, as instruction (being taught) is the art of
reading books or, to include listening, of learning from discourse.
What about thinking? If by "thinking" we mean the use of our minds to gain knowledge,
and if instruction and discovery exhaust the ways of gaining knowledge, then clearly all
our thinking must take place during one or the other of these two activities. We must
think during the course of reading and listening, just as we must think in the course of
research. Naturally, the kinds of thinking are different—as different as the two ways of
learning are.
The reason why many people regard thinking as more closely associated with research
and discovery than with being taught is that they suppose reading and listening to be
passive affairs. It is probably true that one does less thinking when one reads for
information than when one is undertaking to discover something. That is the less active
sort of reading. But it is not true of the more active reading—the effort to understand.
No one who has done this sort of reading would say it can be done thoughtlessly.
Thinking is only one part of the activity of learning. One must also use one's senses and
imagination. One must observe, and remember, and construct imaginatively what
cannot be observed. There is, again, a tendency to stress the role of these activities in
the process of research or discovery and to forget or minize their place in the process of
being taught through reading or listening. A moment's reflection will show that the
sensitive as well as the rational powers, in short, includes all the same skills that are
involved in the art of discovery: kenness of observation, readily available memory,
range of imagination, and, of course, a reason trained in anaysis and reflection. Though
in general the skills are the same, they may be differently employed in the two major
types of learning.
-5I would like to stress again the two errors which are so frequently made. One is made by
those who write or talk about an art of thinking as if there were any such thing in and by
itself. Since we never think apart from the work of being taught or the process of
research, there is no art of thinking apart from the art of reading and listening, on the
one hand, the art of discovery, on the other. To whatever extent it is true that reading is
learning, it is also trye that reading is thinking. A complete account of the art of thinking
can be given only in the context of a complete analysis of reading and research.
The other error is made by those who write about the art of thinking as if it were
identical with art of discovery. The outstanding example of this error, and one which
has tremendously influenced American education, is John Dewey's How We Think. This
book has been the bible for thousands of teachers who have been trained in our schools
of education. Professor Dewey limits his discussion of thinking to its occurrence in
learning by discovery. But that is only one of the two main ways we think. It is equally
important to know how we think when we read a book or listen to a lecture. Perhaps, it
is even more important for teachers who are engaged in instruction, since the art of
reading must be related to the art of being taught, as the art of writing is related to the
art of reading. I doubt whether anyone who does not know how to read well can write
well. I similarly doubt whether anyone who does not have the art of being taught is
skilled in teaching.
The cause of these errors is probably complex. Partly, they may be due to the false
supposition that teaching and research are activities, whereas reading and being taught
are merely passive. In part also, these errors are due to an exaggeration of the scientific
method, which stresses investigation or research as if it were the only occasion for
thought. There probably was a time when the opposite error was made: when men
overemphasized the reading of books and paid too little attention to the reading of
nature. That does not exucse us, however. Either extreme is equally bad. A balanced
education must place a just emphasis on both types of learning and on the arts they
require.
Whatever their causes, the efffect of these errors on American education is only too
obovious. They may account for the almost total neglect of intelligent reading
throughout the school system. Much more time is spent in training students how to
discover things for themselves than in training them how to learn from others. There is
no particular virtue, it seems to me, in wasting time to fine out for yourself what has
already been discovered. One should save one's skill in research for what has not yet
been discovered, and exercise one's skill in being taught for learning what others
already know and therefore can teach.
A tremendous amount of time is wasted in laboratory courses in this way. The usual
apology for the excess of laboratory ritual is that it trains the student how to think. True
enough, it does, but only in one type of thinking. A roundly educated man, even a
research scientist, should also be able to think while reading. Each generation of men
should not have to learn everything for themselves, as nothing had ever learned before.
In fact, they cannot.
Unless the art of reading is cultivated, as it is not in American education today, the use
of books must steadily diminish. We may continue to gain some knowledge by speaking
to nature, for it will always answer, but there is no point in our ancestors speaking to us
unless we know how to listen.
You may say there is little difference between reading books and reading nature. But
remember that the things of nature are not symbols communicating something from
other human mind, whereas the words we read and listen to are. And remember also that
when we seek to learn from nature directly, our ultimate aim is to understand the world
in which we live. We neither agree nor disagree with nature, as we often do the the case
of books.
Our ultimate aim is the same when we seek to learn from books. But, in this second
case, we must first be sure we understand what the book is saying. Olny then can we
decide whether we agree or disagree with its author. The process of understanding
nature directly is different from that of coming to understand it through interpreting a
book. The critical faculty need be employed only in the latter case.
-6I have been proceeding as if reading and listening could both be treated as learning from
teachers. To some extent that is true. Both are ways of being instructed, and for both
one must be skilled in the art of being taught. Listening to a course of lectures is in
many respects like reading a book. Many of the rules I shall formulate for the reading of
books apply to taking lecture courses. Yet there is good reason for placing our
discussion to the art of reading, or at least placing our primary emphasis on reading, and
letting the other applications become a secondary concern. The reason is that listening is
learning fron a living teacher, while reading is learning from a dead one, or at least one
who is not present to us except through his writing.
If you ask a living teacher a question, he may really answer you. If you are puzzled by
what he says, you may save yourself the trouble of thinking by asking him what he
means. If, however, you ask a book a question, you must answer it yourself. In this
respect a book is like nature. When you speak to it, it answers you only to the extent that
you do the work of thinking and analysis yourself.
I do not mean, of course, that if the teacher answers your question, you have no further
work. That is so only if the question is simply one of the fact. But if you are seeking an
explanation, you have to understand it or nothing has been explained to you.
Nevertheless, with the living teacher available to you, you are given a lift in the
direction of understanding him, as you are not when the teacher's words in a book are
all you have to go by.
But books can also be read under the guidance and with the help of teachers. So we
must consider the relation between books and teachers—between being taught by books
with and without the aid of teachers. That is a matter for the next chapter. Obviously, it
is a matter which concerns those of us who are still in school. But it also concerns those
of us who are not, for we may have to depend on books alone as the means for
continuing our education, and we ought to know how to make books teach us well.
Perhaps we are better off for lacking teachers, perhaps worse.
CHAPTER FOUR
Teachers, Dead or Alive
-1We can be instructed by listening to a lecture as well as through reading a book. That is
what brings us to the consideration now of books and teachers, to complete our
understanding of reading as learning.
Teaching, as we have seen, is the process whereby one man learns from another through
communication. Instruction is thus distinguished from discovery, which is the process
whereby a man learns something by himself, through observing and thinking about the
world, and not by receiving communicatioin from other men. It is true, of course, that
these two kinds of learning are intimately and intricately fused in the actual education of
any man. Each may help the other. But the point remains that we can always tell, if we
take the pains to do so, whether we learned something we know from someone else or
whether we found it out for ourselves.
We may even be able to tell whether we have learned it from a book or from a teacher.
But, by the meaning of the word "teaching," the book which taught us something can be
called a "teacher." We must distinguish, therefore, between writing teachers and
speaking teachers, teachers we learn from by reading and teachers we learn from by
listening.
For convenience of reference, I shall call the speaking teacher a "live teacher." He is a
human being with whom we have some personal contact. And I shall call books "dead
teachers." Please note that I do not mean to say that the author of the book is dead. In
fact, he may be the very alive teacher who not only lectures at us but makes read a
textbook he has written.
Whether or not the author is dead, the book is a dead thing. I cannot talk back to us, or
answer questions. It does not grow and change its mind. It is a communication, but we
cannot converse with it, in the sense in which we may succeed, once in a while, in
communicating something to our living teachers. The rare cases in which we have been
able to converse profitably with the author of a book we have read may make us realize
our deprivation when the author is dead or at least unavailble for conversation.
-2What is the role of the live teacher in our education? A live teacher may help us to
acquire certain skills: may teach us how to cut pin wheels in kindergarten, how to form
and recognize letters in the early grades, or how to spell and pronounce, how to do sums
and long division, how to cook, sew, and do carpentry. A live teacher may assist us to
develop any art, even the arts of learning itself, such s the art of experimental research
or the art of reading.
In giving such aid, more than communication is usually involved. The live teacher not
only tells us what to do, but is particulalry useful in showing us how and, even more
directly, in helping us to go through the motions. On these latter counts, there is no
question that a live teacher can be more helpful than a dead one. The most successful
how-to-book cannot take you by the hand or say at the right moment, "stop doing it that
way. Do it this way."
Now, one thing is immediately clear. With respect to all the knowledge we gain by
discovery, a live teacher can perform only on function. He obviously cannot teach us
that knowledge, for then we could not gain it by discovery. He can only teach us the art
of discovery, that is, tell us how to do research, how to observe and think in the process
of finding things out. He may, in addition, help us to become expert in the motions. In
general this is the province of a book like Dewey's How We Think and of those who
have tried to help students practice according to its rules.
Since we are primarily concerned with reading—and with the other kind of learning,
through instruction—we can limit our discussion to the role of the teacher as one who
communicates knowledge or help us to learn from communication. And, for the time
being, let us even limit ourselves to considering the live teacher as a source of
knowledge, and not as a preceptor who help us learn how to do something.
Considered as a source of knowledge, the live teacher either competes with or cooperate with dead teachers, that is, with books. By competition I mean the way in which
many live teachers tell their students by lectures what the students could learn by
reading the books the lecturer himself digested. Long before the magazine existed, live
teachers earned their living by being "readers' digests." By co-operation I mean the way
in which the live teacher somehow divides the function of teaching between himself and
available books: some things he tells the student, usually boiling down what he himself
has read, and some things he expects the student to learn by reading.
If these were the only functions a live teacher performed with respect to the
communication of knowledge, it would follow that anything which can be learned in
school can be learned outsied of school and without live teachers. It might take a little
more trouble to read for yourself than to have books digested for you. You might have
to read more books, if books were your only teachers. But to whatever extent, it is true
that the live teacher has no knowledge to communicate except what he himself learned
by reading, you can learn it directly from books yourself. You can learn it as well if you
can read as well.
I suspect, moreover, that if what you seek is understanding rather information, reading
will take you further. Most of us are guilty of the vice of passive reading, of course; but
most of people are even more likely to be passive in listening to a lecture. A lecture has
been well described as the process whereby the notes of the teacher become the notes of
the student without passing through the mind of either.
Note taking is usually not an active assimilation of what is to be understood, but an
almost automatic record of what was said. The habit of doing it becomes a more
pervasive substitute for learning and thinking as one spends more years in educational
institutions. It is worst in the professional schools, such as law and medicine, and the
graduate school. Someone said you can tell the difference between graduate and
undergraduate students in this way. If you walk into a classrom and say "Good
Morning," and the students reply, they are undergraduates. If they write it down, they
are graduate students.
There are two other functions a live teacher performs, by which he related to books.
One is repetition. We have all taken courses in school in which the teacher said in class
the very same things we were assigned to read in a textbook written by him or one of his
colleagues. I have been guilty of teaching that way myself. I remember the first course I
ever taught. It was elementary psychology. A textbook was assigned. The examination
which the department set for all the sections of this course indicate that the student need
only learn what the textbook said. My only function as a living teacher was to help the
textbook do its work. In part, I asked questions of the sort that might be asked on an
examination. In part, I lectured, repeating the book chapter by chapter, in words not
very different from those the author used.
Occasionally I may have tried to explain a point, but if the student had done a job of
reading for understanding, he could have understood the point by himself. If he could
not read that way, he probably could not listen to my explanation in an understanding
way either.
Most of the students were taking the course for credit, not merit. Since the examination
did not measure understanding but information, they probably regarded my explanations
as a waste of their time—sheer exhibitionism on my part. Why they continued to come
to class, I do not know. If they had spent as much time reading the textbook as the sport
page, and with the same diligence for details of information, they could have passed the
examination without being bored by me.
-3The function which remains to be discussed is difficult to name. Perhaps I can call it
"original communication." I am thinking of the living instructor who knows something
which cannot be found in books anywhere. It must be something which he has himself
discovered and has not yet made available for readers. This happens rarely. It happens
today most frequently in the fields of scholarship or scientific research. Every now and
then the graduate school is graded by a course of lectures which constitute an original
communication. If you are not fortunate enough to hear the lectures, you usually
console yourself by saying that they will probably appear in book form shortly.
The printing of books has now become such routine and common affair that it is not
likely any more that original communications must be heard or lost. Before Caxton,
however, the living teacher probably performed this function more frequently. That was
why students traveled all over medieval Europe to hear a famous lecturer. If one goes
back far enough in the history of European lerning, one comes to the early time before
knowledge had been funded, before there was a tradition of learning whoch one
generation received from its predecessor and passed on the next. Then, of course, the
teacher was primarily a man of knowledge and communicator secondarily. I mean he
had first to get knowledge by discovering it himself, before he could teach it to anyone
else.
The present day situation is at the other extreme. The living teacher today is primarily a
man of learning, rather than a discoverer. He is one who has learned most of what he
knows from other teachers, alive or dead. Let us consider the average teacher today as
one who no original communication to make. In relation to dead teachers, therefore, he
must be either a repeater or digester. In either case, his students could learn everything
he knows by reading the books he has read.
With respect to the communication of knowledge, the only justification for the living
teacher, then, is a practical one. The flesh being weak, it takes the easier course. The
paraphernalia of lectures, assignments, and examinations maybe a surer and more
efficient way of getting a certain amount of information, and even a little understanding,
into the rising generatioins's heads. Even if we had trained them how to read well, we
might not be able to trust them to keep at the hard work of reading in order to learn.
The self-educated man is as rare as the self-made man. Most men do not become
genuinely learned or amass large fortunes through their own efforts. The existence of
such men, however, shows it can be done. theirrarity indicates the exceptional qualities
of character—the stamina and self-discipline, the patience and perseverance—which are
required. In knowledge as in wealth, most of us have to be spoon-fed to the little we
possess.
These facts, and their practical consequences for institutional education, do not alter the
main point, however. What is true of the average teacher is equally true of all textbooks,
manuals, and syllabi. These, too, are nothing but repetitions, compiliations, and
condensations of what can be found in other books, often other books of the same sort.
There is one exception, however, and that makes the point. Let us call those living
teachers who perform the function of original communication the primary teachers.
There are few in every generation, though most are primary and secondary teachers who
are alive now, so among dead teachers we can make the same distinction. There are
primary and secondary books.
The primary books are those which contain original communications. They need not be
original in entirety, of course. On the contraray, complete originality is both iinpossible
and misleading. It is impossible except at the hypothetical beginning of our cultural
tradition. It is misleading because no one should try to discover for himself what he can
be taught by others. The best sort of originality is obviously that which adds something
to the fund of knowledge made available by the tradition of learning. Ignorance or
neglect of the tradition is likely to result in a false or shllow originality.
The great books in all fields of learning are, in some good sense of the word, "original"
communications. These are the books which are usually called "classics," but that word
has for most peopoe a wrong and forbidding connotation—wrong in the sense of
referring to antiquity, and forbidding in the sense of sounding unreadable. Great books
are being written today and were written yesterday, far from being unreadable, the great
books are the most readable and those which most deserve to be read.
-4What I have said so far may not help you to pick out the great books from all others on
the shelves. I fact, I shall postpone stating the criteria which betoken a great book—
criteria which also help you tell good books from bad—until much later (in Chapter
Sixteen, to be precise). I might seem logical to tell a person what to read before telling
him how, but I think it is wiser pedagogy to explain the requirements of reading first.
Unless one is able to read carefully and critically, the criteria for judging books,
however sound they may be in themselves, are likely to become in use just arbitrary
rules of thumb. Only after you have read some great books competently will you have
an intimate grasp of the standards by which other books can be judged as great or good.
If you are impatient to know the titles of the books which most competent readers have
agreed upon as great, you can turn now to the Appendix in which they are listed; but I
would advise waiting until you have read the discussion of their characteristics and
contents in Chapter Sixteen.
There is, however, one thing I can say about the great books here. This may explain
why they are generally readable, even if it does not explain why they should be
generally read. They are like popularizations in that most of them are written for
ordinary men and not for pedants of scholars. They are like textbooks in that they are
intended for beginners and not for specialists or advanced students. You can see why
that must be so. To the extext that they are original, they have to address themselves to
an audience which starts from scratch. There is no prerequisite for reading a great book
except another great book in the tradition of learning, by which the later teacher may
have himself been taught.
Unlike textbooks and popularizations, the great books assume an audience of readers
who are thoroughly competent to read. That is one of their major distinctions, and
probably why they are so little read today. They are not only original communcations,
rather than digests or repetitions, but unlike the latter they do not go in for spoonfeeding. they say: "Here is knowledge worth having. Come and get it."
The proliferation of textbooks and lecture courses in our educational system today is the
surest sign of our declining literacy. Truer than the quip that those who can't teach,
teach teachers, is the insight that teachers who cannot help their students read the great
books write textbooks for them, or at least use those their colleagues have written. A
textbook or manual might almost be defined as a pedagogical invention for geting
"something" into the heads of those who cannot read well enough to learn more
actively. An ordinary classroom lecture is a similar device. When teachers no longer
know how to perform the function of reading books with their students, they are forced
to lecture at them instead.
Textbooks and popularizations of all sorts are written for people who do not know how
to read or can read only for information. As dead teachers, they are like the live
secondary teachers who wrote them. Alive or dead, the secondary teacher tries to impart
knowledge without requiring too much or too skillful activity on the part of learner.
Theirs is an art of teaching which demands the least art of being taught in the students.
They stuff the mind rather than enlighten it. The measure of their success is how much
the sponge will absorb.
Our ultimate goal is understanding rather than information, though information is a
necessary steppingstone. Hence we must go to the primary teachers, for they have
understanding to give. Can there be any question that the primary teachers are better
sources of learning than the secondary ones? Is there are any doubt that the effort they
demand of us leads to the vital cultivation of our minds? We can avoid effort in learning
, but we cannot avoid the results of effortless learning.—the assorted vagaries we collect
by letting secondary teachers indoctrinate us.
If, in the same college, two men were lecturing, one a man who had discovered some
truth, the other a man who was repeating secondhand what he had heard reported of the
first man's work, which would you rather go to hear? Yes, even supposing that the
repeater promised to make it a little simpler by talking down to your level, would you
not suspect that the secondhand stuff lacked something in quality or quantity? If you
paid the greater price in effort, you would be rewarded by better goods.
It happens to be the case, of course, that the most of the primary teachers dead—the
men are dead, and the books they have left us are dead teachers—whereas most of the
living teachers are secondary. But suppose that we could resuscitate the primary
teachers of all times. Suppose there were a college or university in which the faculty
was thus composed. Herdotus and Thucydides taught the history of Greece, and Gibbon
lectured on the fall of Rome. Plato and St. Thomas gave a course in metaphysics
together; Francis Bacon and John Stuart Mill discussed the logic of science; Aristotle,
Spinoza, and Immanuel Kant shared the platform on moral problems; Machivelli,
Thomas Hobbes, and John Locke talked about politics.
You could take a series of courses in mathematics form Euclid, Descartes, Riemann,
and Cantor, with Bertrand Russell and A.N. Whitehead added at the end. You could
listen to St. Augustine and William James talk about the nature of man and the human
mind, with hperhaps Jacques Maritain to comment on the lectures. Harvey discussed the
circulation of the blood, and Galen, Claude Bernard, and Haldane taught general
physiology.
Lectures on physics enlisted the talent of Galileo and Newton, Faraday and Maxwell,
Planck and Einstein. Boyle, dalton, Lavosier, and Pasteur taught chemistry. Darwin and
Mendel gave the main lectures on evolution and genetics, with supporting talks by
Bateson and T.H. Morgan.
Aristotle, sir Philip Sidney, Wordsworth, and Shelley discussed the nature of poetry and
the principle of literary criticism, with T.S. Eliot thrown in to boot. In economics, the
lecturers were by Adam smith, Ricardo, Karl Marx, and Marshall. Boas discussed the
human race and its races, Thorsetin Veblen and John Dewey, the economic and political
problems of American democracy, and Lenin lectured on communism.
Etienne Gilson analyzed the history of philosophy, and Poincaré and Duhem, the history
of science. There might even be lectures on art by Leonardo da Vinci, and a lecture on
Leonardo by Freud. Hobbes and Locke might discuss Ogden and Richards, Korzybski
and Stuart Chase. A much larger faculty than this is imaginable, but this will suffice.
Would anyone want to go to any other university, if he could get into this one? There
need be no limitation of numbers. The price of admission—the only entrance
requirement—is the ability and willingness to read. This school exists for everybody
who is willing and able to learn from first-rate teachers, they theybe dead in the sense
of not joining us out of our lethargy by their living presence. They are not dead in any
other sense. If contemporary America dismisses them as dead, then, as a well-known
writer recently said, we are repeating the folly of the ancient Athenians who supposed
that Socrates died when he drank hemlock.
The great books can be read in or out of school. If they are read in school, in classes
under the supervision of live teachers, the latter must properly subordinate themselves
to the dead ones. We can learn only from our intellectual betters. The great books are
better than most living teachers as well as their students.
The secondary teacher is simply a better student, and he should regard himself as
learning. from the masters along with his younger charges. He should not act as if he
were the primary teacher, using a great books as if it were just another textbook of the
sort one of his colleagues might write. He should not masquerade as one who knows
and can teach by virtue of his original disvoceries, if he is only one who has learned
through being taught. The primary sources of his own knowledge should be the primary
sources of learning for his students, and such a teacher functions honestly only if he
does not aggrandize himself by coming between the great books and their young
readers. He should not "come between" as nonconductor, but he should come between
as a mediator—as one who helps the less competent make more effective contacts with
the best minds.
All this is not news, or, at least, it should not be. For many centuries, education was
regarded as the elevation of a mind by its betters. If we are honest, most of us living
teachers should be willing to admit that, apart from the advantages which age bestows,
we are not much better than our students in intellectual caliber or attainment. If
elevation is to take place, better minds than ours will have to do the teaching. That is
why, for many centuries, education was thought to be produced by contact with the
great minds of past and presents.
There is only one fly in the ointment. We, the teachers, must know how to read for
understanding. Our students must know how. Anyone, in school or out, must know
how, if the formula is to work.
But, you may say, it isn't as simple as that. These great books are too difficult for most
of us, in school or out. That is why we are forced to get our education from secondary
teachers, from classroom lectures, textbooks, popularizations, which repeat and digest
for us what would otherwise forever remain a closed book. Even though our aim be
understanding, not infomation, we must be satisfied with a less rich diet. We suffer
incurable limitations. The masters are too far above us. It is certainly better to gather a
few crumbs which dropped from the table than to starve in futile adoration of the feast
we cannot reach.
This I deny. For one thing, the less rich diet is likely not to be genuinely nourishing at
all, if it is predigested food which can be passively acquired and only temporarily
retained rather than actively assimilated. For another, as Professor Morris Cohen once
told a class of his, the pearls which are dropped before real swine are likely to be
imitation.
I am not denying that the great books are likely to require more arduous and diligent
effort than the digests. I am only saying that the latter cannot be substituted for the
former, because you cannot get the same thing out of them. They may be all right fi all
you want is some kind of information, but not if it is enlightment you seek. There is no
royal road. The path of true learning is strewn with rocks, not roses. Anyone who insists
upon taking the easierway ends up in fool's paradise—a bookful blockhead, ignorantly
read, a sophomore all his life.
At the same time, I am saying that the great books can be read by every man. The help
he needs from secondary teachers does not consist of the get-learning-quick substitutes.
It consists of help in learning how to read, and more than that when possible, help
actually in the course of reading the great books.
Let me argue a bit further the point the great books are the most readable. In some
cases, of course, they are difficult to read. They require the greatest ability to read. Their
art of teaching demands a corresponding and proportionate art of being taught. But, at
the same time, the great books are the most competent to instruct us about the subject
matters with which they deal. If we had the skill necessary to read them well, we would
find them the easiest, because the most facile and adequate, way to master the subject
matters in question.
There is something of a paradox here. It is due to the fact that two different kinds of
mastery are involved. There is, on the one hand, the author's mastery of his subject
matter; on the other, there is our need to master the book he has written. These books
are recognized as great because of their mastery, and we rate ourselves as readers
according to the degree of our ability to master these books.
If our aim in readingis to gain knowledge and insight, then the great books are the most
readable, both for the less and for the more competent, because they are the most
instructive. Obviously I do not mean "most readable" in the sense of "with the least
effort"—even for the expert reader. I mean that these books reward every degree of
effort and ability to the maximum. I may be harder to dig for gold than for potatoes, but
each unit of successful effort is more amply repaid.
The relation between the great books and their subject matters, which makes them what
they are, cannot be changed. That is an objective and unalterable fact. But the relation
between the original competence of the beginning reader and books which most
deserve to be read can be altered. The reader can be mase more competent, through
guidance and practice. To the extent that this happens, he is not only more able to read
the great books, but, as a consequence, comes nearer and nearer to understanding the
subject matter as the masters have understood it. Such mastery is the ideal of education.
It is the obligation of secondary teachers to facilitate the approach to this ideal.
-6In writing this book I am a secondary teacher. My aim is to help and mediate. I am not
going to read any books for you to save you trouble of reading them yourself. this book
has only two functions to perform: to interest you in the profit of reading and to assist
you in cultivating the art.
If you are no longer in school, you may be forced to use the services of a dead teacher
pf the art, such as this book. And no how-to-do book can ever be as helpful, in as many
ways, as a good living guide. It may be just a little harder to develop skill when you
have to practive according to the rules you find in a book, without being stopped,
corrected, and shown how. But it certainly can be done. Too many men have done it to
leave the possibility in doubt. It is never too late to begin, but we all have reason to be
vexed with a school system which failed to give us a good start early in life.
The failure of schools, and their responsibility, belong to the next chapter. Let me end
this one by calling your attention to two things. The first is that you have learned
something about the rules of reading. In earlier chapters you saw the importance of
picking out important words and sentences and interpreting them. In the course of this
chapter you have followed an argument about the readability of the great gooks and
their role in education. Discovering and following an author's argument is another step
in reading. I shall discuss the rule for doing so more fully later.
The second point is that we have now pretty well defined the purpose of this book. It
has taken many pages to do that, but I think you can see why it would have been
unintelligible if I had stated it in the first paragraph. I could have said: "This book is
intended to help you develop the art of reading for understanding, not information;
therefore, it aims to encourage and assist you in reading the great books." But I do not
think you would have known what I meant.
Now you do, even though you may still have some reservations about the profit or
significance of the enterprise. You may think there are many books, other than the great
ones, which are worth reading. I agree, of couse. But you must admit in turn that the
better the book, the more it is worth reading. Furthermore, if you learn how to read the
great books, you will have no difficulty in reading other books, or for that matter
anything else. You can use your skill to go after easier game. May I remind you,
however, that the sportsman doesn't hunt lame ducks?
CHAPTER FIVE
The Defeat of the Schools
-1In the course of the preceding chapters, I said somethings about the school system
which are libelous unless they are true. But if true they constitute a grave indictment of
the educators who viloated a public trust. Though this chapter may seem like a long
discussion from the business of teaching you how to read, it is needed to explain the
sitiuation in which most of us find ourselves or our children—"educated" but illiterate.
If the schools were doing their job, this book would not be necessary.
So far I have spoken largely from my own experience as a teacher in high school,
college, and university. But you need not take my uncorroborated word for the
deplorable failures of American education. There are many other witnesses who can be
called to the stand. Better than ordinary witnesses, who may also speak from their own
experience, there is eomething like scientific evidence on the point. We can listen to the
experts report the results of tests and measurements.
As far back as I can remember, there have been complaints about the schools for not
teaching the young to write and speak well. The complaints have focused mainly on the
products of high school and college. An elementary-school diploma never was expected
to certify great competence in these matters. But after four or eight more years in
school, it seemed reasonable to hope for a disciplined ability to perform these basic acts.
English courses were, and for the most part still are, a staple ingredient in the highschool curriculum. Until recently, freshman English was required course in every
college. These courses were supposed to develop skill in writing the mother tongue.
Though less emplasized than writing, the ability to speak clearly, if not with eloquence,
was also supposed to be one of the ends in view.
The complaints came from all sources. Businessmen, who certainly did not expect too
much, protested the incompetence of the youngsters who came their way after school.
Newspaper editorials by the score echoed their protests and added a voice of their own,
expressing the misery of the editor who had to blue-pencil the stuff college graduated
passed across his desk.
Teachers of freshman English in college have had to do over again what should have
been completed in high school. Teachers of other college courses have complained
about the impossibily slopy and incoherent English which students hand in on term
papers or examinations.
And anyone who has taught in the graduate school or in a law school knows that a B.A.
from our best colleges means very little with reference to a students skill in writing or
speaking. Many candidate for the Ph.D. has to be coached in the writing of his
dissertation, not from the point of view of scholoarship or scientific merit but with
respect to the minimum requirements of simple clear, straightforward English. My
colleagues in the law school frequently cannot tell whether a student does or does not
know the law because of his inability to express himself coherently on a point in issue.
I have mentioned only writing and speaking, not reading. Untill very recently, no one
paid much attention to the even greater or more prevalent incompetence in reading,
except, perhaps, the law professors who, ever since the introduction of the case of
method of studying law, have realized that half the time in a law school must spent in
teaching the student how to read the cases. They thought, however, that this burden
rested perculiarly on them, that there was something very special about reading cases.
They did not realize that if college graduates had a decent skill in reading, the more
specialized technique of reading cases could be acauired in much less than half the time
now spent
One reason for comparative neglect of reading and the stress on writing and speaking is
a point I have already mentioned. Writing and speaking are, for most people, so much
activities than reading is. Seince we associate skill with activity, it is a natural
consequence of this error to attribute defects in writing and speaking to lack of
technique, and to suppose that failure in reading must be dute moral defects—to lack of
industry rather than of skill. The error is gradually being corrected. More and more
attention is being paid to the problem of eraind. I do not mean that the educators have
yet discovered what to do about it, but they have finally realized that the schools are
failing just as badly, if not worse, in the matter of reading, as in writing and speaking.
It should be obvious at once that these skills are related. They are all arts of using
language in the process of communication, whether initiating it or receiving it. We
should not be surprized, therefore, if we find a positive correlation among defects in
these several skills. Without the benefit of scientific research by means of educatiional
measurements, I would be willing to predict that someone who cannot write well cannot
read well either. In fact, I would go further. I would wager that his inability to read is
partly responsible for his defects in writing.
However difficult it may be to read, it is easier than writing and speaking well. To
communicate well to others, one must know how communications are received, and be
able, in addition, to master the medium to produce the desired effects. Though the arts
of teaching and being taught are corrrelative, the teacher, either as writer or speaker,
must prevision the process of being taught in order to direct it. He must, in short, be able
to read what he writes, or listen to what he says, as if he wre being taught by it. When
teach rs themselves do not possess the art of being taught, they cannot be very good
teachers.
-2I do not have to askj yo to accept my unsupported prediction or to meet my wager in the
blind. The experts can be called to tesify in the light of scientific evidence. The product
of our schools has been measured by the accredited apparatus of achievement tests.
These tests touch all sorts of academic accomplishment—standard areas of information,
as well as the basic skills, the three R's. They show not only that the high-school
graduate is unskilled but also that he is shockingly uninformed. We must confine our
attention to the defects of skill and especialy to reading, although the finding on writing
and speaking are supporting evidence that the high-school graduate is generally at sea
when it comes to any aspect of communication.
This is hardly a laughing matter. However deplorable it may that those who have gone
through twelve years of schooling should lack rudimentary information, how much
more so is it that they should be disbarred from using the only means that can remedy
the situatiion. If they could read—not to mention write and speak—they might be able
to inform themselves throughout their adult life.
Notice that the defect which the tests discover is in the easier type of reading—reading
for information. For the most part, the tests do not even measure ability to read for
understanding. If they did, the results would cause a riot.
Last year Profesor James Mursell, of Columbia's Teachers of College, wrote an article
in The Atlantic Monthly, entitled "The Defeat of Schools." He based his allegation on
"thousands of investigations" which comprise the "consistent testimony of thirty years
of enormously varied research in education." A large mass of evidence comes from a
recent survey of the schools of Pennsylvania carried on by the Carnegie Foundation. Let
me quote his own words:
What about English? Here, too, there is a record of failure and defeat. Do pupils in
school learn to read their mother tongue effectively? Yes and no. Up to the fifth and
sixth grade, reading, on the whole, is effectively ttaught and well learned. To that level
we find a steady and general improvement, but beyond it the curves flatten out to a dead
level. This is not because a person arrives at his natural limit of efficiency when he
reaches the sixth grade, for it has been shown again and again that with special tuition
much older children, and also adults, can make enormous improvement. Nor does it
mean that most sixth-graders read well enough for all practical purposes. A great many
pupils do poorly in high school because of sheer ineptitude in getting meaning from the
printed page. They can improve; they need to improve; but they don't.
The average high-school graduates has done a great deal of reading, and if he goes on to
college he will do a great deal more; but he is likely to be poor and incompetent reader.
(Note that this holds true of the average student, not the person who is a subject for
special remedial treatment.) He can follow a simple piece of fiction and enjoy it. But put
him up against a closely written exposition, a carefully and economically stated
argument, or a passage requiring critical consideration, and he is at a loss. It has been
shown, for instance, that the average high-school student is amazingly inept at
indicating the central thought of a passage, or the levels of emphasis and subordination
in an argument or exposition. To all intents and purposes he remains a sixth-grade
reader till well along in college.
Even after he has finished college, I must add, he is not much better. I think it is true
that no one can get through college who cannot read for information with reasonable
efficiency. It may even be that he could not get into college were he thus deficient. But
if we keep in mind the distinction between the types of reading, and remember that the
tests measure primarily the ability to do the simpler sort, we cannot take much
consolation from the fact that college students read better than sixth-graders. Evidence
from the graduate and professional schools tends to show that, so far as reading for
understanding is concerned, they are still sixth-graders.
Professor Mursell writes even more dismally of the range of reading in which the
schools succeed in engaging the interest of students:
Pupils in school, and also high-school and college graduates, read but little. Mediumgrade magazines and fair-to-medium fiction are the chief standbys. Reading choices are
made on hearsay, casual recommendations, and display advertising. Education is clearly
not producing a discriminating or venturesome reading public. As one investigator
concludes, there is no indication "that the schools are developing permanent interest in
reading as a leisure-time activity."
It is somewhat sanguine to talk about students and graduates reading the great books,
when it appears that they do not read even the good nonfiction books which come out
every year.
I pass rapidly over Mursell's further report of the facts about writing: that the average
student cannot express himself "clearly, exactly, and orderly in his native tongue"; that
"a great many high-school pupils are not able to discriminate between what is a
sentence and what is not"; that the average student has an impoverished vocabulary. "As
one goes from senior year in high school to senior year in college, the vocabulary
content of written English hardly seems to increase at all. After twelve years in school a
great many students still use English in many respects childish and undeveloped; and
four years more bring slight improvement." These facts have bearing on reading. The
student who cannot "express find and precise shades of meaning" certainly cannot
detect them in the expression of anyone else who is trying to communicate above the
level of subtlety which a sixth-grader can grasp.
There is more evidence to cite. Recently the Board of Regents of New York State
solicited an inquiry into the achievement of its schools. This was carried out by an
commission under the supervision of Professor Luther Gulick of Columbia. One of the
volumes of the report treats of the high schools, and in this a section is devoted to the
"command of the tools learning." Let me quote again:
Large numbers even of the high school graduates are seriously deficient in the basic
tools of learning. The tests given to leaving pupils by the Inquiry included a test of
ability to read and understand straightforward English... The passages presented to the
pupils consisted of paragraphs taken from simple scientific articles, historical accounts,
discussions of economic probles, and the like. The test was originally constructed for
eighth grade pupils.
They discovered that the average high-school senior could pass a test designed to
measure an achievement proper in the eighth grade. This is ceratainly not a remarkable
victory for the high schools. But they also discovered that "a disturbingly large
proportion of New York State boys and girls leave the secondary schools, -even go to
higher schools,—without having attained a desirable minimum." One must agree with
their sentiment when they say that "in skills which everyone must use"—such as
areading and writing—"everyone should have at least a minimum of competence." It is
clear that Professor Mursell is not using language too strong when he speaks of "the
defeat of the schools."
The Regents' Inquiry investigated the kind of learning which high-school students do by
themselves, apart from school and courses. This, they rightly thought, could be
determined by their out-of-school reading. And they tell us, from their results, "that
once out of school, most boys and girls read soley for recreation, chiefly in magazines
of mediocre or inferior fiction and in daily newspapers." The range of their reading, in
school and out, is woefully slight and of the simplest and poorest sort. Nonfiction is out
of the question. They are not even acquainted with the best novels published during
their years in school. They know the names only of the most obvious best sellers.
Worse than that, "once out of school, they tend to let books alone. Fewer than 40 per
cent. of the boys ans gilrs interviewed had read any book or any part of a book in the
two weeks preceding the interviews. Only one in ten had read nonfiction books." For
the most part, they read magazines, if anything. And even here the level of their reading
is low: "fewer than two young people in a hundred read magazines of the type of
Harper's, Scribner's, or The Atlantic Monthly."
What is the cause of this shocking illiteracy? The Regentsts' Inquiry report points its
finger at the heart of the trouboe when it says that "the reading habits of these boys and
girls are no doubt directly affected by the fact that many of them have never learned to
read understandingly." Some of them "apparently felt that they were completely
educated, and that reading was therefore unnecessary." But, for the most part, they do
not know how to read, and therefore they do not enjoy reading. The possession of skill is
an indispensable condition of its use and enjoyment in its exercise. In the light of what
we know about their general inability to read—for understanding and even, in some
cases, for information—it is not surprsing to discover the limited range of reading
among high-school graduates, and the poor quality of what they do read.
The serious consequences are obvious. "The inferior quality of reading done by large
numbers of these boys and girls," this section of the Regents' report concludes, "offers
not great hope that their independent reading will add very much to their educational
stature." Nor, from what we know of the achievement in college, is the hope for the
college graduate much greater. He is only little more likely to do much serious reading
after he graduates, because he only a little more skilled in reading after four more years
spent in educational institutions.
I want to repeat, because I want to remember, that however distressing these findings
may seeem, they are not half as bad as they would if the tests were themselves more
severe. The tests measure a relatively simple grasp of relatively simple passages. The
questions the students being measured must answer after they have read a short
paragraph call for very little more than a precise knowledge of what the writer said.
They do not demand much in the way of interpretation, and almost nothing of critical
judgment.
I say that the tests are not severe enough, but the standard I would set is certainly not
too stringent. Is it too much to ask that a student be able to read a whole book, not
merely a paragraph, and report not only what was said therein but show an increased
understanding of the subject matter being discussed? Is it too much to expect from the
schools that they train their students not only to interpret but to criticize; that is, to
discriminate what is sound from error and falsehood, to suspend judgment if they are
not convinced, or to judge with reason if they agree or disagree? I hardly think that such
demands would be exorbitant to make of high school or college, yet if such
requirements were incorporated into tests, and a satisfactory performance were the
condition of graduation, not one in a hundred students now getting their diplomas each
June would wear the cap and gown.
-3You may think that the evidence I have so far presented is local, being restricted to New
York and Pennsylvania, or that it places too much weight on the average or poorer highschool student. That is not the case. The evidence represents what is going on in the
country generally. The schools of New York and Pennsylvania are better than average.
And the evidence includes the best high-school seniors, not merely the poorer ones.
Let me suupse this last statement by one other citation. In June, 1939, the University of
Chicago held a four-day conference on reading for teachers attending the summer
session. At one of the meetings, Professor Diederich, of the department of education,
reported the results of a test given at Chicago to top-notch high-school seniors who
came there from all parts of the country to complete for scholarships. Among other
things, these candidates were examined in reading. The results, Professor Diederich told
the thousand teachers assembled, showd that most of these very "able" students simply
could not understand what they read.
Moreover, he went on to say, "our pupils are not getting very much direct help in
understanding what they read or hear, or in knowing what they mean by what they say
or write." Nor is the situation limited to high schools. It applied equally to colleges in
this country, and even in England concerning the linguistic skill of undergratuates in
Cambridge University.
Why are the students not getting any help? It cannot be because the professional
educators are unaware of the situation. That conference at Chicago ran for four days—
with many papers presented at morning , afternoon, and evening sessions—all on the
problem of reading. It must be because the educators simply do not know what to do
about it; in addition, perhaps, because they do not realize how much time and effort
must expected to teaech students how to read, write, and speak well. Too many other
things, of much less importance, have come to clutter up the curriculm.
Some years ago I had an experience which is illuminating in this connection. Mr.
Hutchins and I had undertaken to read the great books with a group of hihg-school
juniors and seniors in the experimental school which the university runs. This was
thought to be a novel "experiment" or worse, a wild idea. Many of these books were not
being read by college juniors and seniors. They were reserved for the delectation of
graduate students. And we were going to read them with high-school boys and girls!
At the end of the first year, I went to the principal of the high school to report on our
progress. I said that these younger students were clearly interested in reading the books.
The questions they asked showed that. The acuteness and vitality of their discussion of
matters raised in class shoed that they were better than older students who had been
dulled by years of listening to lectures, taking notes, and passing examinations. They
had much more edge than college seniors or graduate students. But, I said, it was
perfectly obvious that they did not know how to read a book. Mr. Hutchins and I, in the
few hours a week we had with them, could not discuss the books and also teach them
how to read. It was a shame that their native talents were not being to trained to perform
a function that was plainly of the highest educational importance.
"What was the high school doing about teaching students how to read?" I asked. I
developed that the principal had been thinking about this matter for some time. He
suspected that the students couldn't read very well, but there wasn't time in the program
for training them. He enumerated all the more important things they were doing. I
refrained from saying that, if the students knew how to read, they could dispense with
most of these courses and learn the same thing by reading books. "Anyway," he went
on, "even if we had the time, we couldn't do much about reading until the school of
education has finished its researches on the sobject."
I was puzzled. In terms of wha I knew about the art of reading, I could not imagine what
kind of experimental research was being done that migh help the students learn to read
or their teachers to train them in doing so. I knew the experimental literature on the
subject very well. There have been thousands of investigations and countless reports to
constitute the "psychology of reading." They deal with eye movements in relation to
different kinds of type, page layout, illumination, and so forth. They treat of other
aspects of optical mechanics and sensory acuity or disability. They consist of all sorts of
tests and measurementss leading to the standardization of achievement at different
educational levels. And there have been both laboratory and clinical studies which bear
on the emotional aspects of reading. Psychiatrists have found out that some children get
into emotional tantrums about reading, as others do about mathematics. Sometimes
emotional difficulties seem to cause reading disability; sometimes thy result from it.
All of this work has, at best, two practical applications. The tests and measurements
facilitate school administration, the classification and the gradation of students, the
determination of the efficiency of one or another porcedure. The work on emotions and
the senses, especially the eye, in its movements and as an organ of vision, has led to the
therapeutic program which is part of "remedial reading." But none of this work even
begins to touch on the problem of how to teach the young the art of reading well, for
enlightment as well as information. I do not mean that the work is useless or
unimportant, or that remedial reading may not save a lot of children from the most
serious disabilities. I mean only that it has the same relation to making good readers as
the development of proper muscular coordination has to the development of a novelist
who must use his and eye in penmanship or typewriting.
One example may make this point clear. Suppose you want to learn how to play tennis.
You go to a tennis coach for lessons in the art. He looks you over, watches you on the
court for while, and then, being an unusually discriminating fellow, he tells you that he
connot teach you. You have a corn on your big toe, and papilloma on the ball of one
foot. Your posture is generally bad, and you are muscle-bound in your shoulder
movements. You need glasses. And, finally, you seem to have jitters whenever the ball
comes at you, and a tantrum whenever you miss it.
Go to a chiropodist and a osteopath.. Have a masseur get you relaxed. Get your eyes
attended to, and your emotions straightened out somehow, with or without the aid of
psychoanalysis. Do all these things, he says, and then come back and I'ii try to teach you
how to play tennis.
The coach who said this would not only be discriminating but sound in his judgment.
There would be no point in trying to instruct you in the art of tennis while you were
sufering from all these disabilities. The educational psychologists have made this sort of
contribution. They have diagnosed the disabilities which prevent of hinder a person
from learning how to read, better than the coach, they have devised all sorts of therapy
which contribute to remedial reading. But when all this work is done, when the
maximum in therapy is accomplished, you still have to learn how to read or play tennis.
The doctors who fix your feet, prescribe your glasses, corect your posture, and relieve
your emotional tensions cannot make you into a tennis player, though they transform
you from a person who cannot learn how to one who can. Similarly, the psychologists
who diagnose your reading disabilities and presecribe their cure do not know how to
make you a good reader.
Most of this educational research is merely preliminary to the main business of learning
to read. It spots and removes obstacles. It help cure disability, but it does not remove
inability. At best it makes those who are abnormal in one way or another more like the
normal person whose native gifts nmake him freely susceptible training
But the normal individual has to be trained. He is gifted whth the power to learn, but he
is not born with the art. That must be cultivated. The cure of abnormality may overcome
the inequalities of birth or the accidents of early development. Even if it succeeded in
making all men approximately equal in their initial capacity to learn, it could go no
further. At that point, the development of skill would have to begin. Genuine
instructioin in the art of reading begins, in short, where the educational psychologists
leave off.
It should begin. Unfortunately, it does not, as all the evidence shows. And, as I have
already suggested, there are two reasons why it is not. First, the curriculum and the
educational program in general, from grammar school through college, is too croweded
with other time-consuming things to permit enough attention to be geven the basic
skills. Second, most educators do not seem to know how to teach the art of reading. The
three R's exist in the curriculum today only in their most rudimentary form. Theya re
regarded as belonging to the primary grades, instead of extending all the way up to the
bachelor's degree. As a result, the bachelor of arts is not much more competent in
reading and writing than a sixth-grader.
-4I would like to discuss these two reasons in a little more detail. With respect to the first,
the issue is not whether the three R's belonging in education, but to what extent they
belong and how far they must be developed. Everyone, even the most extreme
progressive educator, admits that children must be given the basic skills, must be taught
to read and write. But there isn't general agreement about how much skill is the absolute
minimum for an educatted man to possess, and how much educational fime it would
take to give the minimim to the average student.
Last year I was invited to participate in a national boradcast on the Town Meeting hour.
The subject was education in a democracy. The other two participants were Professor
Gulick of Columbia and Mr. John Studebaker, national commissioner of education. If
you heard the broadcast, or read the pamphlet containing the speeches, you observed
that there appeared to be agreement all of us about the three R's as indispensable traininf
gor democratic citizenship.
The agreement was only apparent ans superficial, however. For one thing, I meant by
the three R's, the arts of reading, writing, and reckoning as these should be possessed by
a bachelor of those arts; whereas my colleagues meant only the most rudimentary sort of
grammar-school training. For another thing, they mentioned such things as reading and
writing as only a few of the many ends which education, especially in a democracy,
must serve. I did not deny that reading and writing are only a part and not the whole, but
I did disagree about the order of importance of the several ends. If one could enumerate
all the essentials which a sound educational program consider, I would say that the
techniques of communication, which make for literacy, are our first obligation, and
more so in a cemocracy than in any other kind of society, because it depends on a
literate electorate.
This is the issue in a nutshell. First things should come first. Only after we are assured
that we have adequately accomplished them is there any time or energy for less
important considerations. That, however, is not the way things are done in the schools
and colleges today. Matters of unequal importance are given equal attention. The
relaitvely tirvial is often made the whole of an education program, as in certain colleges
which are little better than finishing schools. What used to be regarded as
extracurricular activity has seized the conter of the stage, and the basic curricular
elements are piled up somewhere in the wings, marked for cold storage or the junkman.
In this process, begun by the elective system and completed by the excesses of
progressive educatioin, the basic intellectual disciplines got pushed into a corner or off
the stage entirely.
In their false liberalism, the progressive educators confused discipline with
regimentation, and forgot that true freedom is impossible without a mind made free by
discipline. I never tire of quoting John Dewy at them. He said long ago: "The discipline
that is identical with trained power is also identical with freedom... Genuine freedom, in
short, is intellectual; it rests in the trained power of thought." A discipline mind, trained
in the poer of thought, is one which can read and write critically, as well as do efficient
work in discovery. The art of thinking, as we have seen, is the art of learning through
being taught or through unaided research.
I am not saying, let me repeat, that knowing how to read and learning through books are
the whole of education. One should also be able to carry out investigation intelligently.
Beyond that one should be well informed in all the areas of fact which are a necesary
groundwork for thinking. There is no reason why all these things cannot be
accomplished in the educational time at our disposal. But if one had to make a choice
among them, one should certainly place the primary emphasis on the fundmental skills
and let information of any sort take send place. Those who make the opposite choice
must regard an education as a burden of fact one requires in school and tries to carry
around for the rest of life, though the baggage becomes heavier as it progressively
proves less useful.
the sounder view of education, it seems to me, is one which emphasizes discipline. In
this view, what one gets in school is not so much learning as the technique of learning,
the arts of educating oneself through all the media the environment affords. Institutions
educate only if they enable one to continue learning forever after. The art of reading and
the technique of research are the primary instruments of learning, of being taught
thnings and of finding them out. That is why they must be primary objectives of a sound
educational system.
Although I do not disagree with Carlyle that "all that a university or final highest school
can do for us is still what the first school began,—teach us to read," I do agree with
Professor Tenney of Cornell that if the school does teach students to read, it has placed
in their hands "the primary instrument of all higher education. Thereafter, the student, if
he so wills, can educate himself." If the schools taught their pupils to read well, they
would make students of them, and students they would be out of school and after it as
well.
Let me call your attention, in passing, to a fault of reading which many persons commit,
especially professors. A writer says he thinks sonething is of primary importance, or
more important than something else. The bad reader interprets him as saying that
nothing else but the thing he stresses is important. I have read many reviews of
President Hutchin's Higher Learning in America which have stupidly or even viciously
mistaken in his insistence upon literacy as indispensable to liberal or general education
for an exclusion of everything else. To affirm, as he does clearly, that nothing else
comes first is not to deny that other things come second, third, and so forth.
What I have been saying will probably be similarly misinterpreted by the professors or
the professionals in education. They will probably go further, and charge me with
neglecting "the whole man" because I have not discussed the discipline of emotion in
education and the formation of moral character. Every character that is not discussed is
not necessarily denied, however. It that were the implication of omissions, writing about
any one subject would involve infinite possibilites of error. This books is about reading,
not about everything. The context should therefore indicate that we are primarily
concerned with intellectual educatiion, and not the whole education.
If I were asked, as I was from the floor on the night of the Town Meeting broadcast,
"Which do you consider the most important to a student, the three R's or a good moral
character? I would answer, as I did then:
The choice between the intellectual and the moral virtues is a hard one to make; but if I
had to make the choice, I would choose the moral virtues always, because the
intellectual virtues without the moral virtues can be vicious misused, as they are
misused by anyone who knoelwdge and skill, but doesn't know the ends of life.
Knowledge and skill of mind are not the most important items in this life. Loving the
right things is more important. Education as a shole must consider more than man's
intellect. I am saying only that , in so far as it concerns then intellect, there is nothihg
more important than the skills by which it must be disciplined to function well.
-5I turn now to the second reason why the schools have failed in the matter of reading and
writing. The First reason was that they underestimated the importance and extent of the
task, and hence misconceived the relatively greater time effort which must be devoted to
it than to anything else. The second is that the arts have been almost lost. The arts I am
referring to now are the liberal arts which once were called grammaer, logic, and
rhetoric. These are the arts which a B.A. is supposed to be a bachelor of, and an M.A. a
master. These are the arts of reading and writing, speaking and listening. Anyone who
knows anything about the rules of grammar, logic, and rhetoric knows that they govern
the operations we perform with language in the process of communication.
The various rules of reading, to which I have already more or less explicitly referred,
involve points of grammar or logic or rhetoric. The rule about words and terms, or the
one about sentences and propositions, has a grammatical and logical aspect. The rule
about proof and other types of argument is obviously logical. The rule about interpreting
the emphasis a writer places on one thing rather than another entails rhetorical
considerations.
I shall discuss these different apspects of the rules of reading later. Here the only point
is that the loss of these arts is in large part responsible for our inability to read and
toteach students how to read. It is highly significant that when Mr. I.A. Richards writes
a book about Interpretation in Teaching, which is really a book one some aspects of
reading, he finds it necessary to resuscitate the arts, and to divide his treatment into
three main parts: grammar, rhetoric, and logic.
When I say that the arts are lost, I do not mean that the sciences of grammar and logic,
for instance, are gone. There are still grammarians and logicians in the universities. The
scientific study of grammar and logic is still pursued, and in some quaters and under
certain auspices with renewed vigor. You have probably heard about the "new"
discipline which has been advertized lately under the name "semantics." It is not new, of
course. It is also as old as Plato and Aristotle. It is nothing but new name for the
scientific study of the rinciples of linguistic usage, combining grammatical and logical
considerations.
The ancient and medieval grammarians, and an eighteenth-century writer such as John
Locke, could teach the contemporary "semanticists" a lot of principles they do not
know, principles they need not try to discover if they would and could read a few books.
It is interesting that, just about the time when grammar has almost dropped out of the
grammar school, and when logic is a course taken by few college students, these studies
should be revived in the graduate schools with a great fanfare of original discovery.
The reivval of the study of grammar and logic by the semanticists does not alter my
point, however, about the loss of the arts. There is all the difference in the world
between studying science of something and practicing the art of it. We would not like to
served by a cook whose only merit was an ability to recite the cookbook. It is an old
saw that some logicians are the least logical of men. When I say that the linguistic arts
have reached a new low in contemnporary education and culture, I am referring to the
practice of grammar and logic, not to acquaintance with these sciences. The evidende
for my statement is simply that we cannot write and read as well as men of other ages
could, and that we cannot teach the next generation how to do so, either.
It is a well-known fact that those periods of European culture in which men were least
skillful in reading and writing were periods in which the greatest hullabaloo was raided
about eh unitelligibility of everything that had been written before. This is what
happened in the decadent Hellenictic period and in the fifteenth century, and it is
happening again today. When men are incompetent in reading and writing, their
inadequacy seems to express itself in their being hypercritical about everybody else's
writing. A psychoanalyst would understand this as a pathological projection of one's
own inadequacies on to others. The less well we are able to use words intelligibly, the
more likely we are to blame others for their unintelligible speech. We may even make a
fetish of our nightmares about language, and then we become semanticists for fair.
The poor semanticists! They do now know what they are confessing about themselves
when they report all the books they unable to understand. Nor does semantics seem to
have helped them when, after practicing its rituals, they still find so many passages
uninteligible. It has not helped them to become better readers than they were before they
supposed that "semantics" had the magic of "sesame." If they only had the grace to
assume that the trouble was not with the great writers of the past and present, but with
them as readers, they might give semantics up or, at least, use it to try to learn how to
read. If they could read a little better, they would find that the world conatined a much
larger number of intelligible books than they now suppose. As matters now stand for
them, there are almost none.
-6The fact that the liberal arts are no longer generally practiced, in school or out, is plain
from its consequence: namely, that students do not learn to read and write, and teachers
do not know how to help them. But the cause of this fact is complicated and obscure. To
explain how we got the way we are today, educationally and culturally, would probably
require an elaborate history of modern times from the fourteenth century on. I shall be
content to offer two incomplete and superficial explanations of what has happened.
The first is that science is the major achievement of modern times. Not only do we
worship for all the comforts and utitlties, all the command over nature, which it
bestowes, but we are captivated by its method as the elixir of knowledge. I am not going
to argue(though I think it true) that the experimental method is not the magic key to
every masnsion of knowledge. The only point I wish to make is that, under such cultural
auspieces, it is natural for education to emphasize the kind of thinking and learning the
scientist does, either to the neglect or to the total exclusion of all others.
We have come to disdain the kind of learning which consists in being taught by others,
in favor of the kind which discovering things for ourselves. As a result, the arts
appropriate to the first kind of learning, such as the art of reading, are neglected, while
the arts of independent inquiry flourish.
The second explanation is related to the first. In the age of science, which is
progressively discovering new things and adding to our knowledge every day, we tend
to think that the past can teach us nothing. The great books on the shelves of every
library are of antiquarian interest only. Let those who wish to write the history of our
culture dabble in them, but who are concerned to know about ourselves, the aims of life
and society, and the world of nature in which we live, must either be scientists or read
the newspaper reposrts of the most recent scientific meeting.
We need not bother to read the great works of scientists now dead. They can teach us
nothing. The same attitude soon extends to philosophy, to moral, political, and
economic problems, to the great histories that were written before the latest researches
were completed, and even to the field of literary criticism. The paradox here is that we
thus come to disprage the past even in fields which do not employ the experimental
method and cannot be affected by the changing content of experimental findings.
Since, in any gemeration, only a few great books ge written, most of the great ones
necessarily belong to the past. After we have stopped reading the great ones of the past,
we soon do not even read the few great ones of the present, and content ourselves with
second- and third-hand accounts of them. There is a vicious circle in all this. Because of
our preoccupation with the present moment and the latest discovery, we do not read the
great books of the past. Because we do not this sort of reading, and do not think it is
important, we do not bother about trying to learn to read difficult books. As a result, we
do not learn to read well at all. We cannot even read the great books of the present,
though we may admire them from the distance and through the seven veils of
popularization. Lack of exercise breeds flabbiness. We end up by not being able to read
even the good popularizations as well.
The cicious circle is worth looking at more closely. Just as you cannot improve your
tennis game by playing only against opponents you can readily beat, so you cannot
improve your skill in reading unless you work on something that taxes your effort and
demands new resources. It follows, therefore, that in proportion as the great books have
fallen from their traditional place as major sources of learning, it has become less and
less possible to teach students how to read. You cannot cultivate their skill abouve the
low level of their daily practice. You cannot teach them how to read well if, for the most
part, they are not called upon to use the skill in its highest forms.
So much for the vicious circle as it moves in one direction. Now, coming around the
other way, we find there is not much point in trying to read the great books with
students who have no preaparation at all in the art of reading from their prior schooling
and are not getting any in the rest of their education. That was the trouble with the
Honors cours at Columbia in my day, and I suspect it still is the case with similar
reading courses now given there.
In one course, which takes a small part of the students' time, you cannot discuss the
books with him and also teach him how to read them. This is especially true if he comes
from an elementary and secondary schooling which has paid little attention even to the
rudiments of reading skill, and if the other courses in college which he is taking
concurently make no demands on his ability to read for enlightment.
That has been our experience here in Chicago, too. Mr. Hutchins and I have been
reading the great books with students these last ten years. For the most part, we have
failed if our aim was go tive these students a liberal education. By a liberally educated
student, one who deserves the degree of bachelor of liberal arts, I mean one who is able
to read well enough to read the great books and who has in fact them read well. If that is
the standrad, we have seldom succeeded. The fault may be ours, of course, but I am
more inclined to think that we could not, in one course out of many, overcome the
inertia and lack of preparation due to the rest of the antecedent and concurrent
schooling.
The reform of education must start far below the college level and it must take place
radically at the college level itself, if the art of reading is to become well developed and
the range of reading is to be adequately by the time the bachelor's degree awarded.
Unless that does happen, the bachelor's degree must remain a travesty on the liberal arts
from which it takes its name. We will continue to gradute, not liberal artists bu
chaotically informed and totally undisciplined minds.
There is only one college that I know of in this country which is trying to turn out
liberal artists in the true sense. That is St. John's College in Annapolis, Maryland. There
they recognize that four years must be spent in training students how to read, write, and
reckon, and how to observe in a laboratory, at the same time that they are reading the
great books in all fields. There they realize that there is no point trying to read the books
without developing all the arts needed to read them, and likewise that it is impossible to
cultivate these basic intellectual skills without at the samt time giving the right matter
toexercise them on.
They have many handicaps to overcome at St. John's, but not lack of interest in the
students or unwillingness to do the work which is required of no other college students
today. The students do not feel that their sacred liberties are being trampled on because
they do not have the freedom of elective choices. What is good for them educationally is
prescribed. The students are interested and are doing the work. But one of the major
handicap is that the students come to St. John's from high schools which turn them out
totally unprepared. Another is the inability of the American public, the parents as well
as the educators, to appreciate what St. John's is trying to do for American education.
This is the deplorable state of American education today, despite the pronouncements
and programs of some of its leaders.
President Butler has writter eloquently, in his annual reports and elsewhere, of the
primary importance of such intellectual disciplines as manifest themselves in good
writing and reading. He has summarized the truth about the tradition of learning in a
single pragraph:
Only the scholar can realize how little that is being said and thought in the modern
world is in anys sense new. It was the colossal triumph of the Greeks and Romans and
of the great thinkers of the middle ages to sound the depths of almost every problem
which human nature has to offer, and to interpret human thought and human aspiration
with astounding profundity and insight. Unhappily, these deep-lying facts which should
be controlling in the life of a civilized people, are known only to few, while the many
grasp, now at an ancient and well-demonstrated falsehood ahd how at an old and wellproved truth, as if each had all the attractions of novelty.
The many need not be unfortunate, if schools and colleges trained them to read and
made them read the books which constitute their cultural heritage. But it is not being
done, certainly not to any extent, at Columbia or Harvard, at Princeton, Yale, or
California. It is not being more spoken than Dr. Butler, and has been unquestionably
explicit in his plan for the reform of the college curriculum so that the ends of liberal
education may ve served.
Why? There are many causes, not the least of which are such familiar ones as the inertia
of vested interests; the devotion of most college teachers to competence in some field of
specialized research rather than in general or liberal education; and undue magnification
of the scientific method and its latest findings. But one other cause, certainly, is general
apathy about this whole business of reading, an apathey which comes, I think, from an
equally general lack of understading of what is involved. I have often wondered if the
situation could be changed until the faculties themselves had learned to read the great
books and had read them—not the rew which belong to their own academic niche, but
all of them.
-7The situation I have described exists not only in school but outside as well. The public
is paying for the education; it must be satisfied with what it is getting. The only way
that one can account for the failure of the public to rise up in arms is that it doesn't care
or that it really doesn't understand what's wrong. I cannot believe the first. It must be
the second. An educational system and the culture in which it exists tend to perpetuate
each other.
There is a vicious circle here too. Perhaps it can be broken by adult education, by
making the adult population aware of what is wrong with the schools they went through
and to which they are now sending their children. One of the first thing to do is to make
them appropriate what a liberal education could be in terms of skill reading and writing,
and the profit in books to be read. I would rather try to overcome their apathy than to
addres myself to some of my colleagues in the educational business.
That the general public is also apathetic about reading cannot be questioned. You know
it, and do not have to be told. The publishers know it also. It might interest you to
eavesdrop on the publishers talking about you, the general public, their trade. Here is
one addressing his fellow publishers in their weekly trade journal.
He begins by saying that "college graduates who do not know how to read constitute a
major indictment of American educational methods, and a constant challenge to the
country's publishers and booksellers. Large numbers college educators do know how to
read, but there are far too many whose acute reading apathy might be described as an
occupational disease.
He knows what the trouble is: "Students are taught by teachers who are themselves
victims of the same educational process, and who openly or sub-consciously have a
positive distaste for disinterested reading... Instead of stepping forth as an eager
candidate for continuing education, who should look forward to a lifetime of learning
and reading after commencement, we get an unripe bachelor of arts, who is scarcely an
adult and who shuns education like the plague."
He calls upon the publishers and booksellers to do their share in winning the nation
back to books, and concludes thus:
If the five million college graduates of this country increased their book-reading time by
even as little as ten percent., the results would be tremendous. If people generally
changed their intellectual fuel or re-charged their mental batteries with same reggularity
they devoted to changing motor oil every thousand miles, or replacing frayed playing
cards, there might be something like a rebirth of learning in our republic... As it is, we
are distinctly not a book-reading country. We wallow in magazines, and drug ourselves
with movies...
People sometimes marvel at spectacular best-sellers like The Outline of History, The
Story of Philosophy, The art of Thinking, or Van Loon's Geography—books which sell
in hundreds of thousands, and sometines reach a million readers. My comment is "Not
enough!" I look at the census figures, and behold the intellectual apathy of most college
men, and exclaim "Wait till the graduates begin reading!" I applaud Walter B. Pitkin's
commencement day advice. "Don't sell your books and keep yor diplomas. Sell your
diplomas, if you can get anyone to buy them, and keep your books."
To sum it all up, too many men and women use their college degrees as an official
license to "settle down" in an intellectual rut, as a social sanction exempting them from
thinking their own thoughts, and buying their own books.
Another publishers says, "millions of people who can read and do read newspapers and
magazines never read books." He figures out they might be induced to read books if
they were only made a little more like magazine articles—shorter, simpler, and designed
in general for those who like to run while reading. This enter rise, called The People's
Library, and described as "a scientific effort to increase the reading of serious books,"
seems to me to defeat its own avowed purpose. You cannot elevate people by going
down to their level. If they succeed in geting you there, there they will keep you, for it is
easier to get you to stay down than for them to move up.
Not by making books less like books, but by making people more like readers, must be
the change be effected. The plan behind The People's Library is as blind to the causes of
the situations its sponsors are trying to cure as the people are at Harvard who complain
about the rampant tutoring schools, without realizing that the way to remedy that evil is
to lift the Harvard education above the level where the turoting schools can prepare
students more efficiently for ene examinations than the faculty can.
The publishers are not concerned so much about the reading of the great books as about
the good new books they would like to publish if they could find readers for them. But
they know—or if they don't, they should—that these two things are connected. The
ability to read for enlightment, and consequent upon that the desire to do so, is the sine
qua non of any serious reading. It may be that the causal sequence works either way.
Starting with good current books, a reader may be lead to the great books, or vice versa.
I am sure that the readr who does one will eventually do the other. I would guess that
the probability of this doing either is higher if he has ever once read a great book
through and with suficient skill to enjoy his mastery fo the subject mattter.
-8This has been a long jeremiad. There has been much weping and gnashing of teeth
about the state of the nation. Because you just dislike the words, you may despari of "a
new deal," or maybe you are the hopeless type who says, "'Twas ever thus." On the
latter point. I must disagree. There have been times in European history when the level
of reading was higher than it is now.
In the late Middle Ages, for instance, there were men who could read better than the
best readers today. Of couse, it is true that there were fewer men who could read, that
they had fewer books to read, and that they depended upon reading more than we do as
a source of learning. The point remains, however, that they mastered the books they
valued, as we mastered nothing today. Maybe we do not respect any book as they
valued the Bible, the Koran, or the Talmud; a text of Aristotle; a dialogue of Plato; or
the Institute of Justinian. However that may be, they developed the art of reading to a
higher point than it ever reacherd before or since.
We must get over all our funny prejudices about the Middle Ages and go to the men
who wrote exegeses of Scripture, glosses on Justinian, or commentaries on Aristotle for
the most perfect models of reading. These glosses and commentaries were not
condensations or digests. They were analytical and interpretative readings of a wrothy
text. In fact, I might as well confess here that I have learned much of what I know about
reading from examining a medieval commentary. The rules I am going to prescribe are
simply a formulation of the method I have observed in watching a medieval teacher read
a book with his students.
Compared to the brilliance of thw twelfth and thirteenth centuries, the present era is
much more like the dark ages of the sixth and the seventh centuries. Then the librarires
had been burned or closed. There were few books available and fewer readers. Today,
of course, we have more books and libraries than ever before in the history of man. In
one sense, too, there are more men who can read. But it is the sense in which this is true
that makes the point. So far as reading for understanding goes, the libraries might just as
well be close and the printing presses stopped.
But, you will say, we are libing in a democratic era. It is mnore important that many
men should be able to read a little than a few men should be able to read well. There is
some truth in that, but not the whole truth. Genuine participation in democratic
processes of self-government requires greater literacy than many have yet been given.
Instead of comparing the present with the late middle ages, let us make the comparison
with the eighteenth century, for in its way that was a period of enlightenment which sets
a relevant standard for us. The democratization of society had already then begun. The
leaders of the movement, in this country and abroad, were liberally educated men, as no
college graduate is today. The men who wrote and ratified the Constitution knew how to
read and write.
While we have properly undertaken to make the public education more widespread than
it was in the eighteenth century education need not become less liberal as it becomes
more universal. At every level and for all elements in the population, the same kind of
education—for freedom through discipline—which enabled democracy to take root in
this country must be regained if its flowering it to be protected today from the winds of
violence abroad in the world.
All you have to do is to read the writings os John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, of
Hamilton, Madison, and Jay, to know that they could read and write better than we or
our leaders can today. If you look into the curriculum of the colonial colleges, you may
discover how this happened. You will discover that a liberal educatiion was once given
in this country. True, not everyone received this liberal education. Democracy had not
het matured to the point of widespread popular education.
Even today it may true that some part of the population must be vocationally trained,
while another part is liberally educated. For even a democracy must have leaders, and
its safety depends on their caliber, their liberalism. If we do not want leaders who boast
of thinking with their blood, we had better educate and, more than that, cultivate a
respect for those who can think with their minds, minds liberated by discipline.
One point more. There is a lot of talk today, among liberal educators who fear the rise
of Fascism, about the dangers of regimentation and indoctrination. I have already
pointed out that many of them confuse discipline with Prussian drill and the goose step.
They confuse authority, which is nothing but the voice of reason, with autocracy or
tyranny. But the error they make about indoctrination is the saddest. They, and most of
us, do not know what docility is.
To be docile is to be teachable. To be teachable one must have the art of being taught
and must practice it actively. The more active one is in learning from a teacher, dead or
alive, and the more art one uses to master what he has to teach, the more docile one is.
Docility, in short, is the precise opposite of passivity and gullibility. Those who lack
docility—the students who fall asleep during a class—are the most likely to be
indoctrinated. Lacking the art of being taught, whether thath be skill in listening or in
reading, they do not know how to be active in receiving what is communicated to them.
Hence, they either receive nothing at all or what they receive they absorb uncritically.
Slighting the three R's in the beginning, and neglecting the liberal arts almost entirely at
the end, our present education is essentially illiberal. It indoctrinates rather than
disciplines and educates. Our students are indoctrinated with all sorts of local prejudices
and predigested pap. They have been fattened and made flabby for the demogogues to
prey upon. Their resistance to specious authority, which is nothing but pressure of
opinion, has been lowered. They will even swallow the insidious porpaganda in the
headlines of some local newspapers.
Even when the doctrines they impose are sound democratic ones, the schools fails to
cultivate free judgement because they have forsaken discipline. They leave their
students open to opposite indoctrination by more powerful orators or, what is worse, to
the sway of their own worst passions.
Ours is a demagogic rather than a democratic education. The student who has not
learned to think critically, who has not come to respect reason as they only arbiter of
truth in human generalizations, who has not been lifted out of the blind alleys of local
jargons and shibboleths, will not be saved by the orator of the classroom from later
succumbing to the orator of the platform and the press.
To be saved, we must follow the precept of the Book Common Prayer: "Read, mark,
learn, and inwardly digest."
CHAPTER SIX
On Self-help
-1All my cards are on the table now. Now you know that I have an ulterior motive in
writing a book designed to help people learn how to read. For years I have watched the
vicious circle which perpetuates things as they and wondered how it could be broken. It
has seemed hopeless. Today's teachers were taught by yesterday's, and they teach those
of tomorrow. Today's public was educated in the schools of yesterday and today; it
cannot be expected to demand that the schools change tomorrow. It cannot be expected
to make demands if it does not know intimately, as a matter of its own experience, the
difference between real education and all the current impostures. That "if' gave me the
clue. Why couldn't it be made a matter of people's experience, instead of their having to
rely on hearsay and all the crosscurrents of talk among disputing experts.
It could. If somehow out of school and after it, people generally could get some of the
education they did not get in school, they might be motivated, as they are not now, to
blow up the school system. And they could get the education they did not get, if they
could read. Do you follow this reasoning? The vicious circle would be broken if the
general public were better educated than the standard product of the schools and
colleges. It would break at the point where they would really know themselves the kind
of literacy they would like their children to get. All the regular flimflam handed out by
the educators could not talk them out it.
No one can be taught reading, or any ather skill for that matter, who will not help
himself. The help I, or anyone like me, may offer is insufficient. It is at best remote
guidance. It consists of rules, examples, advice of all sorts. But you have to be willing to
take advie and to follow rules. You can get no further than you take yourself. Hence, my
diabolical plan will not work without your co-opeation in its early stages. Once I got
you started reading, I would let nature take its course, and be fairly condifent about the
ultimate outcome.
I have a deep conviction that anyone who has had even a memorable taste of the kind of
education. Mr. Hutchins is fighting for, and St. John's is trying to give, would want it for
others. Certainly, he would want it for his children. It is not paradoxical that the most
violent opposion to the program comes from professional educators who seem to have
been least touched in their own lives by this type of education.
More than educational reform is at stake. Democracy and the liberal institutions we
have cherished in this country since its founding are in the balance, too. When Mr.
Walter Lippmann first discovered a book on the Education of the Founding Fathers of
the Republic, he was surprised that "the men who had made the modern world should
have been educated in this old-fashioned way." The old-fashioned way is the way of arts
of reading and writing, the way of reading the great books.
Mr. Lippmann, who passed through Harvard very creditably, attributed his surprise to
the fact that he had, naturally, enough, never challenged the standards of his generation.
It must be said in his behalf, however, that since leaving Harvard he has read a great
many books. That has some bearing on his insight:
I began to think that perhaps it was very significant that men so educated had founded our liberties, and
that we who are not so educated should be mismanaging our liberties and be in danger of losing them.
Gradually I have come to believe that this fact is the main clue the the riddle of our epoch, and that men
are ceasing to be fre because they are no longer being educated in the arts of free men.
Do you see why I think there is dynamite in reading, not only enough to blow the school
system but enough to furnish the arsenal for the protection of our liberties?
-2I have hesitated some time before talking about self-help. In fact, I have hesitated some
time about writing this book, because I have what is, perhaps, an irrational prejudice
against self-help books. They have always sounded like patent-medicine advertisements
to me. If only you will take this or that in small, regular doses, you will be cured of all
your ills. The world will be saved. This means you. It all depends on you. In my
academic serenity, I was once above and apart from such tawdry devices. When you
write for your scholarly peers, you do not make such appeals, probably beause you
would never think of expecting them to help themselves.
Two things have brought me down form the tower. In the first place, it may be serene
up there, but after your eyes have been opened to the sham and the delusion which
perpetuate the serenity, it seems more like the stillness that sometimes pervades a
madhouse. In the second place, I have seen the fruits of adult education. It can be done.
And anyone who has worked in adult education knows that he must appeal for self-help.
There are no monitors to keep adults at the task. There are no examinations and grades,
none of the machinery of external discipline. The person who learns something out of
school is self-disciplined. He works for merit in his own eyes, not credit from the
registrar.
There is only one caution I must add to keep the proceedings honest. Those self-help
books which promise to do more than they can are bogus. No book, as I have said
before, can direct you in the acquisition of a skill with as much efficiency as the tutor or
coach who takes you by the hand and leads you through the motions.
Let me state now, simply and briefly, the conditions under which you can effectively
help yourself. Any art or skill is possessed by those who have formed the habit of
operaitng according to its rules. In fact, the artist or craftsman in any field differs thus
from those who lack his skill. He has a habit they lack. You know wht I mean by habit
here. I do not mean drug addition. Your skill in playing golf or tennis, your technique in
driving a car or cooking soup, is a habit. You acquired it by performing the acts which
constitute the whole operation.
There is no other way of forming a habit of operation than by operating. That is what it
means to say one learns to do by doing. The difference between your activity before
and after you have formed a habit is a difference in facility and readiness. You can do
the same thing much better than when you started. That is what it meants to say practice
makes perfect. What you do very imperfectly at first you gradually come to do with the
kind of almost automatic perfection that an instinctive performance has. You do
something as if you were to the manner born, as if the activity were as natural to you as
walking or eating. That is what it means to say that habit is the second nature.
One thing is clear. Knowing the rules of an art is not the same as having the habit. When
we speak of a man as skilled in any way, we do not mean that he knows the rules of
doing something, but that he possesses the habit of doing it. Of course, it is true that
knowing the rules, more or less explicitly, is a condition of getting the skill. You cannot
follow rules you do not know. Nor can you acquire an atristic habit—any craft or skill—
without following rules. the art as something which can be taught consists of rules to be
followed in operation. The art as something which can be learned and possessed
consists of the habit which results from operating according to the rules.
Everything I have said so far about the acquisition of skill applies to the art of reading.
But there is one difference between reading and certain other skills. To acquire any art
yiou must know the rules in order to follow them. But yoy need not in every case
understand the rules, or at least nor to the same degree. Thus, in learning to drive an
automobile, you must know the rules but you do not have to know the principles of
automotive mechanics which make them right. In other words, to understand the rules
is to know more than the rules. It is to know the scientific principles which underlie
them. If you wanted to be able to repair your car as well as drive it, you would have to
know its mechanical principles, and you would under the rules of driving better than
most drivers do. If understanding the rules were part of the test for driver's license, the
automobile industry would suffer a depression that would make the last one look like a
boom.
The reasons for this difference between reading and driving is that the one more of an
intellectuall, the other more of a mannual, art. All rules of art engage the mind in the
activity they govern, of course; but the activity may not be principally an activity of the
mind itself, as reading is. Reading, and writing, scientific research and musical
composition, are intellectual arts. That is why it is more necessary for their practitioners
not only to know the rules but to find them intelligible.
It is more necessary, but it is not absolutely indispensable. It might be more accurate to
say that it is a matter of degree. You must have some understanding of the rules of
reading, if you are to form the the habit of this intellectual operation intelligently. but
you need not understand them perfectly. If complete understanding were essential, this
book would be a hoax. To understand the rules of reading perfectly, you would have to
know the sciences of grammar, rhetoric, and logic with consummmate adequacy. Just
as the science of automotive mechanics underlies the rules for driving and repairing
cars, so the liberal sciences I have just named underlie the rules of liberal art which
govern such things reading and writing.
You may have observed that sometimes I speak of the arts of reading and writings as
liberal arts, and sometimes I say the liberal arts are grammar, rhetoric, and logic. In the
former case, I am referring to the operations which the rules direct us in performing
well; in the latter, I am referring to the rules themselves which govern such operations.
Further more, the fact that grammar and logic are sometimes regarded as science and
sometimes as arts means that the rules of operation, which the arts prescribe, can be
made intelligible by principles underlying the rules, which the science didscuss.
It would take a book ten times as long as this one to expound the sciences which makes
the rules of reading and writing intelligible. If you started to study the sciences for the
sake ultimately of understanding the rules and forming the habits, you might never get
to the rules or form the habits. That is what happens to many logicians and grammarians
who have spent their lives studying the sciences. They do not learn how to read and
write. That is why courses in logic as a science, even if they were required of all college
students, would not do the trick. I have met many students who have spent years of
genuine devotion to the science of logic who could not read and write very well; in fact,
did not even know the rules of the art, not to mention the habit of good performance
according the rules.
The solution of this riddle is indicated. We shall begin with the rules—the precepts
which are most directly and intimately regulative of the acts you must perform to read
well. I shall try to make the rules as intelligible as possible in a brief discussion, but I
shall not go into the intricacies and subtleties of scientific grammar or logic. Suffice it if
you realize that there is much more to know about the rules than you are learning from
this book, and that the more you know of their underlying principles, the better you will
understand them. Perhaps, if you learn to read by reading this book, you will be able to
later to read books about the sciences of grammar, rhetoric, and logic.
I am satisfied that this is a sound procedure. It might not be generally so, but it must be
so in the case of reading. If you do not know how to read very well to begin with, you
cannot learn how by starting with scientific books about grammar and logic, because
you cannot read them well enough either to udnerstand them in themselves or to make
practical applications of them by formulating rules of operation for yourself. Getting
this aspect of our undertaking clear removes another possibility of dishonesty or
pretension. I shall always try to tell you if my explanation of a rule is superficial or
inadequate, as necessarily some of them will be.
I must caution you against one other thing. You will not learn to read just by reading
this, any more than you can learn to drive a car by perusing a driver's maual. You under,
I am sure, the point about the necessity of practice. you may think that you can start
right off in this business of reading, as soon as you know the rules. If you think so, you
are going to be disappointed. I want to prevent that because such frustrations may lead
you to abandon the whold enterprise in despair.
Do not take the list of rules in one hand, and a book to be read in the other, and try to
perform at once as if you possessed the skill habitually. That would be as dangerous to
your mental health as getting into an auto for the first time, with the wheel in one hand
and a driving manual in the other, would be to your physical well-being. In both cases,
an operation which is at first clumsy, disconnected, tedious, and painful becomes
graceful and smooth, facile and pleasant, only through many hours of practice. If at first
you do not succeed, the rewards of practice should induce you try again. Mr. Aaron
Copland recently wrote a book on What to Listen for in Music. In its opening paragraph,
he wrote:
All books on understanding music are agreed about one point: You can't develop a better appreciation of
the art merely by reading a book about it. If you want to understand music better, you can do nothing
more important than listen to it. Nothing can possibily take the place of listening to music. Everything
that I have to say in this book is said about an experience that you can only get outside this book.
Therefore, you will probably be wasting your time in reading it unless you make a firm resolve to hear a
great deal more music than you have in the past. All of us, professionals and nonprofessionals, are forever
trying to deepen our understanding of the art. Rreading a book may sometimes help us. But nothing can
replace the prime consideration—listen to music itself.
Substitue the word "books" for "music," and "reading" for "listening," and you have the
first and last word of advice about how to use the rules I am going to discuss. Learning
the rules may help, but nothing can replace the prime consideration, which is reading
books.
You may ask: How will I know whether I am really following the rules when I read?
How can I tell whether I am really making the right amount of effort toget cut of the rut
of passive and sloppy reading? What are the signs which indicate that I am making
progress toward reading more intelligently?
There are many ways of answering such questions. For one thing, you should be able to
tell whether you are getting the lift which comes from managing to understanding
something which at first seemed unintelligible to you. For another, if you know the
rules, you can always check your readings as one checks back on the sum of a column
of figures. How many of the steps, which the rules prescribe, have you taken? You can
measure your achievement in terms of the techniques you should have used to operate
upoon a book better than yourself, whereby to elevate yourself to its level.
The most direct sign that you have done the work of reading is fatigue. Reading that is
reading entails the most intense mental activity. It you are not tired out, you probably
have not been doing the work. Far from being passive and relaxing, I have always found
what litle reading I have done the most arduous and active occupation. I often cannot
read more than a few hours at a timne, and I seldom read much in that time. I usually
find it hard work and slow work. There may be people who can read quickly and well,
but I am not one of them. The point about speed is irrelevant. What is relevant is
activity. To read books passively does not feed a mind. It makes blotting paper out of it.
-3By my own standards or good reading, I do not think I have read many books. I have, of
course, obtained information from a large number. But I have not struggle for
enlightment with many. I have reread some of those quite often, but that is somewhat
easier than the original reading. Perhaps you will get my point if I tell you that now I
probably do not read to understand more than ten books a year—that is, books I have
not read before. I haven't the time I once had. It always was and still is the hardest work
I do. I seldom do it in the living room in an easy chair, largely for fear of being seduced
into relaxation and eventually sleep. I d it sitting up at my desk, and almost always with
a pencil in hand and a pad at the side.
That suggests another sign by which do tell whether you are doing the job of reading.
Not only should it tire you, but there should be some discernible product of your
memtal activity. Thinking usually tends to express itself overtly in language. One tends
to verbalize ideas, questions, difficulties, judgements that occur in the course of
thinking. If you have been reading, you must have been thinking; you have something
you can express in words. One of the reasons why I find reading a slow process is that I
keep a record of the little thing I do. I cannot go on reading the next page, if I do not
make a memo of something which occurred to me in reading this one.
Some people are able to use their memory in such a way that they need not bother with
notes. Again, this is a matter of individual differences. I find it more efficient not to
burden my memory while reading and to use the margins of the book or a jot a pad
instead. The work of memory can be undertaken later and, of course, should be. But I
find it easier not to let it interfere with the work of understanding which constitutes the
main task of reading. If you are like me—rather than like thos who can keep on reading
and remembering at the same time—you will be able to tell whether you have been
reading actively by your pencil and paper work.
Some people enjoy making notes on the back cover or the end papers of a book. They
find, as I do, that this often saves them the trouble of an extra reading to rediscover the
main points they had intended to remember. Marking a book or writing on its end
papers may make you more reluctant to lend your books. They have become documents
in your intellectual autobiography, and you may not wish t trust such records to any
except the best of friends. I seldom feel like confessing so much about myself even to
friends. But the business of making notes while reading is so important that you should
not be deterred from writing in a book by the possible social consequences.
If for the reason mention, or some other, you have prejudices against marking up a
book, use a pad. If you read a borrowed book, you have to use a pad. Then there is
theproblem of keeping your notes for future reference, on the assumption, of course,
that you have made a significant record of your reading. I find writing in the book itself
the most efficient and satisfying procedure during a first reading, although it is often
necessary later to make extensive notes on separate sheets of paper. The later procedure
is indispensable if your are organizing a fairly elaborate summary of the book.
Whatever procedure you choosem you can measure yourself as a reader by examining
what you have produced in notes during the course of reading a book. Do not forget,
here as elsewhere, that theer is something more important than quantity. Just as there is
reading and reading, so there is note taking and note taking. I am not recommending the
kind of notes most students take during a lecture. There is no record of thought in them.
At best, they are sedulous transcript. They are later become the occasion for what has
been well described as "legalized cribbing and schoolboy plagiarism." When they are
thrown away after examinations are over, nothing is lost. Intelligent note taking is
probably as hard as intelligent reading. In fact, the one must be an aspect of the other, if
the notes one makes while reading are record of thought.
Every different opeartion in reading calls for a different step in thinking, and hence the
notes one makes at various stages in the process should reflect the variety of intellectual
acts one has performed. If one is trying to grasp the structure of a book, one may make
several tentative outlines of its main parts in their order, before one is satisfied with
one's apprehension of the whole. Schematic outlines and diagrams of all sorts are useful
in disengaging the main points from supporting and tangential matters. If one can and
will mark the book, it is helpful to underline the important words and sentences as they
seem to occur. More than that, one should note the shifts inmeaning by numbering the
places at which important words are used successively in different senses. If the author
appears to contradict hinmself, some notation should be made of the places at which the
inconsistent statements occur, and the contest should be marked for possible indications
that the contradiction is only apparent.
There is no point in enumerating further the variety of notations or markings that can be
made. There will obviously be as many as there are things to do in the course of
reading. The point here is simply that you can discover whether you are doing what
should be doing by the note taking or markings which have accompanied your reading.
One illustration of note taking may be helpful here. If I were reading the first few
chapters of this book, I might have constructed the following diagram to keep the
meaning os "reading" and "learning" clear, and to see them in relatio to one another and
to other things:
Types of Reading:
I. For amusement
II. For knowledge
A. For information
B. For understanging
Types of Learning:
I. By discovery: without teachers
II. By instruction: through aid of teachers
A. By live teachers: lectures; liestening
B. By dead teachers: books; reading
Hence Reading II (A and B) is Learning II (B)
But books are also of different sorts:
Types of Books:
I. Digests and repetitions of other books
II. Original communications
And it appears that:
Reading II(A) is related more closely to Books I
Reading II(B) is related more closely to Books II
A scheme of this sort would give me a first grasp of some of the other important
distinctions the author was making. I would keep a diagram of this sort before me as I
read, to discover how much more filling-in it could take as the author proceed to
mulitiply distinctions and to draw conclusions from premises he constructed in terms of
these distinctions. Thus, for instance, the distinction between primary and secondary
teachers might be added by corelating them with the two types of books.
-4We are not prepared to proceed to the next part of this book in which the rules of
reading will be discussed. If you carefully examined the Table of Contents before you
started, you know that what lies ahead of you. If you are like many readers I know, you
paid no attention to the Table of Contents or at best gave it a cursory glance. But Tables
of Contents are like maps. They are just as useful in the first reading of a book as a road
map is for touring in strange territory.
Suppose you look at the Table of Contents again. What do you find? That the first part
of this book, which you have now finished, is a general discussion of reading; that the
second part is entirely devoted to the rules; that the thirs part considers the relation of
reading to other aspects of one's life. (You will find all this in the Preface also.)
You might even guess that in the next part each of the chapters, except the first, would
be devoted to the statement and explanation of one or more rules, with examples of their
practice. But you could not tell from the titles of these chapters how the rules were
grouped into subsets and what was the relation of the various subordinate sets to each
other. That, as a matter of fact, will be the business of the first chapter in the next part to
make clear. But I can cay this much about it here. The different sets of rules relate to
different ways in wich a book can be approached: in terms of its being a complicated
structure of parts, having some of unity of organization; in terms of its linguistic
elements; in terms of the relation author and reader as if they were engaged in
conversation.
Finally, you might be interested to know that there other books about reading, and what
their relation is to this one. Mr I.A. Richards has written a long book, to which I have
already referred, called Interpretation in Teaching. It is primarily concerned with rules
of the second sort described above, and attempts to go much further than this book into
the principles of grammar and logic. Professor Tenney of Cornell, who has also been
mentioned, recently wrote a book callled Intelligent Reading which also deals primarily
with rules of the second sort, though some attention is paid also to the third. His book
suggests various exercises in the performance of relatively simple grammatical tasks.
Neither of these books considers rules of the first sort, which means that neither of them
faces the problem of how to read a whole book. They are rather concerned with the
interpretation of small excerpts and isolated passages.
Someone might suggest that recent books on semantics would also prove helpful. I have
some doubts here, for reasons I have already indicated. I would almost say that most of
them are useful only in showing how not to read a book. They approach the problem as
if most books are not worth reading, especially the great books of the past, or even those
in the present by authors who have not undergone semantic purification. That seems to
me the wrong approach. The right maxim is like the one which regulates the trial of
cirminals. We should assume that the author is intelligible until shown otherwise, not
that he is guilty of nonsense and must prove his innocence. And the only way you can
determine an author's guilt is to make the very best effort you can to understand him.
Not until you have made such an effort with every available turn of skill have you a
right to sin in final judgment on him. If you were an author yourself, you would realize
why this is the golden rule of communication among them.
PART II .
THE RULES
CHAPTER SEVEN
From Many Rules to One Habit
-1While you are in the stage of learning to read, you have to go over a book more than
once. If it is worth reading at all, it is worth three reading at least.
Lest you become unduly alarmed at the demands that are going to be made of you, let
me hasten to say that the expert reader can do these three reading at the same time.
What I have called "three readings" need not be three in time. They are, strictly
speaking, three in manner. They are three ways of reading a book. To be well read, each
book should be read in these three ways each time it is read. The number of distinct
times you can read something profitably depends partly on the book and prtly on you as
a reader, your resourcefulness and industry.
Only at the beginning, I repeat, the three ways of reading a book must be done
separately. Before you become expert, you cannot coalesce a lot of different acts into
one complex, harmonious performance. You cannot telescope the different parts of the
job so that they run into one another and fuse intimately. Each deserves your full
atttention while you are doing it. After you have practice the parts seprately, you not
only can do each with greater facility and less attention but you can also gradually put
them toether into a smoothly running whole.
I am saying nothing here which is not common knowledge about learning a complex
skill. I merely want to be sure you realize that learning to read is at least as complex as
learning to typewrite or leaning to play tennis. If you can recall your patience in any
other learning experience you have had, perhaps you will be more tolerant of a tutor
who is shortly going to enumerate a long list of rules for reading.
The experimental psychologists have put the learning process under glass for any to
look at. The learning curves they have plotted, during countless laboratory studies of
every sort of manual skill, show graphically the rate of progress from one state of
practice to another. I want to call your attention to two of their findings.
The first is called the "learning plateau." During a series of days in which a
performance, such as typewriting or receiving the Morse code telegraphically, is
practiced, the curve shows improvement both in speed and in the reduction of errors.
Then suddenly the curve flattens out. For some days, the learner cannot make any
advances. His hard work seems to yield no substantial effects either in speed or
accuracy. The rule that every bit of practice makes a little more perfect appears to break
down. Then, just as suddenly, the learners gets off the plateau and starts to climb again.
The curve which records his achievements again shows steady progress from day to
day. And this continues, though perhaps with a slightly diminishing accelaration, until
the learner his another plateau.
Plateau are not found in all learning curves, but only in those which record progress in
gaining a complex skill. In fact, the more complex the performance to be learned, the
more frequency such stationary periods appear. The psychologists have discovered,
however, that learning is going on during these periods, though it is hidden in the sense
of having no manifest practice effects at the time. The discovery that "higher units" of
skills are then being formed is the second of the two findings I referred to before. While
the learner is improving in typing single letters, he makes progress in speed and
accuracy. But he has to form the habit of typing syllables and words as units, and then
later phrases and sentences.
The stage during which the learner is passing from a lower to a higher unit of skill
appears to be one of no advance in efficiency, because the learner must develop a
certain number of "word units" before he can perform at that level. When he has enough
of these units mastered, he makes a new spurt of progress until he has to pass to a higher
unit of operation. What at first consisted of a larger number of single acts—the typing of
each individual letter—becomes finally one complex act—the typing of a whole
sentence. The habit is perfectly fromed only when the learner has reached the highest
unit of operation. Where before there seemed to be many habits, which it was difficult
to make work together, now there is one habit by virtue of the organization of all the
separate acts into one smoothly flowing performance.
The laboratory findings merely confirm what I think most of us know already from our
own experience, though we might not have recognized the plateau as a period in which
hidden learning is going on. If you are learning to play tennis, you have to learn how to
serve the ball, how to receive your opponent's service or return, how to play net, or at
the mid-court and base line. Each of these is part of the total skill. At first, each must be
mastered separately, because there is a technique for doing each. But none of these by
itself is the game of tennis. You have to pass from these lower units to the higher unit in
which all the separate skills are put together and become one complex skill. You have to
be able to move from one act to another so rapidly and automatically that our attention
is free for the strategy of play.
Similarly in the case of learning to drive a car. At first, you learn to steer, shift gears,
apply the brake. Gradually these units of activity are mastered and lose their
separateness in the proces of driving. You have learned to drive when you have learned
to do all these together without thinking about them.
The man who has done one experience in acquiring a complex skill knows that he need
not fear the array of rules which present themselves at the beginning of something to be
learned. He knows that the does not have to worry about all the different acts, in whch
he must become seprately proficient, are going to work together. Knowing that the
plateau is learning are periods of hidden progress may prevent discouragement. Higher
units of activity are getting formed even if they do not increase one's efficiency all at
once.
The multiplicity of the rules indicates the complexity of the one habit to be formed, not
the plurality of distinct habits. The part acts coalesce and telescope as each reaches the
stage of automatic execution. When all the subordinate acts can be done more or less
automatically, you have formed the habit of the whole performance. Then you can think
about beating your opponent in tennis, or driving your car to the country. This is an
important point. At the beginning, the learner pays attention to himself and his skill in
the separate acts. When the acts have lost their separateness in the skill of the whole
performance, the learner can at last pay attention to the goal which the technique he has
acquired enables him to reach.
-2What is true of tennis or driving holds for reading, not simply the grammar-school
rudiments, but the highest type of reading for understanding. Anyone who recognizes
that such reading is a complex activity will acknowledge this. I have made all this
explicit so that you will not think that the demands to be made here are any more
exorbitant or exasperating than in other fields of learning.
Not only will you become proficient in following each of the rules, you will gradually
cease to concern yourself with the rules as distinct and the separate acts they regulate.
You will be doing a larger job, confident that the parts will take care of themselves. You
will no longer pay so much attention to yourself as a reader, and be able to put your
mind wholy on the book you are reading.
But for the present we must pay attention to the separate rules. These rules fall into
three main groups, each dealing with one of the three indispensable ways a book must
be read. I shall now try to explain why there must be three readings.
In the first place, you must be able to grasp what is being offered as knowledge. In the
second place, you must judge whether what is being offered is really acceptable to you
as knowledge. In the other words, there is first the task of understanding the book, and
second the job of criticizing it. These two are quite separate, as you will see more and
more.
The process of understanding can be further divided. To understand a book, you must
approach it, first, as a whole, having a unity and a structure of parts; and, second, in
terms of its elements, its units of language and thought.
Thus, there are three distinct readings, which can be rariously named and described as
follows:
I. The first reading can be called structural or analytic. Here the reader proceeds from
the whole to its parts.
II. The second reading can be called interpretative or synthetic. Here the reader
proceeds from the parts to the whole.
III. The third reading can be called critical or evaluative. Here the reader judges the
author, and decides whether he agrees or disagrees.
In each of these three main divisions, there are several steps to be taken, and hence
several rules. You have already being introduced to three of the four rules for doing the
second reading: (1) you must discover and interpret the most important words in the
book; (2) you must do the same for the most important sentences, and (3) similarly for
the paragraph which express arguments. The fourth rule, which I have not yet
mentioned, is that you must know which of his problems the author solved, and which
he failed on.
To accomplish the first reading you must know (1) what kind of book it is; that is, the
subject matter it is about. You must also know (2) what the book as a whole is trying to
say; (3) into what parts that whole is divided, and (4) what the main problems are that
the author is trying to solve. Here, too, there are four steps and four rules.
Notice that the parts which you come to by analyzing the whole in this first reading are
not exactly the same as the parts you start with to construct the whole in the second
reading. In the former case, the parts are the ultimate divisions of the author's treatment
of his subject matter or problem. In the latter case, the parts are such things as terms,
propositions, and syllogisms; that is, the author's ideas, assertions, and arguments.
The third reading also involves a nmumber of steps. There are first several general rules
about how you must undertake the task of critism, and then there are a number of
critical points you can make-- four in all. The rules for the third reading tell you what
points can be made and how to make them.
In this chapter, I am going to discuss all the rules in a general way. Later chapters take
them up separately. If you wish to see a single, compact tabulation of all these rules you
will find it on pages 266-7, at the opening of Chapter Fourteen.
Though you will unerstand it better later, it is possible to show you here how these
various reading will coalesce, especially the first two. That has already been somewhat
indicated by the fact that both have to do with whole and parts in some sense. Knowing
what the whole book is about and what its main divisions are will help you discover its
leading terms and propositions. If you can discover what the chief contentions of the
author are and how the supports these by argument and evidence, you will be aided in
the determining the general tenor of his treatment and its major divisions.
The lst step in the first reading is to define the problem or problems the author is trying
to solve. The last step in the second reading is to decide whether the author has solved
these problems, or which he has and which he has not. Thus you see how closely the
first two readings are related, converging as it were in their final steps.
As you become more expert, you will be able to do these two readings together. The
better you can do them together, the more they will help each other get done. But the
third reading will never become, infact never can become, absolutely simultaneous with
the other two. Even the most expert reader must do the first two and the third somewhat
separately. Understanding an author must always precede criticizing or judging him.
I have met many "readers" who do the third raeding first. Worse than that, they fail to
do the first two readings at all. They pick up a book and soon begin to tell you what is
wrong with it. They are full of opinions which the book is merely a pretext for
expressing. They can hardly be called "readers" at all. They are more like people you
know who think a conversation is an occasion for talking but not listening. Not only are
such people are not woth your effort in talking, but they are usually not worth listening
either.
The reason why the first two readings can grow together is that both are attempts to
understand the book, whereas the third remains distinct because it undertakes criticism
after understanding is reached. But even after the first two readings are habitually fused,
they can still be analytically separated. This is important. If you had to check your
reading of a book, you would have to divide thw whole process into its parts. You might
have to re-examine separately each step you took, though at the time you did not take it
separately, so habitual had the process of reading become.
For this reason, it is important to remember that the various rules remain distinct from
one another as rules even though they tend to lose their distinctness for you though
causing you to form a single, complicated habit. They cound not help you check your
reading unless you could consult them as so many different rules. The teacher of
English composition, going over a paper with a student and explaining his marks, points
to this or that rule the student violated. At that time, the student must be reminded of the
different rules, but the teacher does not waant him to write with a rule sheet before him.
He wants him to write well habitually, as if the rules were part of his nature. The same
is true of reading.
-3Now there is one further complication. Not only must you read a book three ways (and
at the beginning that may mean three times), but you must also be able to read two or
more books in relation to one another in order to read any one of them well. I do not
mean that you must be able to read any collection of books together. I am thinking only
of books which are related because they deal with the same subject matter or treat of the
same group of problems. If you cannot read such books in relation to one another, you
probably cannot read any one of them very well. If the authors are saying the same or
different things, it they are agreeing or disagreeing, what assurance can you have that
you understand one of them unless you recognize such overlappings and divergences,
such agreements and disagreements?
This point calls for a distinction between intrinsic and extrinsic reading. I hope these
two words are not mislead ing. I know of no other way to name the difference. By
"intrinsic reading" I mean reading a book in itself, quite apart from all other books. By
"extrinsic reading" I mean reading a book in the light of other books. The other books
may, in some cases, be only reference books, such as dictionaries, encyclopedias,
almanacs. They may be secondary books, which are useful commentaries or digests.
They may be other great books. Another extrinsic aid to reading is relevant experience.
The experiences to which one may have to refer in order to understand a book may be
either of the sort that occur only in a laboratory, or of the sort which men possess in the
course of their daily lives. Intrinsic and extrinsic reading tend to fuse in the actual proc-ss of understanding, or even criticizing, a book.
What I said before about being able to read related books in relation to one another
applies especially to the great books. Frequently, in lecturing about education, I refer to
the great books. Members of the audience usually write to me later to ask for a list of
such books. I tell them to get either the list which the American Library Association has
published under the title Classics of the Western World, or the list printed by St. John's
College, in Annapolis, Maryland, as part of its announcement. Later I am informed by
these people that they have great difficulties in reading the books. The enthusiasm
which prompted them to send for the list and to start reading has given way to a
hopeless feeling of inadequacy.
There are two reasons for this. One, of course, is that they do not know how to read. But
that is not all. The other reason is that they think they should be able to understand the
first book they pick out, without having read the others to which it is closely related.
They may try to read The Federalist Papers without having read the Articles of
Confederation and the Constitution. Or they may try all these without having read
Montesquieu's The Spirit of the Laws, Rousseau's The Social Contract, and John Locke's
essay Of Civil Government.
Not only are many of the great books related, but they have actually been written in a
certain order which should not be ignored. A later writer has been influenced by an
earlier one. If you read the earlier writer first, he may help you understand the later
book. Reading related books in relation to one another and in an order which renders the
later ones more intelligible is a basic rule of extrinsic reading.
I shall discuss the extrinsic aids to reading in Chapter Fourteen. Until then, we shall be
concerned only with the rules of intrinsic reading. Again, I must remind you that we
have to make such separations in the process of learning, even though the learning is
completed only when the separations disappear. The expert reader has other books in
mind, or relevant experiences, while he is reading a particular book to which these other
things are related. But tor the present, you must pay attention to the steps in reading a
single book, as if that book were a whole world in itself. I do not mean, of course, that
your own experience can ever be excluded from the process of understanding what a
book is saying. That much of extrinsic reference beyond the book is absolutely
indispensable, as we shall see. After all, you cannot enter the world of a single book
without bringing your mind along and with it the whole of your past experience.
These rules of intrinsic reading apply not only to reading a book but to taking a course
of lectures. I am sure that a person who could read a whole book well could get more
out of a course of lectures than most people do, in or out of college. The two situations
are largely the same, though following a series of lectures may call for a greater exercise
of memory or note taking. There is one other difficulty about the lectures. You can read
a book three times if you have to read it separately in each of three ways. That is not
possible with lectures. Lectures may be all right for those who are expert in receiving
communication, but they are liard on the untrained.
This suggests an educational principle: perhaps it would be a sound plan to be sure that
people knew how to read a whole book before they were encouraged to attend a course
of lectures. It does not happen that way in college now. It does not happen in adult
education either. Many people think that taking a course of lectures is a short cut to
getting what they are not able to read in books. But it is not a short cut to the same goal.
In fact, they might as well be going in the opposite direction.
-4–
There is one limitation on the applicability of these rules, which should be already
obvious. I have repeatedly stressed that they aim to help you read a whole book. At least
that is their primary aim, and they would be misused if applied mainly to excerpts or
small parts out of context. You cannot learn to read by doing it fifteen minutes a day in
the manner prescribed by the guidebook which goes along with the Harvard Classics.
It is not merely that fifteen minutes a day is somewhat
insufficient but that you should not read a little piece here and a little part there, as the
guidebook recommends. The Five-Foot Shelf contains many of the great books,
although it also includes some that are not so great. In many cases, whole books are
included; in others, substantially large excerpts. But you are not told to read a whole
book or a large part of one. You are directed to taste a little nectar here and sniff a little
honey there. That will make you a literary butterfly, not a competent reader.
For example, one day you are to read six pages from the Autobiography of Benjamin
Franklin; on the next, eleven pages of Milton's early lyrics, and on the next, ten pages of
Cicero on friendship. Another sequence of days finds you reading eight pages by
Hamilton from The Federalist Papers, then remarks by Burke on taste running fifteen
pages, and then twelve pages from Rousseau's Discourse on Inequality. The only thing
which determines the order is the historic connection between the thing to be read and a
certain day of the month. But the calendar is hardly a relevant consideration.
Not only are the excerpts far too short for a sustained effort of reading, but the order in
which one thing follows another makes it impossible to grasp any real whole in itself or
to understand one thing in relation to another. This plan for reading the Harvard
Classics must make the great books about as unintelligible as a college course under the
elective system. Perhaps the plan was devised to honor Dr, Eliot, the sponsor of both the
elective system and the Five Foot Shelf. In any case, it offers us a good object lesson of
what not to do if we wish to avoid intellectual St. Vitus's dance.
-5–
There is one further limitation on the use of these rules. We are here concerned with
only one of the major purposes in reading, and not the other—with reading to learn, and
not with reading for enjoyment. The purpose is not only in the reader but in the writer as
well. We are concerned with books which aim to teach, which seek to convey
knowledge. In the early chapters I distinguished between reading for knowledge and for
amusement, and restricted our discussion to the former. We must now go a step further
and distinguish two large classes of books which differ according to the intention of the
author as well as in the. satisfaction they can afford readers. We must do this because
our rules apply strictly to one type of book and one type of purpose in reading.
There are no recognized, conventional names for these two classes of books. I am
tempted to call one sort poetry or fiction, and the other exposition or science. But the
word "poetry" today usually means lyrics, instead of naming all imaginative literature,
or what is sometimes called belles-lettres. Similarly, the word "science" tends to
exclude history and philosophy, though both of these are expositions of knowledge.
Names aside, the difference is grasped in terms of the author's intention: the poet, or any
writer who is a fine artist, aims to please or delight, just as the musician and the sculptor
do, by making beautiful things to be beheld. The scientist, or any man of knowledge
who is a liberal artist, aims to instruct by speaking the truth.
The problem of learning how to read poetical works well is at least as difficult as the
problem of learning to read tor knowledge. It is also radically different. The rules which
I have briefly enumerated and will presently discuss in detail are directions for reading
to learn, not for adequately enjoying a work of fine art. The rules for reading poetry
would differ necessarily. They would take a book as long as this to expound and
explain.
In their general ground plan, they might resemble the three divisions of the rules for
reading scientific or expository works. There would be rules concerning the
appreciation of the whole in terms of its being a unified structure of parts. There would
be rules tor discerning the linguistic and imaginative elements that constitute a poem or
story. There would be rules for making critical judgments about the goodness or
badness of the work, rules which helped develop good taste and discrimination. Beyond
that, however, the parallelism would cease, because the structure of a story and a
science are so different; the linguistic elements are differently used to evoke
imagination and to convey thought; the criteria of criticism are not the same when It is
beauty rather than truth that is to be judged.
T'he category of books which delight or amuse has as many levels of quality in it as the
category of books which instruct. What is called "light fiction" requires as little ability
to read, as little skill or activity, as books which are merely informative, and do not
require us to make an effort to understand. We can read the stories in a mediocre
magazine as passively as we read its articles.
Just as there are expository books which merely repeat or digest what is better learned
from the primary sources of enlightenment, so there is secondhand poetry of all sorts. I
do not mean simply the twice-told tale, for all good tales are many times told. I mean
rather the narrative or lyric which does not alter our sentiments or mold our
imagination. In both fields, the great books, the primary books, are alike in being
original works and our betters. As in the one case the great book is able to elevate our
understanding, so in the other the great book inspires us, deepens our sensitivity to all
human values, increases our humanity.
In both fields of literature, only books which are better than we are require skill and
activity in reading. We can read the other stuff passively and with little technical
proficiency. The rules for reading imaginative literature, therefore, aim primarily to help
people read the great works of belles-lettres—the great epic poems, the great dramas,
novels, and lyrics—just as the rules for reading to learn aim primarily at the great works
of history, science, and philosophy.
I regret that both sets of rules cannot be adequately treated in a single volume, not only
because both kinds of reading are necessary for a decent literacy, but because the best
reader is one who possesses both sorts of skill. The two arts of reading penetrate and
support each other. We seldom do one sort of reading without having to do a little of the
other at the same time. Books do not come as neat and pure packages of science or
poetry.
The greatest books most frequently combine these two basic dimensions of literature. A
Platonic dialogue such as The Republic must be read both as a drama and as an
intellectual discourse. A poem such as Dante's The Diving Comedy is not only a
magnificent story but a philosophical disquisition. Knowledge cannot be conveyed
without the supporting texture of imagination and sentiment; and feeling and imagery
are inveterately infected with thought.
It remains the case, however, that the two arts of reading are distinct. It would be
thoroughly confusing to proceed as if the rules we were going to expound applied
equally to poetry and science. Strictly, they apply only to science or books conveying
knowledge. I can think of two ways to compensate for the deficiency of this limited
treatment of reading. One is to devote a chapter later to the problem of reading
imaginative literature. Perhaps, after you have become acquainted with the detailed
rules for reading non-fiction books, I will be possible to indicate briefly the analogous
rules for reading fiction and poetry. I shall try to do this in Chapter Fifteen. In fact, I
shall go further and there make the effort to generalize the rules so that they apply to
reading anything. The other remedy is to suggest books on the reading of poetry or
fiction. I shall name some here, and more later in Chapter Fifteen.
Books which treat of the appreciation or criticism of poetry are themselves scientific
books. They are expositions of a certain kind of knowledge, sometimes called "literary
criticism"; viewed more generally, they are books like this one, trying to instruct in an
art—in fact, a different aspect of the same art, the art of reading. Now if this book helps
you learn how to read any kind of expository book, you can read these other books by
yourself and be helped by them to read poetry or belles-lettres.
The great traditional book of this sort is Aristotle's Poetics. More recently, there are the
essays of Mr. T. S. Eliot, and two books by Mr. I. A. Richards, The Principles of
Criticism and Practical Criticism. The Critical Essays of Edgar Allan Poe are worth
consulting, especially the one on "The Poetic Principle." In his analysis of The Poetic
Experience, Fr. Thomas Gilby illuminates the object and the manner of poetic
knowledge. William Empson has written about Seven Types of Ambiguity in a way that
is particularly helpful for reading lyric poetry. And recently, Gordon Gerould has
published a book on How to Read Fiction. If you look into these books, they will lead
you to others.
In general, you will find the greatest help from those books which not only formulate
the rules but exemplify them in practice by discussing literature appreciatively and
critically. Here, more than in the case of science, you need to be guided by someone
who actually shows you how to read by doing it for you. Mr. Mark Van Doren has just
published a book called simply Shakespeare. It gives you his reading of the plays of
Shakespeare. There are no rules of reading in it, but he provides you with a model to
follow. You may even be able to detect the rules which governed him by seeing them in
operation. There is one other book I would like to mention, because it bears on the
analogy between reading imaginative and expository literature. Poetry and Mathematics
by Scott Buchanan illuminates the parallel between the structure of science and the form
of fiction.
-6-
You may object to all this. You may say that I have forced a distinction where none can
be drawn. You may say that there is only one way of reading all books, or that any book
must be read in every way, if there are many ways.
I have anticipated this objection by pointing out already that most books have several
dimensions, certainly a poetic and a scientific one. I have even said that most books, and
especially the great books, must be read in both ways. But that does not mean that the
two kinds of reading must be confused, or that we must entirely ignore our primary
purpose in reading a book or the author's chief intention in writing it. I think most
authors know whether they are primarily poets or scientists. Certainly the great ones do.
Any good reader should be aware of what he wants wherr he goes to a book: knowledge
primarily, or delight.
The further point is simply that one should satisfy one's purpose by going to a book
written with a similar intention. If one seeks knowledge, it seems wiser to read books
which offer to instruct, if there be such, than books which tell stories. If one seeks
knowledge of a certain subject matter, one had better go to books which treat of it rather
than others. It seems misguided to read a history of Rome, if it is astronomy one wishes
to learn.
This does not mean that one and the same book cannot be read in different ways and
according to different purposes. The author may have more than one intention, although
I think one is always likely to be primary and to dictate the obvious character of the
book. Just as a book may have a primary and secondary character—as the dialogues of
Plato are primarily philosophical and secondarily dramatic, and The Divine Comedy is
primarily narrative and secondarily philosophical—so the reader may deal with the
book accordingly. He may even, if he wishes, invert the order of the author's purposes,
and read Plato's dialogues mainly as drama, and The Divine Comedy chiefly as
philosophy. This is not without parallel in other fields. A piece of music intended to be
enjoyed as a work of fine art can be used to put the baby to sleep. A chair intended to be
sat upon can be placed behind ropes in a museum and admired as a thing of beauty.
Such duplicity of purpose and such inversions of primary and secondary character leave
the main point unchanged. Whatever you do in the way of reading, whichever purpose
you put first or second, you must know what you are doing and obey the rules for doing
that sort of thing. There is no error in reading a poem as if it were philosophy, or science
as if it were poetry, so long as you know which you are doing at a given time and how
to do it well. You will not suppose, then, that you are doing something else, or that it
makes no difference how you do whatever you are doing.
There are, however, two errors which must be avoided. One of them I will call
"purism." This is the error of supposing that a given book can be read in only one way.
It is an error because books are not pure in character, and that in turn is due to the fact
that the human mind, which writes or reads them, is rooted in the senses and
imagination and moves or is moved by emotions and sentiment.
The second error I call "obscurantism." This is the error of supposing that all books can
be read in only one way. Thus, there is the extreme of estheticism, which regards all
books as if they were poetry, refusing to distinguish other types of literature and other
modes of reading. The other extreme is that of intellectualism, which treats all books as
if they were instructive, as if nothing could be found in a book except knowledge. Both
errors are epitomized in a single line by Keats—"Beauty is truth, truth beauty"—which
may contribute to the effect of his ode, but which is false as a principle of criticism or as
a guide to reading books.
You have been sufficiently warned now what to expect, and what not, from the rules
which the following chapters will discuss in detail. You will not be able to misuse them
very much, because you will find that they do not work outside their proper and limited
field of applicability. The man who sells you a frying pan seldom tells you that you will
not find it useful as a refrigerator. He knows you can be trusted to find that out for
yourself.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Catching on From the Title
-1just by their titles, you might not be able to tell in the case of Main Street and
Middletown which was social science and which was fiction. Even after you had read
them both you might still hesitate. There is so much social science in some
contemporary novels, and so much fiction in most of sociology, that it is hard to keep
them apart. (It was recently announced, for instance, that The Grapes of Wrath had been
made required reading in the social-science courses of several colleges.)
As I have already said, books can be read in several ways. One can understand why
some literary critics review a novel by dos Passes or Steinbeck as if they were
considering a scientific research or a piece of political oratory; or why some are tempted
to read Freud's latest book, on Moses, as a romance. In many cases, the fault is with the
book and author.
Authors sometimes have mixed motives. Like other human beings, they are subject to
the failing of wanting to do too many things at once. If they are confused in their
intentions, the reader cannot be blamed for not knowing which pair of reading glasses to
put on. The best rules of reading will not work on bad books—except, perhaps, to help
you find out that they are bad.
Let us put aside that large group of contemporary books which confuse science and
fiction, or fiction and oratory. There are enough books—the great books of the past and
many good contemporary books—which are perfectly deal in their intention and which,
therefore, deserve a discriminating reading from us. The first rule of reading requires us
to be discriminating. I should say the first rule of the first reading. It can be expressed as
follows: you must know what kind of book you are reading, and you should know this
as early in the process as possible, preferably before you begin to read.
You must know, for instance, whether you are reading fiction—a novel, a play, an epic,
or a lyric—or whether it is an expository work of some sort—a book which conveys
knowledge primarily. Picture the confusion of a person who plodded through a novel,
all the while supposing it to be a philosophical discourse; or of one who meditated on a
scientific treatise as if it were a lyric. You cannot, because I have asked you to imagine
what is almost impossible. For the most part, people know the kind of book they are
reading before they start. They picked it out to read because it was of that kind. This is
certainly true of the main distinction in types of books. People know whether they want
amusement or instruction, and seldom go to the wrong counter for what they want.
Unfortunately, there are other distinctions which are not so simple and so commonly
recognized. Since we have temporarily excluded imaginative literature from
consideration, our problem here has to do with subordinate distinctions within the field
of expository books. It is not merely a question of knowing which books are primarily
instructive, but which are instructive in a particular way. The kinds of information or
enlightenment which a history and a philosophical book afford are not the same. The
problems dealt with by a book on physics and one on morals are not the same, nor are
the methods that the writers employ in solving such different problems.
You cannot read books that differ thus, in the same way. I do not mean that the rules of
reading are as radically different here as in the case of the basic distinction between
poetry and science. All these books have much in common. They deal in knowledge.
But they are also different, and to read them well we must read them in a manner
appropriate to their differences.
I must confess that at this point I feel like a salesman who, having just persuaded the
customer that the price is not too high, cannot avoid mentioning the sales tax which is
additional. The customer's ardor begins to wilt. The salesman overcomes this obstacle
by some more smooth talk, and then is forced to say that he cannot make delivery for
several weeks. If the buyer does not walk out on him at that point, he is lucky. Well, I
have no sooner finished persuading you that certain distinctions are worth observing,
than I have to add: "But there are still more." I hope you will not walk out on me. I
promise you that there is an end to the making of distinctions in types of reading. The
end is in this chapter.
Let me repeat the rule again: you must know what kind of (expository) book you are
reading, and you should know this as early in the process as possible, preferably before
you begin to read. Everything is clear here except the last clause. How, you may ask,
can the reader be expected to know what sort of book he is reading before he begins to
read?
May I remind you that a book always has a title and, more than that, it usually has a
subtitle, a table of contents, a preface or introduction by the author? I shall neglect the
publisher's blurb. After all, you may have to read a book which has lost its jacket.
What is conventionally called the "front matter" is usually sufficient for the purpose of
classification, anyway. The front matter consists of the title, subtitle, table of contents,
and preface. These are the signals the author flies in your face to let you know which
way the wind is blowing. It is not his fault if you will not stop, look, and listen.
- 2The number of readers who pay no attention to the signals is larger than you might
suspect, unless you happen to be one of those who are honest enough to admit it. I have
had this experience again and again with students. I have asked them what a book was
about. I have asked them to tell me, in the most general terms, what sort of book it was.
This, I have found, is a good way, almost an indispensable way, to begin a discussion.
Many students are unable to answer this first and simplest question about the book.
Sometimes they apologize by saying that they haven't finished reading it yet, and
therefore do not know. That's no excuse, I point out. Did you look at the title? Did you
study the table of contents? Did you read the preface or introduction? No, they did not.
The front matter of a book seems to be like the ticking of a clock— something you
notice only when it is not there.
One reason why titles and prefaces are ignored by so many readers is that they do not
think it important to classify the book they are reading. They do not follow this first
rule. If they tried to follow it, they would be grateful to the author for helping them.
Obviously, the author thinks it is important for the reader to know the kind o£ book he
is being given. That is why he goes to the trouble of making it plain in the preface, and
usually tries to make his title more or less descriptive. Thus, Einstein and Infeld, in their
preface to The Evolution of Physics, tell the reader that they expect him to know "that a
scientific book, even though popular, must not be read in the same way as a novel."
They also construct, as many authors do, an analytical table of contents to advise the
reader in advance of the details of their treatment. In any case, the chapter headings
listed in the front serve the purpose of amplifying the significance of the main title.
The reader who ignores all these things has only himself to blame if he is puzzled by the
question: What kind of book is this? He is going to get more perplexed. If he cannot
answer that question, and if he never asks it of himself, he is going to be unable to ask
or answer a lot of other questions about the book.
Recently Mr. Hutchins and I were reading two books together with a class of students.
One was by Machiavelli, the other by Thomas Aquinas. In the opening discussion, Mr.
Hutchins asked whether the two books were of the same kind. He happened to pick on a
student who had not finished his reading of them. The student used that as an excuse to
avoid answering. "But," said Mr. Hutchins, "how about their titles?" The student had
failed to observe that Machiavelli had written about The Prince, and St. Thomas about
The Governance of Princes. When the word "prince" was put on the board and
underlined, the student was willing to guess that both books were about the same
problem.
''But what sort of problem is it?" Mr. Hutchins persisted.
"What kind of books are these?" The student now thought he saw a lead, and reported
that he had read the two prefaces. "How does that help?" Mr. Hutchins asked. "Well,"
said the student, "Machiavelli wrote his little guidebook on how to be a dictator and get
away with it for Lorenzo de' Medici, and St. Thomas wrote his for the King of Cyprus."
We did not stop at that point to correct the error in this statement. St. Thomas was not
trying to help tyrants get away with it. The student had used one word, however, which
almost answered the question. When asked which word it was, he did not know. When
told that it was "guidebook," he did not realize the significance of what he had said. I
asked him if he knew in general what sort of book a guidebook was? Was a cookbook a
guidebook? Was a moral treatise a guidebook? Was a book on the art of writing poetry a
guidebook? He answered all these questions affirmatively.
We reminded him of a distinction that had been made in class before between
theoretical and practical books. "Oh," he said, with a burst of light, "these are both
practical books, books which tell you what should be done rather than what is the case."
At the end of another halt-hour, with other students drawn into the discussion, we
finally managed to get the two books classified as practical works in politics. The rest
of the period was spent in trying to find out whether the two authors understood politics
in the same way, and whether their books were equally practical or practical in the same
way.
I report this story not merely to corroborate my statement about the general neglect of
titles, but to make a further point. The clearest titles in the world, the most explicit front
matter, will not help you classify a book, even if you pay attention to these signs, unless
you have the broad lines of classification already in mind.
You will not know the sense in which Euclid's Elements of Geometry and William
James's Principles of Psychology are books of the same sort if you do not know that
psychology and geometry are both theoretic sciences; nor will you further be able to
distinguish them as different unless you know that there are different kinds of science.
Similarly, in the case of Aristotle's Politics and Adam Smith's The Wealth of Nations,
you can tell how these books are alike and different only if you know what a practical
problem is, and what different kinds of practical problems are.
Titles sometimes make the grouping of books easy. Anyone would know that Euclid's
Elements, Descartes' Geometry, and IIilbert's Foundations of Geometry were three
mathematical books, more or less closely related in subject matter. This is not always
the case. It might not be so easy to tell from the titles that St. Augustine's City of God,
Hobbes' Leviathan, and Rousseau's Social Contract were political treatises, although a
careful perusal of their chapter headings would reveal the problem common to these
three books.
To group books as being of the same kind is not enough, however. To follow this first
rule of reading you must know what that kind is. The title will not tell you, nor all the
rest of the front matter, nor even the whole book itselt sometimes, unless you have some
categories you can apply to classify books intelligently. In other words, this rule has to
be made a little more intelligible for you if you are to follow it intelligently. This can be
done only by a brief discussion of the main kinds of expository books.
Perhaps you read the weekly literary supplements. They classify the books received that
week under a series of headings, such as: fiction and poetry, or belles-lettres; history
and biography; philosophy and religion; science and psychology; economics and social
science; and there is usually a long listing under "miscellaneous." These categories are
all right as rough approximations, but they fail to make some basic distinctions and they
associate some books which should be separated.
They are not as bad as a sign I have seen in certain bookstores, which indicates the
shelves where there are books on "philosophy, theosophy, and new thought." They are
not as good as the standard library scheme of classification, which is more detailed, but
even that is not quite right for our purposes. We need a scheme of classification which
groups books with an eye to the problems of reading, and not for the purpose of selling
them or putting them on shelves.
I am going to propose, first, one major distinction, and then, several further distinctions
subordinate to the major one. I will not bother you with distinctions which do not matter
so far as your skill in reading is concerned.
-3The major distinction is between theoretical and practical boN^s. Everyone uses the
words "theoretical" and "practical," but few know what they mean, least of all the hard
headed practical man who distrusts all theorists, especially it they are in the
government. For many, "theoretical" means visionary or even mystical, and "practical"
means something that works, something that has an immediate cash return. There is an
element of truth in this. The practical has to do with what works in some way, at once or
in the long run. The theoretical concerns something to be seen or understood. If we
polish the rough truth that is here grasped, we come to the distinction between
knowledge and action as the two ends a writer may have in mind.
But, you may say, are we not dealing here with books which convey knowledge? How
can action come in? You forget that intelligent action depends on knowledge.
Knowledge can be used in many ways, not only for controlling nature and inventing
useful machines but also for directing human conduct and regulating man's operations
in various fields of skill. What I have in mind here is exemplified by the distinction
between pure and applied science, or, as it is sometimes inaccurately phrased, science
and technology.
Some books and some teachers are interested only in the knowledge itself which they
have to communicate. This does not mean that they deny its utility, or that they insist
knowledge is good only for its own sake. They simply limit themselves to one kind of
teaching, and leave the othel kind to other men. These others have an interest beyond
knowledge for its own sake. They are concerned with the problems of human life which
knowledge can be used to solve. They communicate knowledge, too, but always with an
emphasis upon its application.
To make knowledge practical we must convert it into rules of operation. We must pass
from knowing what is the case to knowing what to do about it if we wish to get
somewhere. I can summarize this by reminding you of a distinction you have already
met in this book, between knowing that and knowing how. Theoretic books teach you
that something is the case. Practical books teach you how to do something which you
think you should.
This book is practical, not theoretic. Any "guidebook," to use the student's phrase, is a
practical book. Any book which tells you either what you should do or how to do it is
practical. Thus you see that the class of practical books includes all expositions of arts
to be learned, all manuals of practice in any field, such as engineering or medicine or
cooking, and treatises which are conventionally classified as morals, such as books on
economic, ethical, or political problems.
One other instance of practical writing should be mentioned. An oration—a political
speech or a moral exhortation—certainly tries to tell you what you should do or how
you should feel about something. Anyone who writes practically about anything not
only tries to advise you but also tries to get you to follow his advice. Hence there is an
element of oratory in every moral treatise. It is also present in books which try to teach
an art, such as this one. I, for example, have tried to persuade you to make the effort to
learn to read.
Although every practical book is somewhat oratorical—or perhaps, as we would say
today, goes in for propaganda—it does not follow that oratory is coextensive with the
practical. You know the difference between a political harangue and a treatise on
politics, or economic propaganda and an analysis of economic problems. The
Communist Manifesto is a piece of oratory, but Das Kapital is much more than that.
Sometimes you can detect that a book is practical by ita title. If it contains such phrases
as "the art of" or "how to," you can spot it at once. If the title names fields which you
know are practical, such as economics or politics, engineering or business, law or
medicine, you can classify the books readily.
There are still other signs. I once asked a student if he could tell from the titles which of
two books by John Locke was practical and which was theoretical. The two titles were:
An Essay Concerning Human Understanding and An Essay Concerning the Origin,
Extent and End of Civil Government, The student had caught on from the titles. He said
that the problems of government were practical, and that the analysis of understanding
was theoretical.
He went further. He said he had read Locke's introduction to the book on understanding.
There Locke expressed his design as being to inquire into the "origin, certainty, and
extent of human knowledge." The phrasing resembled the title of the book on
government, with one important difference. Locke was concerned with the certainty or
validity of knowledge in the one case, and with the end of government in the other.
Now, said the student, questions about the validity of something are theoretic, whereas
to raise questions about the end of anything, the purpose it serves, is practical.
That student had several ways of catching on to the kind of book he was reading and, I
may add, he was a better reader than most. Let me use his example to offer you a piece
of general advice. Make your first effort to diagnose a book from its title and the rest of
the front matter. If that is insufficient, you will have to depend on signs to be found in
the main body of the text. By paying attention to the words and keeping the basic
categories in mind, you should be able to classify a book without reading very far.
A practical book will soon betray its character by the frequent occurrence of such words
as "should" and "ought," "good" and "bad," "ends" and "means." The characteristic
statement in a practical book is one that says that something should be done; or that this
is the right way of doing something; or that one thing is better than another as an end to
be sought, or a means to be chosen. In contrast, a theoretical book keeps saying "is," not
"should" or "ought." It tries to show that something is true, that these are the facts; not
that things would be better if they were otherwise, and this is the way to make them
better.
Before turning now to the subdivision of theoretical books, let me caution you against
supposing that the problem is as simple as telling whether you are drinking tea or
coffee. I have merely suggested some signs whereby you can begin to make these
discriminations. The better you understand everything that is involved in the distinction
between the theoretical and the practical, the better you will be able to use the signs.
You will learn to mistrust names and, of course, titles. ^uu will find that although
economics is primarily and usually a practical matter, there are, nevertheless, books on
economics which are purely theoretical. You will find authors who do not know the
difference between theory and practice, just as there are novelists who do not know the
difference between fiction and sociology. You will find books that seem to be partly of
one sort and partly of an-1 other, such as Spinoza's Ethics. It remains, nevertheless, to ;
your advantage as a reader to detect the way the author approaches his problem. For this
purpose the distinction between theoretical and practical is primary.
-4You are already familiar with the subdivision of theo-.retica] books into history,
science, and philosophy. Everybody, except the professors of those subjects, knows the
differences here in a rough way. It is only when you try to refine the obvious, and give
the distinctions great precision, that you get into difficulties. Since I do not want you to
get as confused as the professors, I shall not try to define what history is, or science and
philosophy. Rough approximation will suffice for us to be able to distinguish the
theoretic books we read as being of one sort or another.
In the case of history, the title usually does the trick. If the word "history" does not
appear in the title, the rest of the front matter informs us that this is a book about
something which happened in the past, not necessarily in antiquity, for it may have been
only yesterday. You remember the schoolboy who characterized the study of arithmetic
by the oft-repeated question: "What goes into?" History can be similarly characterized
by: "What happened next?" History is knowledge of particular events or things which
not only existed in the past but underwent a series of changes in the course of time. The
historian narrates these happenings and often colors his narrative with some comment
on, or insight into, the significance of the events.
Science is not concerned with the past as such. It treats of matters that can happen at any
time or place. Everyone knows that the scientist seeks laws or generalizations. He wants
to find out how things happen for the most part or in every case, not, as the historian,
how some particular things happened at a given time and place in the past.
The title enables us to tell whether a book offers us instruction in science less frequently
than it does in the case of history. The word "science" sometimes appears, but more
usually the name of the subject matter occurs, such as psychology or geology or
physics. Then we must know whether that subject matter belongs to the scientist, as
geology clearly does, or to the philosopher, as metaphysics clearly does. The trouble is
with the cases that are not so clear, such as physics and psychology which have been
claimed, at various times, by both scientists and philosophers. There is even trouble
with the words "philosophy" and "science" themselves, for they have been variously
used. Aristotle called his book on Physics a scientific treatise, though according to
current usage we should regard it as philosophical; and Newton entitled his great work
Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy, though it is tor us one of the
masterpieces of science.
Philosophy is like science and differs from history in that it seeks general truths rather
than an account of particular past events. But the philosopher does not ask the same sort
of questions as the scientist, nor does he employ the same kind of method to answer
them.
If you are interested in pursuing the matter further, I am going to recommend that you
try to read Jacques Maritain's Degrees of Knowledge which offers a sound grasp of the
method and aim of modern science, as well as a rich apprehension of the scope and
nature of philosophy. Only a contemporary writer can treat of this distinction
adequately, because it is only in the last hundred years or so that we have fully
appreciated what is involved in the problem of distinguishing and relating philosophy
and science. And among contemporary writers, Jacques Maritain is rare in being able to
do justice to both science and philosophy.
Since titles and subject-matter names are not likely to help us discriminate whether a
book is philosophical or scientific, how can we tell? I have one criterion to offer that I
think will always work, although you may have to read a great deal of the book before
you can apply it. If a theoretic book refers to things which lie outside the scope of your
normal, routine, daily experience, it is a scientific work. If not, it is philosophical.
Let me illustrate. Galileo's Two New Sciences requires you to imagine, or to see for
yourself in a laboratory, the experiment of the inclined plane. Newton's Opticks refers to
experiences in dark rooms with prisms, mirrors, and specially controlled rays of light.
The special experience to which the author refers may not have been obtained by him in
a laboratory. You, too, may have to travel far and wide to get that sort of experience.
The facts which Darwin reports in The Origin of Species, he observed in the course of
many years of fieldwork; yet they are facts which can be and have been rechecked by
other observers making a similar effort. They are not facts which can be checked in
terms of the ordinary daily experience of the average man.
In contrast, a philosophical book appeals to no facts or observations which lie outside
the experience of the ordinary man. A philosopher refers the reader to his own normal
and common experience for the verification or support of anything he has to say. Thus,
Locke's Essay Concerning Human Understanding is a philosophical work in
psychology, whereas Freud's writings are scientific. Locke makes every point in terms
of the experience you have of your own mental processes. Freud can make most of his
points only by reporting to you what he observed under the clinical conditions of the
psychoanalyst's office—things that most people never dream of, or, if they do, not as the
psycho-analyst sees them.
The distinction I have suggested is popularly recognized when we say that science is
experimental or depends upon elaborate observational researches, whereas philosophy is
really armchair thinking. The contrast is not intended invidiously. There are some
problems which can be solved in an armchair by a man who knows how to think about
them in the light of common, human experience. There are other problems, of course,
that no amount of the best armchair thinking can solve. What is needed is investigation
of some sort—experiments or research in the field—to extend experience beyond the
normal, everyday routine. Special experience is required.
I do not mean that the philosopher is a pure thinker and that the scientist is merely an
observer. Both have to observe and think, but they think about different sorts of
observation. One has' to make the observations specially, under special conditions, and
so forth, before he can think to solve the problem. The other can rely upon his ordinary
experience.
This difference in method always reveals itself in philosophical and scientific books,
and that is how you can tell which sort of book you are reading. If you note the sort of
experience that is being referred to as a condition of understanding what is being said,
you will know whether the book is scientific ot philosophical. The rules of extrinsic
reading are more complicated in the case of scientific books. You may actually have to
witness an experiment or go to a museum, unless you can use your imagination to
construct something you have never observed, which the author is describing as the
basis for his most important statements.
Not only are the extrinsic conditions for reading scientific and philosophical books
different, but so also are the rules of intrinsic reading subject to different application in
the two cases. Scientists and philosophers do not think in exactly the same way. Their
styles in arguing are different. You must be able to find the terms and propositions
which constitute these different sorts of argumentation. That is why it is important to
know the kind of book you are reading.
T'he same is true of history. Historical statements are different from scientific and
philosophical ones. An historian argues differently and interprets facts differently.
Furthermore, most history books are narrative in form. And a narrative is a narrative,
whether it be fact or fiction. The historian must write poetically, by which I mean he
must obey the rules for telling a good story. The intrinsic rules for reading a history are,
therefore, more complicated than for science and philosophy, because you must
combine the kind of reading that is appropriate to expository books with the kind proper
for poetry or fiction.
-5We have discovered one interesting thing in the course of this discussion. History
presents complications for intrinsic reading, because it curiously combines two types of
writing. Science presents complications in the way of extrinsic reading, because it
requires the reader somehow to follow the report of special experiences. I do not mean
that these are the only complications in either intrinsic or extrinsic reading. We shall
find others later. But so far as the two mentioned are concerned, philosophy would
appear to be the simplest type of reading. It is so only in the sense that a mastery of the
rules tor reading expository works is by itself most conducive to mastering
philosophical books.
You may object to all this making of distinctions upon distinctions as of little moment
for one who wants to learn to read. I think I can meet your objections here, though it
may take more than I can say now to convince you fully. In the first place, let me
remind you that you have already acknowledged the reason for distinguishing between
poetry and science. You realized that one cannot read fiction and geometry in the same
way. The same rules will not work for both sorts of books, nor will they work in the
same way for different kinds of instructive books, such as histories and philosophies.
In the second place, let me call your attention to an obvious fact. If you walked into a
classroom in which a teacher was lecturing or otherwise instructing students, you could
tell very soon, I think, whether the class was one in history, science, or philosophy.
There would be something in the way the teacher proceeded, the kind of words he used»
the type of arguments he employed, the sort of problems he proposed, which would give
him away as belonging to one department or another. And it would make a difference to
you to know this, if you were going to try to listen intelligently to what went on.
Fortunately, most of us are not aJ dull as the boy who sat through half a semester of
philosophy without knowing that the history course for which he had registered met
elsewhere.
In short, the methods of teaching different kinds of subject matter are different. Any
teacher knows this. Because of the difference in method and subject matter, the
philosopher usually finds it easier to teach students who have not been previously taught
by his colleagues, whereas the scientist prefers the student whom his colleagues have
already prepared. Philosophers generally find it harder to teach one another than
scientists do. I mention these well-known facts to indicate what I mean by the inevitable
difference in teaching philosophy and science.
Now, if there is a difference in the art of teaching in different fields, there must be a
reciprocal difference in the art of being taught. The activity of the student must
somehow be responsive to the activity of the instructor. The relation between books and
their readers is the same as that between living teachers and their students. H&nce, as
books differ in the kinds of knowledge they have to communicate, they proceed to
instruct us differently; and, if we are to follow them, we must leam to read each kind in
an appropriate-manner.
Having taken all the trouble of this chapter to make the point, I am now going to let you
down. Or, perhaps, you will be relieved to learn that in the following chapters, which
discuss the remaining rules of reading, I am going to treat all books which convey
knowledge, and which we read for information and enlightenment, as it they were of the
same sort. They are of the same sort in the most general way. They are all expository
rather than poetic. And it is necessary to introduce you to these rules in the most general
way first, before qualifying them for application to the subordinate kinds of expository
literature.
The qualifications will be intelligible only after you have grasped the rules in general. I
shall try, therefore, to postpone any further discussion of subordinate kinds undl Chapter
Fourteen. By that time you will have surveyed all the rules of reading and understood
something of their application to any sort of book conveying knowledge. Then it will be
possible to suggest how the distinctions we have made in this chapter call for
qualifications in the rules.
When you are all done, you may see better than you do now why the first rule of the
first reading of any book is to know what kind of book it is. I hope you do, because I am
sure thai the expert reader is a man of many fine discriminations.
CHAPTER NINE
Seeing the Skeleton
-1every book has a skeleton hidden between its boards. Your job is to find it. A book
comes to you with flesh on its bare bones and clothes over its flesh. It is all dressed up. I
am not asking you to be impolite or cruel. You do not have to undress it or tear the flesh
off its limbs to get at the firm structure that underlies the soft. But you must read the
book with X-ray eyes, for it is an essential part of your first apprehension of any book to
grasp its structure.
You know how violently some people are opposed to vivisection. There are others who
feel as strongly against analysis of any sort. They simply do not like to have things
taken apart, even if the only instrument used in cutting up is the mind. They somehow
feel that something is being destroyed by analysis. This is particularly true in the case of
works of art. If you try to show them the inner structure, the articulation of the parts, the
way the joints fit together, they react as if you had murdered the poem or the piece of
music.
That is why I have used the metaphor of the X ray. No harm is done to the living
organism by having its skeleton lighted up. The patient does not even feel as if his
privacy had been infringed upon. Yet the doctor has discovered the disposition of the
parts. He has a visible map of the total layout. He has an architect's ground plan. No one
doubts the usefulness of such knowledge to help further operations on the living
organism.
Well, in the same way, you can penetrate beneath the moving surface of a book to its
rigid skeleton. You can see the way the parts are articulated, how they hang together,
and the thread that ties them into a whole. You can do this without impairing in the least
the vitality of the book you are reading. You need not fear that Humpty-Dumpty will be
all in pieces, never to come together again. The whole can'remain in animation while
you proceed to find out what makes the wheels go round.
I had one experience as a student which taught me this lesson. Like other boys of the
same age, I thought I could write lyric poetry. I may have even thought I was a poet.
Perhaps that is why I reacted so strongly against a teacher of English literature who
insisted that we be able to state the unity of every poem in a single sentence and then
give a prosaic catalogue of its contents by an orderly enumeration of all its subordinate
parts.
To do this with Shelley's Adonais or with an ode by Keats seemed to me nothing short
of rape and mayhem. When you got finished with such cold-blooded butchery, all the
"poetry" would be gone. But I did the work I was asked to do and, after a year of
analysis, I found otherwise. A poem was not destroyed by such tactics in reading. On
the contrary, the greater insight which resulted seemed to make the poem more like a
vital organism. Instead of its being an ineffable blur, it moved before one with the grace
and proportion of a living thing.
That was my first lesson in reading. From it I learned two rules, which are the second
and third rules for the first reading of any book. I say "any book." These rules apply to
science as well as poetry, and to any sort of expository work. Their application will be
somewhat different, of course, according to the kind of book they are used on. The unity
of a novel is not the same as the unity of a treatise on politics; nor are the parts of the
same sort, or ordered in the same way. But every book which is worth reading at all has
a unity and an organization of parts. A book which did not would be a mess. It would be
relatively unreadable, as bad books actually are.
-2–
I am going to state these two rules as simply as possible. Then I shall explain them and
illustrate them. (The first rule, which we discussed in the last chapter, was: Classify the
book according to kind and subject matter.)
The second rule—1 say "second" because I want to keep the numbering of the four rules
which comprise the first Way of reading—can be expressed as follows: State the unity
of the whole book in a single sentence, or at most in several sentences (a short
paragraph).
This means that you must be able to say what the whole book is about as briefly as
possible. To say what the whole book is about is not the same as saying what kind of
book it is. The word "about" maybe misleading here. In one sense, a book is about a
certain type of subject matter, which it treats in a certain way. If you know this, you
know what kind of book it is. But there is another and perhaps more colloquial sense of
"about." We ask a person what he is about, what he is up to. So we can wonder what an
author is trying to do. To find out what a book is about in this sense is to discover its
theme or main point.
Everyone, I think, will admit that a book is a work of art. Furthermore, they will agree
that in proportion as it is good, as a book and as a work of art, it has a more perfect and
pervasive unity. They know this to be true of music and paintings, novels and plays. It is
no less true of books which convey knowledge. But it is not enough to acknowledge this
fact vaguely. You must apprehend the unity with definiteness. There is only one way
that I know of being sure you have succeeded. You must be able to tell yourself or
anybody else what the unity is and in a few words. Do not be satisfied with "feeling the
unity" which you cannot express. The student who says, "I know what it is, but I just
can't say it," fools no one, not even himself.
The third rule can be expressed as follows: Set forth the major parts of the book, and
show how these are organized into a whole, by being ordered to one another and to the
unity of the whole.
The reason for this rule should be obvious. If a work of art were absolutely simple, it
would, of course, have no parts. But that is not the case. None of the sensible, physical
things man knows is simple in this absolute way, nor is any human production. They are
all complex unities. You have not grasped a complex unity if all you know about it. is
how it is one. You must also know how it is many, not a many which consists of a lot of
separate things, but an .organized many. If the parts were not organically related, the
whole which they composed would not be one. Strictly speaking, there would be no
whole at all but merely a collection.
You know the difference between a heap of bricks, on the one hand, and the single
house they can constitute, on the other. You know the difference between one house and
a collection of houses. A book is like a single house. It is a mansion of many rooms,
rooms on different levels, of different sizes and shapes, with different outlooks, rooms
with different functions to perform. These rooms are independent, in part. Each has its
own structure and interior decoration. But they are not absolutely independent and
separate. They are connected by doors and arches, by corridors and stairways. Because
they are connected, the partial function which each performs contributes its share to the
usefulness of the whole house. Otherwise the house would not be genuinely livable.
The architectural analogy is almost perfect. A good book, like a good house, is an
orderly arrangement of parts. Each major part has a certain amount of independence. As
we shall see, it may have an interior structure of its own. But it must also be connected
with the other parts—that is, related to them functionally—for otherwise it could not
contribute its share to the intelligibility of the whole.
As houses are more or less livable, so books are more or less readable. The most
readable book is an architectural achievement on the part of the author. The best books
are those that have the most intelligible structure and, I might add, the most apparent.
Though they are usually more complex than poorer books, their greater complexity is
somehow also a great simplicity, because their parts are better organized, more unified.
That is one of the reasons why the great books are most readable. Lesser works are
really more bothersome to read. Yet to read them well—that is, as well as they can be
read—you must try to find some plan in them. They would have been better if the
author had himself seen the plan a little more clearly. But if they hang together at all, if
they are a complex unity to any degree, there must be a plan and you must find it.
-3–
Let me return now to the second rule which requires you to state the unity. A few
illustrations of this rule in operation may guide you in putting it into practice. I begin
with a famous case. Many of you probably read Homer's Odyssey in school. Certainly
most of you know the story of Ulysses, the man who took ten years to return from the
siege of Troy only to find his faithful wife Penelope herself besieged by suitors. It is an
elaborate story as Homer tells it, full of exciting adventures on land and sea, replete
with episodes of all sorts and many complications of plot. Being a good story, it has a
single unity of action, a main thread of plot which ties everything together.
Aristotle, in his Poetics insists that this is the mark of every good story, novel, or play.
To support his point, he shows you how the unity of the Odyssey can be summarized in
a few sentences.
A certain man is absent from home for many years; he is jealously watched by Neptune,
and left desolate. Meanwhile his home is in a wretched plight; suitors are wasting his
substance and plotting against his son. At length, tempest-tost, he himself arrives; he
makes certain persons acquainted with him; he attacks the suitors with his own hand,
and is himself preserved while he destroys them.
"This," says Aristotle, "is the essence of the plot; the rest is episode."
After you know the plot in this way, and through it the unity of the whole narrative, you
can put the parts into their proper places. You might find it a good exercise to try this
with some novels you have read. Try it on some great ones. such as Tom Jones or Crime
and Punishment or the modern Ulysses. Once when Mr. Clifton Fadiman was visiting
Chicago, Mr. Hutchins and I asked him to lead our class in the discussion of Fielding's
Tom Jones. He reduced the plot to the familiar formula: boy meets girl, boy wants girl,
boy gets girl. This is the plot of every romance. The class learned what it means to say
that there are only a small number of plots in the world. The difference between good
and bad fiction having the same essential plot lies in what the author does with it, how
he dresses up the bare bones.
For another illustration—a more appropriate one because it deals with nonfiction—let
us take the first six chapters of this book. You have read them once by this time, I hope.
Treating them as if they were a complete whole, can you state their unity? If I were
asked to, I would do it in the following manner. This book is about the nature of reading
in general, the various kinds of reading, and the relation of the art of reading to the art of
being taught in school and out. It considers, therefore, the serious consequences of the
neglect of reading in contemporary education, suggesting as a solution that books can be
substituted for living teachers if individuals can help themselves learn how to read.
There is the unityas I see it in two sentences. I hesitate to ask you to reread the first six
chapters to see whether I am right.
Sometimes an author obligingly tells you on the title page what the unity is. In the
eighteenth century, writers had the habit of composing elaborate titles which told the
reader what the whole book was about. Here is a title by Jeremy Collier, an English
divine who attacked the obscenity of the Restoration drama much more learnedly than
the Legion of Decency has recently attacked the movies: A Short View of the Immorality
and Profaneness of the English Stage, together with the Sense of Antiquity upon this
Argument. You know from this that Collier recites many flagrant instances of the abuse
of public morals and that he is going to support his protest by quoting texts from those
ancients who argued, as Plato did, that the stage corrupts youth, or, as the early Church
fathers did, that plays are seductions of the flesh and the devil.
Sometimes the author tells you the unity of his plan in his preface. In this respect,
expository books differ radically from fiction. A scientific or philosophical writer has
no reason to keep you in suspense. In fact, the less suspense such an author keeps you
in, the more likely you are to sustain the effort of reading him through. Like a
newspaper story, an expository book may summarize itself in its first paragraph.
Do not be too proud to accept the author's help if he proffers it, but do not rely too
completely on what he says in the preface. The best-laid plans of authors, like those of
other mice and men, gang aft agley. Be somewhat guided by the prospectus the author
gives you, but always remember that the obligation of finding the unity belongs to the
reader, as much as having one belongs to the writer. You can discharge that obligation
honestly only by reading the whole book.
The opening paragraph of Herodotus' history of the war between the Greeks and the
Persians provides an excellent summary of the whole. It runs: These are the researches
of Herodotus of Halicarnassus, in order that the actions of men may not be effaced by
time, nor the great and wondrous deeds displayed by Greeks and barbarians be deprived
of renown; and for the rest, for what cause they waged war upon one another. That is a
good beginning for you as a reader. It tells you succinctly what the whole book is about.
But you had better not stop there. After you have read the nine parts through, you will
probably find it necessary to elaborate on that statement to do justice to the whole. You
may want to mention the Persian kings—Cyrus, Darius, and Xerxes—the Greek heroes
of Salamis and Thermopylae, and the major events—the crossing of the Hellespont and
the decisive battles of the war.
All the rest of the fascinating details, with which Herodotus richly prepares you for his
climax, can be left out of the plot. Note, here, that the unity of a history is a single
thread of plot, very much as in fiction. That is part of what I meant in the last chapter by
saying that history is an amalgam of science and poetry. So far as unity is concerned,
this rule of reading elicits the same kind of answer in history and fiction. But there are
other rules of reading which require the same kind of analysis in history as in science
and philosophy.
A few more illustrations should suffice. I shall do a practical book first. Aristotle's
Ethics is an inquiry into the nature of human happiness and an analysis of the conditions
under which happiness may be gained or lost, with an indication of what men must do
in their conduct and thinking in order to become happy or to avoid unhappiness, the
principal emphasis being placed on the cultivation of the virtues, moral and intellectual,
although other necessary goods are also recognized, such as wealth, health, friends, and
a just society in which to live.
Another practical book is Adam Smith's Wealth of Nations. Here the reader is aided by
the author's own statement of "the plan of the work" at the very beginning. But that
takes several pages. The unity can be more briefly stated as follows: this is an inquiry
into the sources of national wealth in any economy which is built on a division of labor,
considering the relation of the wages paid labor, the profits returned to capital, and the
rent owed the landowner, as the prime factors in the price of commodities. It discusses
the various ways in which capital can be more or less gainfully employed, and relates
the origin and use of money to the accumulation and employment of capital. Examining
the development of opulence in different nations and under different conditions, it
compares the several systems of political economy, and argues for the beneficence of
free trade. If a reader grasped the unity of The Wealth of Nations in this way, and did a
similar job tor Karl Marx's Das Kapital, he would be well on the way toward seeing the
relation between two of the most influential books in modern times.
Darwin's Origin of Species will provide us with a good example of the unity of a
theoretic book in science. I would state it thus: this is an account of the variation of
living things during the course of countless generations and the way in which it results
in new groupings of plants and animals; it treats both of the variability of domesticated
animals and of variability under natural conditions, showing how such factors as the
struggle for existence and natural selection operate to bring about and sustain such
groupings; it argues that species are not fixed and immutable groups, but that they are
merely varieties in transition from a less to a more marked and permanent status,
supporting this argument by evidences from extinct animals found in the earth's crust,
from the geographical distribution of living things, and from comparative embryology
and anatomy. That may seem like a big mouthful to you, but the book was an even
bigger one for the nineteenth century to swallow in many gulps.
Finally, I shall take Locke's Essay Concerning Human Understanding as a theoretic
book in philosophy. You may recall from the last chapter that Locke himself
summarized his work by saying that it was "an inquiry into the origin, certainty and
extent of human knowledge, together with the grounds and degrees of belief, opinion
and assent." I would not quarrel with so excellent a statement of plan by the author,
except to add two subordinate qualifications to do justice to the first and third parts of
the essay: it will be shown, I would say, that there are no innate ideas but that all human
knowledge is acquired from experience; and language will be discussed as a medium for
the expression of thought, its proper uses and most familiar abuses to be indicated.
There are two things I want you to note before we proceed. The first is how frequently
you can expect the author, especially a good one, to help you state the plan of his book.
Despite that fact, most students are almost at a total loss when you ask them to say
briefly what the whole book is about. Partly that may be due to their general inability to
speak concise English sentences. Partly it may be due to their neglect of this rule in
reading. But it certainly indicates that they pay as little attention to the author's
introductory words as they do to his title. I do not think it rash to conclude that what is
true of students in school is true also of most readers in any walk of life. Readers of this
sort, if they can be called readers at all, seem to want to keep a book as, according to
William James, the world appears to a baby: a big, buzzing, blooming confusion.
The second point is a plea that I make in self-defense. Please do not take the sample
summaries I have given you as if I meant them, in each case, to be a final and absolute
formulation of the book's unity. A unity can be variously stated. There is no simple
criterion of right and wrong in this business. One statement is better than another, of
course, in proportion as it is brief, accurate, and comprehensive. But quite different
statements may be equally good, or equally bad.
I have often stated the unity of a book quite differently from the author's expression of
it, and without apologies to him. You may differ similarly from me. After all, a book is
something different to each reader. It would not be surprising if that difference
expressed itself in the way the reader stated its unity. This does not mean that anything
goes. Though readers be different, the book is the same, and there can be an objective
check upon the accuracy and fidelity of the statements anyone makes about it.
-4Now we can turn to the other structural rule, the rule which requires us to set forth the
major parts of the book in their order and relation. This third rule is closely related to
the second which we have just discussed. You may have noticed already how a wellstated unity indicates the major parts that compose the whole. You cannot apprehend a
whole without somehow seeing its parts. But it is also true that unless you grasp the
organization of its parts, you cannot know the whole comprehensively.
You may wonder, therefore, why I have made two rules here instead of one. It is
primarily a matter of convenience. It is easier to grasp a complex and unified structure
in two steps rather than in one. The second rule directs your attention toward the unity,
and the third toward the complexity, of a book. There is another reason for the
separation. The major parts of a book may be seen at the moment when you grasp its
unity. But these parts are usually themselves complex and have an interior structure you
must see. Hence the third rule involves more than just an enumeration of the parts. It
means treating the parts as if they were subordinate wholes, each with a unity and a
complexity of its own.
I can write out the formula for operating according to this third rule. Because it is a
formula, it may guide you in a general way. According to the second rule, you will
remember, we had to say: the whole book is about so and so and such and such. That
done, we can proceed as follows: (1) the author accomplished this plan in five major
parts, of which the first part is about so and so, the second part is about such and such,
the third part is about this, the fourth' part about that, and the fifth about still another
thing. (2) The first of these major parts is divided into three sections, of which the first
considers X, the second considers Y, and the third considers Z. Each of the other major
parts is then similarly divided. (3) In the first section of the first part, the author makes
four points, of which the first is A, the second B, the third C, and the fourth D. Each of
the other sections is then similarly analyzed, and this is done for each of the sections of
each of the other major parts.
Terrifying? I can see why it might be. All this to do, you say, and on what is only the
first reading of a book. It woulc take a lifetime to read a book that way. If you feel this
way, I can also see that all my warnings have done no good. When put down this way in
a cold and exacting formula, the rule looks as if it required an impossible amount of
work from you. But you have forgotten that the good reader does this sort of thing
habitually, and hence easily and naturally. He may not write it all out. He may not even
at the time of reading have made it all verbally explicit. But if he were called upon to
give an account of the structure of a book, he would do something that approximated the
formula I have suggested.
The word "approximation" should relieve your anxiety.' A good rule always describes
the ideal performance. But a man can be skilled in an art without being the ideal artist.
He can be a good practitioner it he merely approximates the rule. I have stated the rule
here for the ideal case. I would be satisfied, and so should you be with yourself, if you
made a very rough approximation to what is required. Even when you become more
skilled, you will not wish to read every book with the same degree of effort. You will
not find it profitable to expend all your skill on some books.
I have tried to make a close approximation to the requirements of this rule in the case of
relatively few books. In other instances, which means for the most part, I am satisfied if
I have a fairly rough notion of the book's structure. You will find, as I have, that the
degree of approximation you wish to make varies with the character of the book and
your purpose in reading it. Regardless of this variability, the rule remains the same. You
must know how to follow it, whether you follow it closely and strictly or only in a
rough fashion.
The forbidding aspect of the formula for setting forth the order and relation of the parts
may be somewhat lessened by a few illustrations of the rule in operation. Unfortunately,
it is more difficult to illustrate this rule than the other one about stating the unity. A
unity, after all, can be stated in a sentence or two, at most a short paragraph. But in the
case of any large and complex book, a careful and adequate recital of the parts, and their
parts, and their parts down to the least structural units, would take a great many pages to
write out.
Some of the greatest medieval commentaries on the works of Aristotle are longer than
the originals. They include, of course, more than a structural analysis, for they
undertake to interpret the author sentence by sentence. The same is true of certain
modern commentaries, such as the great ones on Kant's The Critique of Pure Reason. I
suggest that you look into a commentary of this sort if you want to see this rule
followed to perfection. Aquinas, for instance, begins each section of his commentary
with a beautiful outline of the points that Aristotle has made in that part of his work; and
he always says explicitly how that part fits into the structure of the whole, especially in
relation to the parts that come before and after.
On second thought, perhaps you had better not look at masterly commentaries. A
beginner in reading might be depressed by their perfection. He might feel as the
beginner in climbing feels at the bottom of the Jungfrau. A poor and slight sample of
analysis by me might be more encouraging, though certainly less uplifting. It is all right
to hitch your wagon to a star, but you had better be sure it is well lubricated before you
take the reins.
-5There is one other difficulty about illustrating this rule. I must choose something that I
can be relatively sure most of you have read. Otherwise you will not be able to profit
very much from the sample analysis as a guide. As a starter, therefore, let me take again
the first six chapters of this book. I must warn you at once that this is not a very good
book. Its author is not what I should call a great mind. The book has a very loose
structure. Its chapter divisions do not correspond to basic divisions of the whole
treatment. And within the chapters the progression of points is often disorderly and
interrupted by rambling digressions. You may have thought it was an easy book to read,
but analysis will show that it is really not very readable.
Here is an analysis of the first six chapters, comprising Part I, treated as a whole:
1. This book (i.e.. Part I) is divided into three major parts:
A. The first treats of the nature and kinds of reading, and the place of reading in
education.
B. The second treats of the failure of contemporary education with respect to reading.
C. The third attempts to show how the contemporary educational situation can be
remedied.
2. The first part (A) is divided into the following sections:
a. A first dealing with the varieties and degrees of reading ability;
b. A second dealing with the major distinctions between reading for amusement and
reading for instruction;
c. A third dealing with the distinction, in reading for instruction, between information
and understanding;
d. A fourth dealing with the relation of this last distinction to one between active and
passive reading; .
e. A fifth which defines the sort of reading to be discussed as the reception of
communications conveying knowledge;
f. A sixth which relates reading to learning, by distinguishing between learning by
discovery and learning by instruction;
g. A seventh which treats of the relation of books and teachers, distinguishing them as
dead and alive, and shows that reading is learning from dead teachers;
h. An eighth which distinguishes between primary and secondary teachers, living or
dead, and defines the great books as original communications, and hence primary
teachers.
The second part (B) is divided into the following sections:
a. A first in which various evidences are recited, giving the writer's personal
experiences with the inability of students to read;
b. A second in which the relation of reading to such other skills as writing and speaking
are discussed with respect to current educational defects;
c. A third in which the results of scientific educa. tional measurements are reported to
show the lack of these skills in the graduates of our schools;
d. A fourth in which other evidences, especially from book publishers, are offered as
corroborating these findings;
e. A fifth in which an attempt is made to explain why the schools have failed.
The third part (C) is divided into the following sections:
a. A first in which it is shown that any art or skill can be acquired by those who will
practice according to rules;
b. A second in which it is indicated how the art of reading might be acquired by those
who did not learn how in school;
c. A third in which it is suggested that, by learning how to read, people can compensate
for the defects of their education;
d. A fourth in which it is hoped that if people generally understood what an education
should be, through having learned to read and having read, they would take serious
steps to reform the failing school system.
3. In the first section of the first part, the following points are made:
(1) That the readers of this book must be able to read in one sense, though perhaps not
in another;
(2) That individuals differ in their abilities to read, both according to their natural
endowments and their educational benefits;
(3) That most people do not know what is involved in the art of reading. . . .
And so forth and so on.
I stop here because you see how many pages it might take if I proceeded to do the job in
detail. I would have to enumerate the points made in each of the sections of each of the
major parts. You will notice that I have numbered tlie three main steps of analysis here
to correspond to the tin ce parts of the formula I gave you some pages back. The first is
the statement of the major parts; the second is their division into sections; the third is the
enumeration of points in each section. I completed the first two stages of the analysis,
but not the third.
You will notice, furthermore, if you glance back over the six chapters I have thus
analyzed, that they are not as well structured, not as orderly and clear, as I have made
them out to be. Some of the points occur out of order. Some of the chapters overlap in
their consideration of the same point or their treatment of the same theme. Such defects
in organization are what I meant by saying this is not a very good book. If you try to
complete the analysis I have started, you will find that out for yourself.
I may be able to give you a few more examples of applying this rule if I do not try to
carry the process out in all its details. Take the Constitution of the United States. That is
an interesting, practical document, and a very well-organized piece of writing, indeed.
You should have no difficulty in finding its major parts. They are pretty clearly
indicated, though you have to do some analysis to make the main divisions. I suggest
the following:
The preamble, setting forth the purpose of the Constitution;
The first article, dealing with the legislative department of the government;
The second article, dealing with the executive department of the government;
The third article, dealing with the judicial department of the government;
The fourth article, dealing with the relationship between state and Federal
governments;
Sixth: The fifth, sixth, and seventh articles, dealing with the amendment of the
Constitution, its status as the supreme law of the land, and provisions for its
ratification;
Seventh: The first ten amendments, constituting the Bill of Rights;
Eighth: The remaining amendments up to the present day.
First:
Second:
Third:
Fourth:
Fifth:
This is only one way of doing the job. There are many others. The first three articles
could be grouped together in one division, for instance; or instead of two divisions with
respect to the amendments, more divisions could be introduced, grouping the
amendments according to the problems they dealt with. I suggest that you try your hand
at making your own division of the Constitution into its main parts. Go further than I
did, and try to state the parts of the parts as well. You may have read the Constitution
many times before this, but if you exercise this rule on it for another reading, you will
find a lot there you never saw before.
I am going to attempt one more example, with great brevity. I have already stated the
unity of Aristotle's Ethics. Now let me give you a first approximation of its structure.
The whole is divided into the following main parts: a first, treating of happiness as the
end of life, and discussing it in relation to all other practicable goods; a second, treating
of the nature of voluntary action, and its relation to the formation of virtuous and
vicious habits; a third, discussing the various virtues and vices, both moral and
intellectual; a fourth, dealing with moral states which are neither virtuous nor vicious; a
fifth, treating of friendship, and a sixth and last, discussing pleasure, and completing the
account of human happiness begun in the first.
These divisions obviously do not correspond to the ten books of the Ethics. Thus, the
first part is accomplished in the first book; the second part runs through book two and
the first half of book three; the third part extends from the rest of book three to the end
of the sixth book; the discussion of pleasure occurs at the end of book seven and again
at the beginning of book ten.
I mention all this to show you that you need not follow the apparent structure of a book
as indicated by its chapter divisions. It may, of course, be better than the blueprint you
develop, but it may also be worse; in any case, the point is to make your own blueprint.
The author made his in order to write a good book. You must make yours in order to
read it well. If he were a perfect writer and you a perfect reader, it would naturally
follow that the two would be the same. In proportion as either of you or both fall away
from perfection, all sorts of discrepancies will inevitably result.
I do not mean that you should totally ignore chapter headings and sectional divisions
made by the author. They are intended to help you, just as titles and prefaces are. But
you must use them as guides for your own activity, and not rely on them passively.
There are few authors who execute their plan perfectly, but there is often more plan in a
great book than meets the eye at first. The surface can be deceiving. You must look
beneath to discover the real structure.
-6In general, these two rules of reading which we have been discussing look as if they
were rules of writing also. Of course, they are. Writing and reading are reciprocal, as are
teaching and being taught. If authors or teachers did not organize their communications,
if they failed to unify them and order their parts, there would be no point in directing
readers or listeners to search for the unity and uncover the structure of the whole.
Though there are reciprocal rules in the two cases, they are not followed in the same
way. The reader tries to uncover the skeleton the book conceals. The author starts with
it and tries to cover it up. His aim is to conceal the skeleton artistically or, in other
words, to put flesh on the bare bones. If he is a good writer, he does not bury a puny
skeleton under a mass of fat. The joints should not show through where the flesh is thin,
but if flabbiness is avoided, the joints will be detectible and the motion of the parts will
revea) the ai ticulation.
I made a mistake several years ago which was instructive on this point. I wrote a book
in outline form. I was so obsessed with the importance of structure that I confused the
arts of writing and reading. I outlined the structure of a book, and published it.
Naturally, it was repulsive to most self-respecting readers who thought that they could
do their job, if I did mine. I learned from their reactions that I had given them a reading
of a book I had not written. Writers should write books and leave commentaries to
readers.
Let me summarize all this by reminding you of the old-fashioned maxim that a piece of
writing should have unity, clarity, and coherence. That is a basic maxim of good
writing. The two rules we have been discussing in this chapter respond to writing which
follows that maxim. If the writing has unity, we must find it. If the writing has clarity
and coherence, we must appreciate it by finding the distinction and the order of the
parts. What is clear is so by the distinctness of its outlines. What is coherent hangs
together in an orderly disposition of parts.
These two rules, I might add, can be used in reading any substantial part of an
expository book, as well as the whole. If the part chosen is itself a relatively
independent, complex unity, its unity and complexity must be discerned for it to be well
read. Here there is a significant difference between books conveying knowledge and
poetical works, plays, and novels. The parts of the former can be much more
autonomous than the parts of the latter. The student who is supposed to have read a
novel and who says he has "read enough to get the idea" does not know what he is
talking about. If the novel is any good at all, the idea is in the whole, and cannot be
found short of reading the whole. But you can get the idea of Aristotle's Ethics or
Darwin's The Origin of Species by reading some parts of it carefully.
-7So long ago that you may have forgotten it, I mentioned fourth a rule to complete the
first way of reading a book. It can be stated briefly. It needs little explanation and no
illustration. It really repeats in another form what you have already done if you have
applied the second and third rules. But it is a useful repetition because it throws the
whole and its parts into another light.
This fourth rule requires you to find out what the author's problems were. This rule is
most pertinent, of course, to the great books. If you remember that they are original
communications, you will realize that the man who wrote them started out with
problems and ended by writing what the solutions were. A problem is a question. The
book ostensibly contains one or more answers to it.
The writer may or may not tell you what the questions were as well as give you the
answers which are the fruits of his work. Whether he does or does not, and especially if
he does not, it is your task as a reader to formulate the problem as precisely as you can.
You should be able to state the main problem or problems which the book tries to
answer, and you should be able to state the subordinate problems if the main questions
are complex and have many parts. You should not only have a fairly adequate grasp of
all the questions involved, but you should be able to put the questions in an intelligible
order. Which are primary and v/hicb secondary? Which questions must be answered
first, if others are/to be answered later?
You see how this fourth rule duplicates, in a sense, work you have already done in
stating the unity and finding its parts. It may, however, actually help you to do that
work. In other words, following the fourth rule is a useful procedure in conjunction with
obeying the other two.
If you know the kinds of questions anyone can ask about anything, you will become
adept in detecting an author's problems. They can be briefly formulated. Does
something exist? What kind of thing is it? What caused it to exist, or under what
conditions can it exist, or why does it exist? What purpose does it serve? What are the
consequences of its existence? What are its characteristic properties, its typical traits?
What are its relations to other things of a similar sort, or of a different sort? How does it
behave? The foregoing are all theoretical questions. The following are practical. What
ends should be sought? What means should be chosen to a given end? What things must
one do to gain a certain objective, and in what order? Under these conditions, what is
the right thing to do, or the better rather than the worse? Under what conditions would it
be better to do this rather than that?
This list of questions is far from being exhaustive or analytically refined, but it does
represent the types of most frequently asked questions in the pursuit of theoretic or
practical knowledge. It may help you to discover the problems a book has tried to solve.
When you have followed the tour rules stated in this chapter and the previous one, you
can put down the book you have in hand for a moment. You can sigh and say: "Here
endeth the first reading."
CHAPTER TEN
Coming to Terms
-1where are we?
We have seen that any good book deserves three readings. They have to be done
separately and consciously when we are learning to read, though they can be done
together and unconsciously when we are expert. We have discovered that there are four
rules for the first, or analytical, reading. They are: (i) classify the book according to kind
and subject matter; (2) state what the whole book is about with the utmost brevity; (3)
define its major parts in their order and relation, and analyze these parts as you have
analyzed the whole; (4) define the problem or problems the authors trying to solve.
You are now prepared to go on with the second reading, and its four rules. You are
already somewhat acquainted with the first of these rules. It was stated in the second
chap ter of this book: spot the important words an author uses and figure out how he
uses them. We then put this rule into operation by running down the various meanings
of such words as "reading" and "learning." When in any context you knew precisely
what I meant when I used these words, you had come to terms with me.
Coming to terms is nearly the last stage in any successful business negotiation. All that
remains is to sign on the dotted line. But in the reading of a book, coming to terms is the
first stage of interpretation. Unless the reader comes to terms with the author, the
communication of knowledge from one to the other does not take place. A term, as you
will see shortly, is the basic element of communicable knowledge.
But you can see at once that a term is not a word—at least, not just a word without any
further qualifications. If a term and a word were exactly the same, you would only have
to find the important words in a book and you would know its basic terms immediately.
But a word can have many meanings, especially an important word. If the author uses a
word in one meaning, and the reader reads it in another, words have passed between
them, but they have not come to terms. Where there is unresolved ambiguity in
communication, there is no communication, or at best it must be incomplete.
Just look at the word "communication" for a moment. Its root is related to the word
"common." We speak of a community when people have something in common.
Communication is an effort on the part of one man to share something with another: his
knowledge, his decisions, his sentiments. It succeeds only when it results in a common
something, as an item of knowledge which two men have in common.
Now when there is ambiguity in communication, all that is in common are the words
which one man speaks or writes and another hears or reads. So long as ambiguity
remains, there are no meanings in common between writer and reader. For the
communication to be successfully completed, therefore, it is necessary for the two
parties to use the same words with the same meanings. When that happens,
communication happens, the miracle of two minds with but a single thought.
A term can be defined as an unambiguous word. That is not quite accurate, for strictly
there are no unambiguous words. What I should have said is that a term is a word used
unambiguously. The dictionary is full of words. They are almost all ambiguous in the
sense that they have many meanings. Look up any word and find this out for yourself, if
you think there are many exceptions to this generalization. But a word which has
several meanings can be used in one sense at a time. When you and I together, as writer
and reader, somehow manage for a time to use a given word with one meaning, then,
during that time of unambiguous usage, we have come to terms. I think we did manage
to come to terms in the matter of reading and learning, for instance.
You cannot find terms in dictionaries, though the materials for making them are there.
Terms occur only in the process of communication. They occur when a writer tries to
avoid ambiguity and a reader helps him by trying to follow his use of words. There are,
of course, many degrees of success in this business. Coming to terms is the ideal limit
toward which writer and reader should strive. Since this is one of the. primary
achievements of the art of writing and reading, we can think of terms as an artistic use
of words, a skilled use of words for the sake of communicating knowledge.
Let me restate the rule for you. As I phrased it originally, it was: spot the important
words and figure out how the author is using them. Now I can make that a little more
precise and elegant: find the important words and through them come to terms with the
author. Note that the rule has two parts. The first step is to locate the words which make
a difference. The second is to determine their meanings, as used, with precision.
This is the first rule for the second way of reading, the interpretative reading. The other
rules, to be discussed in the next chapter, are like this first one in an important respect.
They, also, require you to take two steps: a step dealing with the language as such, and a
step beyond the language to the thought which lies behind it.
If language were a pure and perfect medium for thought, these steps would not be
separate. If every word had only one meaning, if words could not be used ambiguously,
if, in short, each word was an ideal term, language would be a diaphanous medium. The
reader would see straight through the writer's words to the content of his mind. If that
were the case, there would be no need at all for this second way of reading.
Interpretation would be unnecessary.
But you know that that is far from being the case. There is no use in crying about it, no
use in faking up impossible schemes for an ideal language, as the philosopher Leibnitz
and some of his followers have tried to do. The only thing to do is to make the best of
language as it is, and the only way to do that is to use language as skillfully as possible.
Because language is imperfect as a medium, it also functions as an obstacle to
communication. The rules of interpretative reading are directed to overcoming that
obstacle. We can expect a good writer to do his best to reach us through the barrier
language inevitably sets up, but we cannot expect him to do it all. In fact, we must meet
him halfway. We, as readers, must try to tunnel through from our side. The chance of a
meeting of minds through language depends on the willingness of both reader and
writer to work toward each other. Just as teaching will not avail unless there is a
reciprocal activity o£ being taught, so no author, regardless of his skill in writing, can
achieve communication without a reciprocal skill on the part of readers. The reciprocity
here is founded on the fact that the rules of good reading and writing are ultimately the
same in principle. If that were not so, the diverse skills of writing and reading would not
bring minds together, however much effort was expended, any more than the men who
tunnel through from opposite sides of a mountain would ever meet unless they made
their calculations according to the same principles of engineering.
You have noted that each of the rules of interpretative reading involves two steps. Let
me shift from the engineering analogy to explain how they are related. They can be
likened to the two steps a detective takes in pursuing the murderer. Of all the things
which lie around the scene of the crime, he must pick~out those he thinks are likely to
be clues. He must then use these clues in running down the culprit. Interpreting a book
is a kind of detective work. Finding the important words is locating the clues. Coming
to terms through them is running down the author's thought.
If I were to get technical for a moment, I should say that ihese rules have a grammatical
and a logical aspect. The grammatical step is the one which deals with words. The
logical step deals with their meanings or, more precisely, with terms. So far as
communication is concerned, both steps are indispensable. If language is used without
thought, nothing is being communicated. And thought or knowledge cannot be
communicated without language. As arts, grammar and logic are concerned with
language in relation to thought and thought in relation to language. That is why I said
earlier that skill in reading and writing is gained through these liberal arts, especially
grammar and logic.
This business of language and thought—especially the distinction between words and
terms—is so important that I am going to risk being repetitious to be sure you
understand the main point. The main point is that one word can be the vehicle for many
terms. Let me illustrate this schematically in the following manner. The word "reading"
has been used in many senses in the course of our discussion. Let us take three of the
meanings: (i) reading in the sense of getting amusement; (2) reading in the sense of
getting information, and (3) reading in the sense of gaining insight.
Now let us symbolize the word "reading" by the letter X, and the three meanings by the
letters a, b, and c. What is symbolized, then by Xa, Xb, and Xc, are not three words, for
X remains the same throughout. But they are three terms, on the condition, of course,
that you and I know when X is being used in one definite sense, and not another. If I
write Xa in a given place, and you read Xb, we are writing and reading the same word,
but not in the same way. The ambiguity prevents communication. Only when you think
the word as I think it do we have one thought between us. Our minds cannot meet in X,
but only in Xa or Xb or Xc. Thus we come to terms.
-2You are prepared now, I hope, to consider the rule which requires a reader to come to
terms. How does he go about taking the first step? How does he find the important
worda in a book?
You can be sure of one thing. Not all the words an author uses are important. Better
than that, you can be sure that most of his words are not. Only those words which he
uses in a special way are important tor him, and for us as readers. This is not an absolute
matter, of course, but one of degree. Words may be more or less important. Our only
concern is with the tact that some words in a book are more important than others. At
one extreme are the words which the author uses as the proverbial man in the street
does. Since the author is using these words as ordinary men do in ordinary discourse,
the reader should have no trouble with them. He is familiar with their ambiguity and he
has grown accustomed to the variation in their meanings as they occur in this context or
that.
For example, the word "reading" occurs in Sir Arthur Eddington's fine book on The
Nature of the Physical World, He speaks of "pointer-readings," the readings of dials and
gauges on scientific instruments. He is using the word "reading" in one of its ordinary
senses. It is not for him a technical word. He can rely on ordinary usage to convey what
he means to the reader. Even if he used the word "reading" in a different sense
somewhere else in his book-in a phrase, let us say, such as "reading nature"—he could
be confident that the reader would note the shift to another of the word's ordinary
meanings. The reader who could not do this could not talk to his friends or carry on his
daily business.
But Sir Arthur cannot use the word "cause" so light-heartedly. That may be a word of
common speech, but Sir Arthur is using it in a definitely special sense when he
discusses the theory of causation. How that word is to be under-Btood makes a
difference which both he and the reader must bother about. For the same reason, the
word "reading" is important in this book. We cannot get along with using it in an
ordinary way.
I repeat that an author uses most words as men ordinarily do in conversation, with a
range of meanings, and trusting to context to indicate the shifts. Knowing this fact
should be of some help to you in detecting the more important words. There is one
qualification here. We must not forget that at different times and places the same words
are not equally familiar items in daily usage. A contemporary like Eddington or me will
employ most words as they are ordinarily used today, and you will know what these are
because you are alive today. But in reading the great books of the past, it may be more
difficult to detect the words the author is using as most men did at the time and place he
was writing. The translation of books from foreign languages complicates the matter
further.
You can see, therefore, why eliminating the ordinary words may be a rough
discrimination. Nevertheless, it remains true that most of the words in any book can be
read just as one would use them in talking to one's friends. Take any page of this book
and count the words which we are using that way: all the prepositions, conjunctions, and
articles, and certainly most of the verbs, nouns, and adjectives. In this chapter so far, I
would say that there have been only a few important words: "word," "term,"
"ambiguity," "communication," "important"; of these, "term" is clearly the most
important. All the others are important in relation to it.
You cannot locate the important words without making an effort to understand the
passage in which they occur. This situation is somewhat paradoxical. If you do
understand the passage, you will, of course, know which words in it are the most
important. If you do not fully understand the passage, it is probably because you do not
know the way the author is using certain words. It you mark the words that trouble you,
you may hit the very ones the author is using specially^ That this is likely to be so
follows from the fact that you should have no trouble with the words the author uses in
an ordinary way.
From your point of view as a reader, the most important words are those which give you
trouble. As I have said, it is likely that these words are important for the author as well.
The opposite is possible, of course. They may not be.
It is also possible that words which are important for the author do not bother you, and
precisely because you understand them. In that case, you have already come to terms
with the author. Only where you'fail to come to terms have you work still to do.
-3So far we have been proceeding negatively by eliminating the ordinary words. You
discover some of the important words by the fact that they are not ordinary for you.
That is why they bother you. But is there any other way of spotting the important
words? Are there any positive signs which point to them?
There are several positive signs I can suggest. The first and most obvious sign is the
explicit stress an author places upon certain words and not others. He may do this in
many ways. He may use such typographical devices as quotation marks or italics to
mark the word for you. He may call your attention to the word by explicitly discussing
its various senses and the way he is going to use it here and there. Or he may emphasize
the word by defining the thing which the word is used to name.
No one can read Euclid without knowing that such words as "point," "line," "plane,"
"angle," "figure," "parallel," and so forth are of the first importance. These are the words
which name geometrical entities that Euclid defines. There are other important words,
such as "equals," "whole," and "part," but these do not name anything which is defined.
You know that they are important from the fact that they occur in the axioms. Euclid
helps you here by making his primary propositions explicit at the very beginning. You
can guess that the terms which compose such propositions are basic, and that underlines
for you the words which express these terms. You may have no difficulty with these
words, because they are words of common speech, and Euclid appears to be using them
that way.
If all authors wrote as Euclid did, you may say, this business of reading would be much
easier. Unfortunately, that is not possible, although some men have thought that any
subject matter can be expounded in the geometrical manner. I shall not try to explain
why the procedure—the method of exposition and proof—which works in mathematics
is not applicable in other fields of knowledge. For our purposes, it is sufficient to note
what is common to every sort of exposition. Every field of knowledge has its own
technical vocabulary. Euclid makes his plain right at the beginning. The same is true of
any writer, such as Newton or Galileo, who writes in the geometrical manner. In books
differently written or in other fields, the technical vocabulary must be discovered by the
reader.
If the author has not pointed out the words himself, the reader may locate them through
having some prior knowledge of the subject matter. If he knows something about
biology or economics before he begins to read Darwin or Adam Smith, he certainly has
some leads toward discerning the technical words. The various steps of the first reading
may be helpful here. If you know what kind of book it is, what it is about as a whole,
and what its major parts are, you are greatly aided in separating the technical vocabulary
from the ordinary words. The author's title, chapter headings, and preface may be useful
in this connection.
Now you know that "wealth" is a technical word for Adam Smith, and "species" is one
for Darwin. And as one technical word leads to another, you cannot help but -discover
other technical words in a similar fashion. You can soon make a list of the important
words used by Adam Smith: labor, capital, land, wages, profits, rent, commodity, price,
exchange, productive, unproductive, money, and so forth. And here are some you
cannot miss in Darwin: variety, genus, selection, survival, adaptation, hybrid, fittest,
creation.
Where a field of knowledge has a well-established technical vocabulary, the task of
locating the important words in a book treating that subject matter is relatively easy.
You can spot them positively through having some acquaintance with the field, or
negatively by knowing what words must be technical, because they are not ordinary.
Unfortunately, there are many fields in which a technical vocabulary is not well
established.
Philosophers are notorious for having private vocabularies. There are some words, of
course, which have a traditional standing in philosophy. Though they may not be used
by all writers in the same sense, they are nevertheless technical words in the discussion
of certain problems. But philosophers often find it necessary to coin new words, or to
take some word from common speech and make it a technical word. This last procedure
is likely to be most misleading to the reader who supposes that he knows what the word
means, and therefore treats it as an ordinary word.
In this connection, one clue to an important word is that the author quarrels with other
writers about it. When you find an author telling you how a particular word has been
used by others, and why he chooses to use it differently, you can be pretty sure that that
word makes a great difference to him.
I have emphasized the notion of technical vocabulary, but you must not take this too
narrowly. The relatively small set of words which express the author's main ideas, his
leading concepts, constitutes his special vocabulary. They are the words which carry his
analysis. If he is making an original communication, some of these words are likely to
be used by him in a very special way, although he may use others in a fashion which has
become traditional in that field. In either case, these are the words which are most
important for him. They should be important for you as a reader also, but in addition any
other word whose meaning is not clear is important for you.
-4The trouble with most readers is that they simply do not pay enough attention to words
to locate their difficulties. They fail to distinguish the words they do not understand
sufficiently from those they do. All the things I have suggested to help you find the
important words in a book will be of no avail unless you make a deliberate effort to note
the words you must work on to find the terms they convey. The reader who fails to
ponder, or at least to mark, the words he does not understand is likely to end up as badly
as the locomotive engineer who drives past red signals in the hope .that the traffic
congestion will straighten itself out.
If you are reading a book that can increase your understanding, it stands to reason that
all its words will not be equally intelligible. If you proceed as if they were all ordinary
words, all on the same level of general intelligibility as the words of a newspaper
article, you will not make the first step toward an interpretative reading. You might just
as well be reading a newspaper, for the book cannot enlighten you if you do not try to
understand ,it.
I know how inveterately most of us are addicted to pas' sive reading. The outstanding
fault of the passive reader is his inattention to words, and his consequent failure to come
to terms with the author. Some years ago Professor Malcolm Sharp, of the University of
Chicago Law School, and I gave a special course for students who were planning to
study law. One of our primary aims was to teach them how to read and write. A lawyer
should possess these abilities. The faculty of the Law School had come to suspect that
the colleges could not be counted on to develop these skills. Our experience with these
students, who had reached their junior year, showed their suspicion to be well founded.
We soon discovered how passively they read. John Locke's second essay Of Civil
Government had been assigned, and they had had several weeks in which to read about
a hundred pages. The class met. Mr. Sharp and I asked relatively simple, leading
questions about Locke's views on government, the relation of natural and civil rights,
the nature of liberty, and so forth. They answered these questions, but not in a way
which showed any acquaintance with Locke. They could have made the same replies if
they had never opened Locke's essay.
Had they read the book? They assured us they had. We even inquired whether they had
make the mistake of reading the first essay, rather than the second. There was no
mistake, it seemed. The only thing left to do was to show them that, though they may
have looked at every page, they had not read the book.
I went to the board and asked them to call out the most important words in the essay. I
said I wanted either those words which were most important for Locke or those which
they had trouble in understanding. At first there was no response. Only after I put such
words as "natural," "civil," "property," and "equality," on the board was I able to get
them to contribute. We finally did get a list which included "liberty," "despotism,"
"consent (of the governed)," "rights," "justice," and so forth.
Before I went further, I paused to ask whether these words were utterly strange to them.
No, they were all familiar and ordinary words, they said. One student pointed out that
some of these words occurred in the Declaration of Independence. It was said there to
be self-evident that all men are created equal, that they are endowed with certain
inalienable rights, that the just powers of government are derived from the consent of
the governed. They found other words, such as "despotism," "usurpation," and "liberty,"
which they thought Locke and the founding fathers probably used in a similar way.
That was our cue. We agreed that the writers of the Declaration and the framers of the
Constitution had made these words extremely popular in the tradition of American
political discussion. Mr. Sharp added that many of them had probably read Locke's
essay and had followed his usage of them. How did Locke use them? What were their
meanings, not in general, not in popular speech, but in Locke's political theory, and in
the great American documents which may have been influenced by Locke?
I went to the board again to write down the meaning! of the words as they suggested
them. But few suggestions were forthcoming, and seldom did a student offer a set of
meanings. Few had discovered the fundamental ambiguity of the important words. Mr.
Sharp and I then listed the meanings of the words, not one meaning for each, but
several. By contrasting the meanings of "natural" and "civil," we tried to show them
Locke's distinctions between natural and civil equality, natural and civil liberty, and
natural and civil rights.
At the end of the hour, I asked them whether they still thought that they had read the
book. A little sheepishly now they admitted that perhaps they hadn't. They had, of
course, read it in the way they read the newspaper or a textbook. They had read it
passively, without any attention to words and meanings. For the purpose of
understanding what Locke had to say that was just the same as not reading it at all. Here
were a group of future lawyers who did not know the meaning of the leading words in
the Declaration of Independence or the preamble to the Constitution.
My point in telling this story is to show that until passive reading is overcome, the
reader proceeds as if he knew what all the words meant, especially if he is reading
something in which the important words also happen to be words in popular usage. Had
these students developed the habit of active reading, they would have noted the words I
have mentioned. They would have known, in the first place, that such words are not
only popular but belong to the technical vocabulary of political theory. Recognizing
that, they would, in the second place, have wondered about their technical meanings.
And finally, if they had tried to determine their significance, they would have found
Locke using these words in several senses. Then they might have realized the need to
come to terms with the author.
I should add that the lesson was learned. With these same students, we subsequently
read more difficult books than Locke's essay. They came to class better prepared for
discussion, because they had marked the words that made a crucial difference. They had
pursued important words through their shifts of meaning. What is more, they were
beginning to enjoy a new experience—the active reading of a book. It came a little late
in their college life, but most of them gratefully acknowledged that it was better late
than never.
-5Remember that spotting the important words is only the beginning of the task. It merely
locates the places in the text where you have to go to work. There is another step in
carrying out this first rule of interpretative reading. Let us turn to that now. Let us
suppose that you have marked the words that trouble you. What next?
There are two major possibilities. Either the author is using these words in a single
sense throughout or he is using them in two or more senses, shifting his meaning from
place to place. In the first alternative, the word stands for a single term. A good example
of the use of important words so that they are restricted to a single meaning is found in
Euclid. In the second alternative, the word stands for several terms. This is the more
usual case. It is illustrated by the usage in Locke's essay.
In the light of these alternatives, your procedure should be as follows. First, try to
determine whether the word has one or many meanings. If it has many, try to see
whether they are related and how. Finally, note the places where the word is used in one
sense or another, and see if the context gives you any clue to the reason for the shift in
mean- » ing. This last will enable you to follow the word in its change of meanings with
the same flexibility that characterizes the author's usage.
But, you may complain, everything is clear except the main thing. How does one find
out what the meanings are? There is only one answer to the question. I fear you may not
think it a very satisfactory one. But patience and practice will show you otherwise. The
answer is that you have to discover the meaning of a word you do not understand by
using the meanings of all the other words in the context which you do understand. This
must be the way, however merry-go-roundish it may seem at first.
The simplest way to illustrate this is to consider a definition. A definition is stated in
words. If you do not understand any of the words used in the definition, you obviously
cannot understand the meaning of the word which names the thing being defined. The
word "point" is a basic word in geometry. You may think you know what it means, but
Euclid wants to be sure you use it in only one way. He tells you what he means by first
defining the thing which he is later going to use the word to name. He says: "A point is
that which has no parts."
How does that bring you to terms with him? You know, he assumes, what every other
word in the sentence means with sufficient precision. You know that whatever has parts
is a complex whole. You know that the opposite of complex is simple. To be simple is
the same as to lack parts. You know that the use of the words "is" and "that which"
means that the thing referred to must be an entity of some sort. You may even know that
there are no physical things without parts, and hence that a point, as Euclid speaks of it,
cannot be physical.
This illustration is typical of the process by which you acquire meanings. You operate
with meanings you already possess. If every word that was used in a definition had itself
to be denned, nothing could ever be defined. If every word in a book you were reading
were entirely strange to you, a? it is in the case of a book in a totally foreign lan guage,
you could make no prpgress at all.
I suppose that is what people mean when they say of a book that it's all Greek to them.
They simply have not tried to understand it. Most of the words in any English book are
familiar words. These words surround the strange words, the technical words, the words
that may cause the reader some trouble. The surrounding words are the context for the
words to be interpreted. The reader has all the materials he needs to do the job.
I am not pretending the job is an easy one. I am only insisting that it is not an
impossible one. If it were, no one could read a book to gain in understanding. The fact
that a book can give you new insights or enlighten you indicates that it probably
contains words you may not readily understand. If you could not come to understand
these words by your own efforts, then the kind of reading we are talking about would be
impossible. It would be impossible to pass from understanding less to understanding
more by your own operations on a book.
If it is not impossible—and it is not—then the only solution is the one I have indicated.
Because you understand something to begin with, you can employ your fund of
meanings to interpret the words that challenge you. When you have succeeded, you
have elevated yourself in understanding. You have approached or reached the
understanding with which the author began.
There is no rule of thumb for doing this. The process is something like the trial-anderror method of putting a jigsaw puzzle together. The more parts you put together, the
more easily the remaining parts fit. A book comes to you with a large number of words
already in place. A word in place is a term. It is definitely located by the meaning which
you and the author share in using it. The remaining words must be put into place. You
do this by trying to make them fit this way or that. The better you understand the picture
which the words so far in place incompletely reveal, the easier it is to complete the
picture by making terms of the remaining words. Each word put into place makes the
next adjustment easier.
You will make errors, of course, in the process. You will think you have managed to
find where a word belongs and how it fits, only to discover later that the placement of
another word requires you to make a whole series of readjustments. The errors will get
corrected because, so long as they are not found out, the picture cannot be completed.
Once you have had any experience at all in this work of coming to terms, you will soon
be able to check yourself. You will know whether you have succeeded or not. You will
not blithely think you understand when you do not.
In comparing a book to a jigsaw puzzle, I have made one assumption that is not simply
or universally true. A good puzzle is, of course, one all of whose parts fit. The picture
can be perfectly completed. The same is true of the ideally good book. But there are few
books of this sort. In proportion as they are good, their terms will be so well made and
put together by the author that the reader can do the work of interpretation fruitfully.
Here, as in the case of every other rule of reading, bad books are less readable than good
ones. The rules do not work on them, except to show you how bad they are. If the
author uses words ambiguously, you cannot find out precisely what he is trying to say.
You can only find out that he has not been precise.
But, you may ask, doesn't an author who uses a word in more than a single sense use it
ambiguously? And didn't you say that the usual practice is for authors to use words in
several senses, especially their most important words?
The answer to the second question is Yes, to the first. No. To use a word ambiguously is
to use it in several senses Without distinguishing or relating these meanings. (For
example, I have probably used the word "important" ambiguously in this chapter, never
quite clear as to whether I mean important for the author or important for you.) The
author who does that has not made terms which the reader can come to. But the author
who distinguishes the several senses in which he is using a critical word and enables the
reader to make a responsive discrimination is offering terms.
You must not forget that one word can represent several terms. One way to remember
this is to distinguish between the author's technical vocabulary and his analytical
terminology. If you make a list in one column of the important words, and in another of
their various meanings, you will see the relation between the vocabulary and the
terminology.
-6There are several further complications. In the first place, a word which has several
distinct meanings .can be used either in a single sense or in a combination of senses. Let
me take the word "reading" again as an example. In some places, I have used it to stand
for reading any kind of book. In others, I have used it to stand for reading books which
instruct rather than amuse. In still others, I have used it to stand for reading which
enlightens rather than informs.
Now it we symbolize here, as we did before, the three distinct meanings of "reading" by
Xa, Xb, and Xc, you can see that the first usage just mentioned is Xabc, the second is
Xbc, and the third Xc. In other words, if three meanings are related, one can use a word
to stand for all of them, for some of them, or for only one of them at a time. So long as
each usage is definite, the word so used is a term.
In the second place, there is the problem of synonyms. You know in general that
synonyms are words which have the same meaning or closely related shades of
meaning. A pair of synonyms is exactly the opposite of a single word used in two ways.
Synonyms are two words used in the same way. Hence one and the same term can be
represented by two or more words used synonymously.
We can indicate this symbolically as follows. Let X and V be two different words, such
as "enlightenment" and "in-sight." Let the letter a stand for the same meaning which
each can express, namely, a gain in understanding. Then Xa and Ya represent the same
term, though they are distinct as words. When I speak of reading "for insight" and
reading "for enlightenment," I am referring to the same kind of reading, because the two
phrases are being used with the same meaning. The words are different, but there is only
one term here for you as a reader to grasp.
You can see why this is important. If you supposed that every time an author changed
his words, he was shifting his terms, you would make as great an error as to suppose
that every time he used the same words, the terms remained the same. Keep this in mind
when you list the author's vocabulary and terminology in separate columns. You will
find two relationships. On the one hand, a single word may be related to several terms.
On the other, a single term may be related to several words.
That this is generally the case results from the nature of language in relation to thought.
A dictionary is a record of the usage of words. It shows how men have used tlie same
word to refer to different things, and different words to refer to the same thing. The
reader's problem is to know what the author is doing with words at any place in the
book. The dictionary may help sometimes, but if the writer departs in the least from
common usage, the reader is on his own.
In the third place, and finally, there is the matter of phrases. A phrase, as you know, is a
group of words which does not express a complete thought as a sentence does. If the
phrase is a unit, that is, if it is a whole which can be the subject or predicate of a
sentence, it is like a single word. Like a single word, it can refer to something being
talked about in some way.
It follows, therefore, that a term can be expressed by a phrase as well as by a word. And
all the relations which exist between words and terms hold also between terms and
phrases. Two phrases may express the same terms, and one phrase may express several
terms, according to the way its constituent words are used.
In general, a phrase is less likely to be ambiguous than a word. Because it is a group of
words, each of which is in the context of the others, the single words are more likely to
have restricted meanings. That is why a writer is likely to substitute a fairly elaborate
phrase for a single word if he wants to be sure that you get his meaning.
One illustration should suffice. To be sure that you come to terms with me about
reading, I substitute the phrase "reading for enlightenment" for the single word
"reading." To make doubly sure, I may even substitute a more elaborate phrase, such as
"the process of passing from understanding less to understanding more by the operation
or your mind upon a book." There is only one term herz, namely, the reference to a kind
of reading which I am trying to talk about. But that one term has been expressed by a
single word, a short phrase, and a longer one.
This has probably been the hardest chapter for you to read so far. I know it has been the
hardest for me to write. I think I know the reason why. The rule of reading we have
been discussing cannot be made fully intelligible without going into all sorts of
grammatical and logical explanations about words and terms.
I assure you I have done very little explaining. To give an adequate account of these
matters would take many chapters. I say this to warn you that I have merely touched the
most essential points. I hope I have said enough to make the rule a useful guide in
practice. The more you put it into practice, the more you will appreciate the intricacies
of the problem. You will want to know something about the literal and metaphorical use
of words. You will want to know about the distinction between abstract and concrete
words, or between proper and common names. You will become interested in the whole
business of definitions: the difference between defining words and defining things; why
some words are indefinable, and yet have definite meanings, and so forth. You will seek
light on what is called "the emotive use of words," that is, the use of words to arouse
emotions, to move men to action or change their minds, as distinct from the
communication of knowledge.
If the practice of reading elicits these further interests, you will be in a position to
satisfy them by reading books on these special subjects. And you will profit more from
reading such books, because you will go to them with questions born of your own
experience in reading. The study of grammar and logic, the sciences which underlie
these rules of interpretation, is practical only to the extent you can relate it to practice.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
What's the Proposition and Why
-1not only coming to terms but making propositions occurs among traders as well as in
the world of books. What a buyer or seller means by a proposition is some sort of
proposal, some sort of offer or acceptance. Ip honest dealings, the man v.'ho makes a
proposition in this sense is declaring his intention to act in a certain way. More than
honesty is needed for successful negotiations. The proposition should be clear and, of
course, attractive. Then the traders can come to terms.
A proposition in a book is also a declaration. It is an expression of the author's judgment
about something. He affirms something he thinks true, or denies something he judges to
be false. He asserts this or that to be a fact. A proposition of this sort is a declaration of
knowledge, not intentions. The author may tell us his intentions at the beginning in a
preface. In an expository book, he usually promises to instruct us about something. To
find out whether he keeps those promises, we must look for his propositions.
The order of reading reverses the order of business somewhat. Businessmen come to
terms after they find out what the proposition is. But the reader must usually come to
terms with an author first, before he can find out what the author is proposing, what
judgments he is declaring. That is why the first rule of interpretation concerns words
and terms, and the second, which we are about to discuss, concerns sentences and
propositions.
There is a third rule of interpretation closely related to the second. The author may be
honest in declaring himself on matters of fact or knowledge. We usually proceed in that
trust. But honesty is not enough. Unless we are exclusively interested in the author's
personality, we should not be satisfied with knowing what his opinions are. His
propositions are nothing but expressions of opinion unless there is some reason for
them. If it is the subject matter of the book we are interested in, and not just the author,
we want to know not merely what the propositions are, but why.
The third rule, therefore, deals with arguments of all sorts. There are many kinds of
reasoning, many ways of supporting what one says. Sometimes it is possible to argue
that something is true; sometimes no more than a probability can be defended. But
every sort of argument consists of a number of statements related in a certain way. This
is said because of that. The word "because" here signifies a reason being given.
The presence of arguments is indicated by other words which relate statements, such as:
if this is so, then that; or, since this, therefore that; or, it follows from this, that that is the
case. In the course of earlier chapters, such sequences occurred. If thinking, I said, is the
use of our minds to gain knowledge, and if we use our minds to gain knowledge only in
two ways, either in being taught or in investigating, then, I said, we must conclude that
all the thinking we do occurs in the course of one or the other of these two activities.
An argument is always a set or series of statements of which some provide the grounds
or reasons for what is to be concluded. It, therefore, takes a paragraph, or at least a
collection of sentences, to express an argument. The premises or principles of an
argument may not always be stated first, but they are the source of the conclusion,
nevertheless. If the argument is valid, the conclusion follows from the premises. That
does not necessarily mean that the conclusion is true, because the premises
which'support it may be false, one or all.
Perhaps you have already observed something about the sequence of these three rules.
We go from terms to propositions to arguments, by going from words (and phrases) to
sentences to collections cf sentences or paragraphs.
When grammar was still taught in the schools, everyone was acquainted with these
units. A schoolboy knew that an orderly sequence of sentences made up a paragraph.
My experience with college students in the last ten years makes me doubt that this
simple knowledge is common any longer. They do not seem able to write or speak
sentences and paragraphs, and that has made me wonder whether they can recognize
them in the books they read.
You will notice, furthermore, that we are now moving in the direction of building up
from simpler to more complex units. The smallest significant element in a book is. of
course, a single word. It would be true but not adequate to say that a book consists of
words. It also consists of groups of words, taken as a unit, and similarly groups of
sentences, taken as a unit. The reader, who is active rather than passive, is attentive not
only to the words but to the sentences and paragraphs. There is no other way of
discovering the author's terms, oropositions, and arguments,
The movement of this second or interpretative reading seems to be in the opposite
direction to the movement of the first or structural reading. There we went from the
book as a whole to its major parts, and then to their subordinate divisions. As you might
suspect, the two movements meet somewhere. The major parts of a book and even their
principal divisions contain many propositions and usually several arguments. But if you
keep on dividing the book into its parts, you at last have to say: "In this part, the
following points are made." Now each of these points is likely to be a proposition, and
some of them taken together probably form an argument.
Thus, the two processes, which we have called the first and the second reading, meet.
You work down to propositions and arguments by dividing the book into its parts. You
work up to arguments by seeing how they are composed of propositions and ultimately
of terms. When you have completed these two readings, you can really say you know
the contents of a book.
-2There is one other thing to be noticed about the rules we are going to discuss in this
chapter. As in the case of the rule about words and terms, we are here also dealing with
the relation of language and thought. Sentences and paragraphs are grammatical units.
They are units of language. Propositions and arguments are logical units, or units of
thought and knowledge.
If you remember what our main problem was in the last chapter, you will be prepared to
face a similar one here. Because language is not a perfect medium for the expression of
thought, because one word can have many meanings and two or more words can have
the same meaning, we saw how complicated was the relation between an author's
vocabulary and his terminology. One word may represent several terms, and one term
may be represented by several words.
Mathematicians describe the relation between the buttons and buttonholes on a wellmade coat as a perfect one-to-one relationship. There is a button for every buttonhole,
and a hole for every button. Well, the point is that words and terms do not stand in a
one-to-one relation. The greatest error you can make in applying these rules is to
suppose that a one-to-one relationship exists between the elements of language and
those of thought or knowledge.
Let me show you this at once in the case of sentences and propositions. Not every
sentence in a book expresses a proposition. For one thing, some sentences express
questions. They state problems rather than answers. Propositions are the answers to
questions. They are declarations of knowL edge or opinion. That is why we call
sentences which express them declarative, and distinguish sentences which ask
questions as interrogative. Other sentences express wishes or intentions. They may give
us some knowledge of the author's purpose, but they do not convey the knowledge he is
trying to expound.
Moreover, not all the declarative sentences can be read as if each expressed one
proposition. There are at least two reasons for this. The first is the fact that words are
ambiguous and can be used in various senses. Hence it is possible for the same sentence
to express different propositions if there is a shift in the terms the words express.
"Reading is learning" is certainly a simple sentence. But if at one place I mean by
"learning" the acquisition of information, and at another I mean the development of
understanding, the proposition is not the same, because the terms are different. Yet the
sentence is verbally the.same.
The second reason is thafall sentences are not as simple as "reading is learning." You
may remember from grammar school, if you belonged to a more fortunate generation,
the distinction between simple sentences, on the one hand, and complex or compound
sentences, on the other. When its words are used unambiguously, a simple sentence
usually expresses a single proposition. But even when its words are used
unambiguously, a compound sentence expresses two or more propositions. A compound
sentence is really a collection of sentences, connected by such words as "and," or "if"
and "then," or "not only" and "but also." You may rightly conclude that the line between
a long compound sentence and a short paragraph may be difficult to draw. A compound
sentence can express a number of propositions related in the form of an argument.
Complex sentences are the most difficult to interpret. There is no question that
compound sentences express several propositions somehow related. But a complex
sentence may express either one proposition or several. Let me take an interesting
sentence from Machiavelli's The Prince to show you what I mean:
A prince ought to inspire fear in such a way mat, if he does not win love, he avoids
hatred; because he can endure very well being feared whilst he is not hated, which will
always be as long as he abstains from the property of his citizens and from their women.
That is grammatically a single sentence, though it is both compound and complex. The
semicolon and the "because" indicate the major break which makes the sentence
compound. The first proposition is that a prince ought to inspire fear in a certain way.
Beginning with the word "because," we have a complex sentence. It could be made
independent by saying: "The reason for this is that he can endure," and so forth. This
complex sentence expresses two propositions at least: (l) the reason why the prince
ought to inspire fear in a certain way is that he can endure being feared so long as he is
not hated; (a) he can avoid being hated only by abstaining from the property of his
citizens and their women.
You can see why it is important to distinguish the various propositions that a long
compound and complex sentence contains. In order to agree or disagree with
Machiavelli, you must first understand what he is saying. But he is saying three things
in this one sentence. You may disagree with one of them and agree with the others. You
may think Machiavelli is wrong in recommending terrorism to a prince on any grounds;
but you may acknowledge his shrewdness in saying that the prince had better not arouse
hatred along with fear, and you may also agree that keeping his hands off their property
and women is an indispensable condition of not being hated. Unless you recognize the
distinct propositions in a complicated sentence, you cannot make a discriminating
judgment on what the writer is saying.
Lawyers know this fact very well. They have to examine sentences carefully to see what
is being alleged by the plaintiff or denied by the defendant. The single sentence, "John
Doe signed the lease on March 24," looks simple enough, but still it says several things,
one of which may be true and the other false. John Doe may have signed the lease, but
not on March 24, and that fact may be important. In short, even a grammatically simple
sentence sometimes expresses two or more propositions.
-3I have said enough to indicate what I mean by the difference between sentences and
propositions. They are not related as one to one. Not only may a single sentence express
several propositions, either through ambiguity or complexity, but one and the same
proposition can be expressed by two or more different sentences. If you grasp my terms
through the words and phrases I use synonymously, you will know that I am saying the
same thing when I say, "Teaching and being taught are correlative functions," and
"Initiating and receiving communication are related processes."
I am going to stop explaining the grammatical and logical points involved, and turn to
the rules. The difficulty in this chapter, as in the last, is to stop explaining. Perhaps I had
better assume that the school you went to taught some grammar. If it did, you may see
now why all that business of syntax, of parsing and diagramming sentences, was not a
meaningless routine invented by old-fashioned teachers to crush the spirit of the young.
It all helps toward skill in writing and reading.
In fact, I should say it is almost indispensable. You cannot begin to deal with terms,
propositions, and arguments— the elements of thought—until you can penetrate
beneath the surface of language. So long as words, sentences, and paragraphs are
opaque and unanalyzed, they are a barrier to, rather than a medium of, communication.
You will read words but not receive knowledge.
Here are the rules. The first rule, you will recall from the last chapter, is: Find the
important words and come to terms. The second rule is: Mark the most important
sentences in a book and discover the propositions they contain. The third rule is: Locate
or construct the basic arguments in the book by finding them in the connection of
sentences. You will see later why I did not say "paragraphs" in the formulation of this
rule.
You have already been introduced to the second and third rules. In the early chapters,
we marked the sentence "reading is learning" as important, because it expressed a basic
proposition in this discussion. We also noted several different kinds of argument: a
proof that the great books are most readable, and a marshaling of evidence to show that
the schools have failed to teach the arts of reading and writing.
Our task now is to get further light on how to operate according to the rules. How does
one locate the most important sentences in a book? How, then, does one interpret them
to discover the one or more propositions they contain?
Again, there is this emphasis on what is important. To say that there is only relatively
small number of important sentences in a book does not mean that you need pay no
attention to all the rest. Obviously you have to understand every sentence. But most of
the sentences, like most of the words, will cause you no difficulty. From your point of
view as a reader, the sentences important for you are those which require an effort of
interpretation because, at first sight, they are not perfectly intelligible. You understand
them just well enough to know there is more to understand. These may not be the
sentences which are most important for the author, but they are likely to be, because
you are likely to have the greatest difficulty with the most important things the author
has to say.
From the author's point of view, the important sentences are those which express the
judgments on which his whole argument rests. A book usually contains much more than
the bare statement of an argument, or a series of arguments. The author may explain
how he came to the point of view he now holds, or why he thinks his position has
serious consequences. He may discuss the words he has to use. He may comment on the
work of others. He may indulge in all sorts of supporting and surrounding discussion.
But the heart of his communication lies in the major affirmations and denials he is
making, and the reasons he gives for so doing. To come to grips, therefore, you have to
see the main sentences as if they were raised from the page in high relief.
Some authors help you do this. They underline the sentences for you. They either tell
you that this is an important point when they make it, or they use one or another
typographical device to make their leading sentences stand out. Of course, nothing helps
those who will not keep awake while reading. I have met many students who paid no
attention to such signs. They preferred to read on rather than Stop and examine the
important sentences carefully. They somehow knew unconsciously that the author was
not just being helpful. He was trying to get them to do some mental work where it was
most needed.
There are a few books in which the leading propositions are set forth in sentences which
occupy a special place in the order and style of the exposition. Euclid, again, gives us
the. most obvious example of this. He not only states his definitions, his postulates, and
axioms—his principal propositions—at the beginning, but he labels every proposition to
be proved. You may not understand his statements. You may not follow his arguments.
But, if you have eyes in ' your head, you cannot miss the important sentences or the
grouping of sentences for the statement of the proofs. That is^all done for you.
The Summa Theologica of St. Thomas Aquinas is another book whose style of
exposition puts the leading sentences into high relief. It proceeds by raising questions.
Each section is headed by a question. There are many indications of the answer which
St. Thomas is trying to defend. A whole series of objections opposing the answer is
stated. The place where St. Thomas begins to argue his point is marked by the words, "I
answer that." There is no excuse tor not being able to locate the important sentences in
such a book, those expressing the reasons as well as the conclusions, yet I must report
that it is all a blur for students who treat everything they read as equally important. That
usually means that everything is equally unimportant.
-4Apart from books whose style or format calls attention to what most needs
interpretation by the reader, the spotting of sentences is a job the reader must perform
for himself. There are several things he can do. I have already mentioned one. If he is
sensitive to the difference between passages he can understand readily and those he
cannot, he will probably be able to locate the sentences which carry the main burden of
meaning. Perhaps you are beginning to see how essential a part of reading it is to be
perplexed and know it. Wonder is the beginning of wisdom in learning from books as
well as from nature. If you never ask yourself any questions about the meaning of a
passage, you cannot expect the book to give you any insight you do not already possess.
Another clue to the important sentences is found in the words which compose them. If
you have already marked the important words, they should lead you to the sentences
which deserve further attention. Thus the first step in interpretative reading prepares for
the second. But the reverse may also be the case. It may be that you will mark certain
words only after you have become puzzled by the meaning of a sentence. The fact that I
have stated these rules in a fixed order does not mean that you have to follow them in
that order. Terms constitute propositions. Propositions contain terms. If you know the
terms the words express, you have caught the proposition in the sentence. If you
understand the proposition conveyed by a sentence, you have arrived at the terms also.
This suggests one further clue to the location of the principal propositions. They must
belong to the main arguments of the book. They must be either premises or conclusions.
Hence, if you can detect those sentences which seem to form a sequence, a sequence in
which there is a beginning and an end, you probably have put your finger on sentences
which are important.
I said a sequence in which there is a beginning and an end. Every argument which men
can express in words takes time to state, more obviously so than a single sentence. You
may speak a sentence in one breath, but there are pauses in an argument. You have to
say one thing first, then another, and still another. An argument begins somewhere, goes
somewhere, gets somewhere. It is a movement of thought. It may begin with what is
really the conclusion and then proceed to give the reasons for it. Or it may start with the
evidences and reasons and bring you to the conclusion which follows therefrom.
Of course, here as elsewhere, the clue will not work unless you know how to use it. You
have to recognize an argument when you see one. Despite some disappointing
experiences in teaching, I still persist in my opinion that the human mind is as naturally
sensitive to arguments as the eye is to colors. The eye will not see if it is not kept open,
and the mind will not follow an argument if it is not awake. I explain my
disappointment with students in this connection by saying that they are mostly asleep
while they read a book or listen to what goes on in class.
Several years ago, Mr. Hutchins and I began to read some books with a new group of
students. They had had almost no training in reading and had read very little when we
first met them. One of the first books we read was Lucretius' account of The Nature of
Things. We thought this would be interesting for them. Most of our students are extreme
materialists to begin with. And this work by Lucretius is a powerful exposition of the
extreme materialistic position. It is the most extensive statement we have of the position
of the ancient Greek atomists.
Because they were beginners in reading (though most of them were college juniors and
seniors), we read the book slowly, at the rate of about thirty pages a time. Even so, they
had difficulty in knowing what words to mark, what sentences to underline. Everything
Lucretius said seemed to them of equal importance. Mr. Hutchins decided that it would
be a good exercise for them to write out just the conclusions which Lucretius reached or
tried to prove in the next part. "Don't tell us," he said, "what Lucretius thinks about the
gods or women, or what you think about Lucretius. We want the argument in a nutshell,
and that means finding the conclusions first."
The main argument in the section they had to read was an attempt to show that the
atoms differ only in shape, size, weight, and speed of motion. They have no qualities at
all, no colors or smells or textures. All the qualities we experience are entirely
subjective—in us rather than in things.
The conclusions could have been written down in a few propositions. But they brought
in statements of every sort. Their failure to extract conclusions from everything else was
not due to lack of training in logic. They had no difficulty in following the line of an
argument once it was presented to them. But they had to have the argument lifted out of
the text for them. They were not good enough readers yet to do that for themselves.
When Mr. Hutchins did the job, they saw how the statements written on the board
formed an argument. They could see the difference between the premises—the reasons
or evidences—and the conclusions they supported. In short, they had to be taught how
to read, not how to reason.
I repeat, we did not have to teach them logic or explain in detail what an argument was.
They could recognize one as soon as it was put on the board in a few simple statements.
But they could not find arguments in a book because they had not yet learned to read
actively, to disengage the important sentences from all the rest, and to observe the
connections the author made. Reading Lucretius as they read the newspaper, they
naturally did not make such discriminations.
-5Now let us suppose that you have located the leading sentences. Another step is
required by the rule. You must discover the proposition or propositions each of these
sentences contains. This is just another way of saying that you must know what the
sentence means. You discover terms by discovering what a word means in a given
usage. You discover propositions similarly by interpreting all the words that make up
the sentence, and especially its principal words.
Obviously, you cannot do this unless you know a little-grammar. You must know the
role which adjectives and adverbs play, how verbs function in relation to nouns, how
modifying words and clauses restrict or amplify the meaning of the words they modify,
and so forth. You must be able to dissect a sentence according to the rules of syntax. I
said before that I was going to assume you knew this much grammar. I cannot believe
you do not, though you may have grown a little rusty from lack of practice in the
rudiments of the art of reading.
There are only two differences between finding the terms which words express and the
propositions in sentences. One is that you employ a larger context in the latter case. You
bring all the surrounding sentences to bear on the sentence in question, just as you used
the surrounding words to interpret a particular word. In both cases, you proceed from
what you do understand to the gradual elucidation of what is at first relatively
unintelligible.
The other difference lies in the fact that complicated sentences usually express two or
more propositions. You have not completed your interpretation of an important sentence
until you have separated out of it all the different, though perhaps related, propositions it
contains. Skill in doing this is easily exercised. Take some of the complicated sentences
in this book and try to state in your own words each of the things that is being asserted.
Number them and relate them.
"State in your own words!" That suggests the best test I know for telling whether you
have understood the proposition or propositions in the sentence. If, when you are asked
to explain what the author means by a particular sentence, all you can do is to repeat his
very words, with some minor alterations in order, you had better suspect that you do not
know what he means. Ideally, you should be able to say the same thing in totally
different words. The ideal can, of course, be approximated in degrees. But if you cannot
get away at all from the author's words, it shows that only words have passed from him
to you, not thought or knowledge. You know his words, not his mind. He was trying to
communicate knowledge, and all you received were words.
The process of translation from a foreign language into English is relevant to the test I
have suggested. If you cannot state in an English sentence what a French sentence says,
you know you do not understand the meaning of the French. Such translation is entirely
on the verbal level, because even when you have formed a faithful English replica, you
still may not know what the writer of the French sentence was trying to convey. I have
read a lot of translations which reveal such ignorance.
The translation of one English sentence into another, however, is not merely verbal. The
new sentence you have formed is not a verbal replica of the original. If accurate, it is
faithful to the thought alone. That is why the making of such translations is the best test
you can apply to yourself, if you want to be sure you have caught the proposition, not
merely swallowed the words. I have tried it countless times on students. It never fails to
detect the counterfeit of understanding. The student who says he knows what the author
means, but can only repeat the author's sentence to show that he does, would not be able
to recognize the author's proposition if it were presented to him in other words.
The author may himself express the same proposition in different words in the course of
his writing. The reader who has not seen through the words to the proposition they
convey is likely to treat the equivalent sentences as if they were statements of different
propositions. Imagine a person who did not know that "24-2== 4" and "4 — 2 = 2" were
different notations for the same arithmetic relationship— the relationship of four as the
double of two, or two as the half of four.
You would have to conclude that that person simply did not understand the equation.
The same conclusion is forced on you concerning yourself or anybody else who cannot
tell when equivalent statements of the same proposition are being made, or who cannot
himself offer an equivalent statement when he claims to understand the proposition a
sentence contains.
These remarks have a bearing on the problem of reading two books about the same
subject matter. Different authors frequently say the same thing in different words, or
different things using almost the same words. The reader who cannot see through the
language to the terms and propositions will never be able to compare such related
works. Because of their verbal differences, he is likely to misread the authors as
disagreeing, or to ignore their real differences because of verbal resemblances in their
statements. I would go further and say that a person who cannot read two related books
in a discriminating way cannot read either of them by itself.
There is one other test of whether you understand the proposition in a sentence you have
read. Can you point to some experience you have had which the proposition describes
or to which the proposition is in any way relevant? Can you exemplify the general truth
which has been enunciated by referring to a particular instance of it? To imagine a
possible case is often as good as reporting an actual one. If you cannot do anything at all
to exemplify or illustrate the proposition, either imaginatively or by reference to actual
experiences, you should suspect that you do not know what is being said.
All propositions are not equally susceptible to this test. It may be necessary to have the
special experience which only a laboratory can afford to be sure you have grasped
certain scientific propositions. We shall return to this point later in the discussion of
reading scientific books. But here the main point is clear. Propositions do not exist in a
vacuum. They refer to the world in which we live. Unless you can show some
acquaintance with actual or possible facts to which the proposition refers or is relevant
somehow, you are playing with words, not dealing with thought and knowledge.
Let me give you one illustration. A basic proposition in metaphysics is expressed by the
following words: "Nothing acts except what is actual." I have had many students repeat
these words to me with an air of satisfied wisdom. They have thought they were
discharging their duty to me and to the author by so perfect a verbal repetition. But the
sham was too obvious, I would first ask them to state the proposition in other words.
Seldom could they say, tor instance, that if something does not exist, it cannot do
anything. Yet this is an immediately apparent translation—apparent, at least, to anyone
who understood the proposition in the original sentence.
Failing to get a translation, I would then ask tor an exemplification of the proposition. If
any one of them told me that people do not run away from what is merely possible —
that a baseball game is not postponed on account of possible showers—I would know at
once that the proposition had been grasped.
The vice of "verbalism" can be defined as the bad habit of using words without regard
for the thoughts they should convey and without awareness of the experiences to which
they should refer. It is playing with words. As the two tests I have just suggested
indicate, "verbalism" is the besetting sin of those who fail to read interpretatively. Such
readers never get beyond the words. They possess what they read as a verbal memory
which they can recite emptily. Strangely enough, one of the charges made by
progressive educators against the liberal arts is that they tend to verbalism, when the
facts clearly show that it is progressive education's neglect of the three R's which does
exactly that. The failure in reading—the vicious verbalism—of those who have not been
trained in the arts of grammar and logic shows how lack of such discipline results in
slavery to words rather than mastery of them.
-6We have spent enough time on propositions. Let us now turn to the third rule, which
requires the reader to deal with collections of sentences. I said before that there was a
reason for not formulating this third rule by saying that the reader should find the most
important paragraphs. The reason is that there are no settled conventions among writers
about how to construct paragraphs. Some great writers, such as Montaigne and Locke,
write extremely long paragraphs;
others, such as Machiavelli and Hobbes, write relatively short ones. In recent times,
under the influence of newspaper and magazine style, most writers tend to cut their
paragraphs to fit quick and easy reading. I must confess to you that in the course of
writing this book I have often made two para' graphs out of what seemed to me to be
naturally one, because I have been told that most readers like short paragraphs. This
paragraph, for instance, is probably too long. If I had wanted to coddle my readers, I
should have started a new one with the words, "Some great writers."
It is not merely a matter of length. The point that is troublesome here has to do with the
relation between language and thought. The logical unit to which the third rule directs
our attention is the argument—a sequence of propositions, some of which give reasons
for another. This logical unit is not uniquely related to any recognizable unit of writing,
as terms are related to words and phrases, and propositions to sentences. An argument,
as we have seen, may be expressed in a single complicated sentence. Or it may be
expressed in a number of sentences that are only part of one paragraph. Sometimes an
argument may coincide with a paragraph, but it may also happen that an argument runs
through several paragraphs.
There is one further difficulty. There are many paragraphs in any book which do not
express an argument at all—perhaps not even part of one. They may consist of
collections of sentences that detail evidence or report how the evidence has been
gathered. As there are sentences that are of secondary importance, because they are
merely digressions or side remarks, so also can there be paragraphs of this sort.
Because of all this, I suggest the following rule: Find if you can the paragraphs in a
book which state its important arguments; but if the arguments are not thus expressed,
your task is to construct thsm, by taking a sentence from this paragraph, and one from
that, until you have gathered together the sequence of sentences which state the
propositions that compose the argument.
After you have discovered the leading sentences, the construction of paragraphs should
be relatively easy. There are various ways of doing this. You can do it by actually
writing out on a pad the propositions that together form an argument. Or you can put a
number in the margin to indicate the place where the sentences occur that should be tied
together in a sequence.
Authors are more or less helpful to their readers in this matter of making the arguments
plain. Good authors try to reveal, not conceal, their thought. Yet not even all good
authors do this in the same way. Some, such as Euclid, Galileo, Newton (authors who
write in a geometrical or mathematical style), come close to the ideal of making a single
paragraph an argumentative unit. With the exception of Euclid, there are almost none
who make every paragraph an argument. The style of most writing in non-mathematical
fields of science tends to present two or more arguments in a single paragraph or to have
an argument run through several.
In proportion as a book is more loosely constructed, the paragraphs tend to become
more diffuse. You often have to search through all the paragraphs of a chapter to find
the sentences you can construct into the statement of a single argument. I have read
some books which make you search in vain, and some which do not even encourage the
search.
A good book usually summarizes itself as its arguments develop. If the author
summarizes his arguments for you at the end of a chapter, or at the end of an elaborate
section, you should be able to look back over the preceding pages and find the materials
he has brought together in the summary. In The Origin of Species, Darwin summarizes
his whole argument for the reader in a last chapter, entitled "Recapitulation and
Conclusion." The reader who has worked through the book deserves that help. The one
who has not, cannot use it.
Another difference between a good and a bad writer is the omission of steps in an
argument. Sometimes they can be omitted without damage or inconvenience, because
the propositions left out can be generally supplied from the common knowledge of
readers. But sometimes their omission is misleading, and may even be intended to
mislead. One of the most familiar tricks of the orator or propagandist is to leave certain
things unsaid, things which are highly relevant to the argument, but which might be
challenged if made explicit. While we do not expect such devices in an honest author
whose aim is to instruct us, it is nevertheless a sound maxim of careful reading to make
every step in an argument explicit.
Whatever kind of book it is, your obligation as a reader remains the same. If the book
contains arguments, you must know what they are, and in a nutshell. Any good
argument can be put into a nutshell. There are, of course, arguments built upon
arguments. In the course of an elaborate analysis, one thing may be proved in order to
prove another, and this may be used in turn to make a still further point. The units of
reasoning, however, are single arguments. If you can find these in any book you are
reading, you are not likely to miss the larger sequences.
This is all very well to say, you may object, but unless one knows the structure of
argument as a logician does, how can one be expected to find them in a book, or worse,
to construct them when the author doesn't state them com-pactly in a single paragraph?
I can answer you by pointing out why it must be obvious that you do not have to know
about arguments "as a logician does." There are relatively few logicians in the world,
for better or for worse. Most of the books which convey knowledge and can instruct us
contain arguments. They are intended for the general reader, not tor the specialists in
logic.
I, for one, do not believe that great logical competence is needed to read these books. I
repeat what I said before, that the nature of the human mind is such that if it works at all
during the process of reading, if it comes to terms with the author and reaches his
propositions, it will see his arguments as well.
There are, however, a few things I can say which may be helpful to you in carrying out
this third rule. In the first place, remember that every argument must involve a number
of statements. Of these, some give the reasons why you should accept a conclusion the
author is proposing. It you find the conclusion first, then look for the reasons. If you
find the reasons first, see what they lead to.
In the second place, discriminate between the kind of argument which points to one or
more particular facts as evidence for some generalization and the kind which offers a
series of general statements to prove some further generalization. General propositions
which are called self-evident, or axioms, are propositions we know to be true as soon as
we understand their terms. Such propositions are ultimately derived from our experience
of particulars.
For example, when you understand what any physical whole is, and when you
understand what it means for anything to be a part of such a whole, you know at once
that the whole is greater than any of its parts. Through understanding three terms—
whole, part, and greater than—you at once know a true proposition. The most important
step in getting to that truth is restricting the meaning of the word "whole" by the
qualification physical. The proposition that the whole is greater than a part is not true
for every sort of whole. But when you use these words with restricted meanings, you
reach terms which are evidently related in a certain way. What becomes evident in this
way is a familiar axiom, a proposition which men have commonly recognized to be true
for many centuries.
Sometimes such propositions are called tautologies. The name makes very little
difference except to indicate how you feel about the proposition whose truth is clear
without proof—a generalization which is argued directly from particulars. When in
modern times self-evident truths have been called "tautologies," the feeling behind it is
sometimes one of contempt for the trivial, or a suspicion of legerdemain. Rabbits are
being pulled out of the hat. You put the truth in by defining your words, and then pull it
out as if you were surprised to find it there. Notice, however, that that is not the case. To
restrict the meaning of a word is not to define a thing. Wholes and parts are things, not
words. We did not define them. In fact, we cannot. What we did do was to limit our
words so that they referred to a certain type of thing with which we are acquainted.
Once that was done we found we knew something that our restricted words could
express.
In the literature of science, the distinction is observed between the proof of a
proposition by reasoning and its establishment by experiment. Galileo, in his Two New
Sciences, speaks of illustrating by experiment conclusions which had already been
reached by mathematical demonstration. And in a concluding chapter, the great
physiologist Harvey writes: "It has been shown by reason and experiment that blood by
the beat of the ventricles flows through the lungs and heart and is pumped to the whole
body." Sometimes it is possible to support a proposition both by reasoning from other
general truths and by offering experimental evidence. Sometimes only one method of
argument is available.
In the third place, observe what things the author says he must assume, what he says can
be proved or otherwise evidenced, and what need not be proved because it is selfevident. He may honestly try to tell you what all his assumptions are, or he may just as
honestly leave you to find them out for yourself. Obviously, everything cannot be
proved, just as everything cannot be defined. If every proposition had to be proved,
there would be no beginning to any proof. Such things as axioms, or propositions
somehow drawn directly from experience, and assumptions, or postulates, are needed
for the proof of other propositions. If these others are proved, they can, of course, be
used as premises in further proofs.
-7These three rules of reading—about terms, propositions, and arguments—can be
brought to a head in a fourth and final rule. This fourth rule governs the last step in the
second reading of a book. More than that, it ties the second reading together with the
first.
You may remember that the last step in the first reading was the discovery of the major
problems which the author tried to answer in the course of his book. Now, after you
have come to terms with him and grasped his propositions and arguments, you can
check what you have found by answering the following questions. Which of the
problems that the author tried to solve did he succeed in solving? In the course of
solving these, did he get into any new ones? Of the problems he failed to solve, old or
new, which did the author himself know he failed on? A good writer, like a good reader,
should know whether a problem 'has been solved or not, though I can see how it might
cost the reader less pain to acknowledge the failure.
When you are able to answer these questions, you can feel reasonably assured that you
have managed to understand the book. If you started with a book that was above you—
and one, therefore, that was able to teach you something—you have come a long way.
More than that, you are now able to complete your reading of the book.
The third and last stage of the job will be relatively easy. You have been keeping your
eyes and mind open and your mouth shut. Up to this point, you have been following the
author. From this point on, you are going to get a chance to argue with the author and
express yourself.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Etiquette of Talking Back
-1and where are we now?
I said at the end of the last chapter that we have come a long way. We have learned
what is required of us in the first reading of a book. That is the reading in which we
analyze the book's structure. We have also learned four rules for doing a second reading
of the same book—an interpretative reading. The four rules are: (i) come to terms with
an author by interpreting his basic words; (2) grasp the author's leading propositions
through finding his important sentences; (3) know the author's arguments by finding
them in, or constructing them out of, sequences of sentences; (4) determine which of his
problems the author solved and which he did not, and, of the latter, decide which the
author knew he failed to solve.
You are now ready for the third way of reading the same book. Here you will reap the
reward of all your previous efforts.
Reading a book is a kind of conversation. You may think it is not conversation at all,
because the author does all the talking and you have nothing to say. If you think that,
you do not realize your opportunities and obligations as a reader.
As a matter of fact, the reader has the last word. The author has had his say, and then it
is the reader's turn. The conversation between a book and its reader would appear to be
an orderly one, each party talking in turn, no interruptions, and so forth. If, however, the
reader is undisciplined and impolite, it may be anything but orderly. The poor author
cannot defend himself. He cannot say, "Here, wait till I've finished, before you start
disagreeing." He cannot protest that the reader has missed his point.
Ordinary conversations between persons who confront each other are good only when
they are carried on decently. I am not thinking merely of the decencies according to
conventions of social politeness. There is, in addition, an intellectual etiquette one
should observe. Without it, conversation is bickering rather than profitable
communication. I am assuming here, of course, that the conversation is about a serious
matter on which men can agree or disagree. Then it becomes important that they
conduct themselves well. Otherwise, there is no profit in the enterprise. The profit in
good conversation is something learned.
What is true of ordinary conversation is even more true of the rather special situation in
which a book has talked to a reader and the reader answers back. That the author is well
disciplined, we shall take for granted temporarily. That he has conducted his part of the
conversation well can be assumed in the case of great books. What can the reader do to
reciprocate? What must he do to hold up his end well?
The reader has an obligation as well as an opportunity to talk back. The opportunity is
clear. Nothing can stop a reader from pronouncing judgment. The roots of the
obligation, however, lie a little deeper in the nature of the relation between books and
readers.
If a book is of the sort which conveys knowledge, the author's aim was to instruct. He
has tried to teach. He has tried to convince or persuade his reader about something. His
effort is crowned with success only if the reader finally says, "I am taught. You have
convinced me that such and such is true, or persuaded me that it is probable." But even
if the reader is not convinced or persuaded, the author's intention and effort should be
respected. The reader owes him a considered judgment. If he cannot say, "I agree," he
should at least have grounds for disagreeing or even tor suspending judgment on the
question.
I am saying no more than that a good book deserves an active reading. The activity of
reading does not stop with the work of understanding what a book says. It must be
completed by the work of criticism, the work of judging. The passive reader sins against
this requirement, probably even more than against the rules of analysis and interpre.
tation. He not only makes no effort to understand; he dismisses a book simply by
putting it down or forgetting it. Worse than faint praise, he damns it by no critical
consideration whatsoever.
-2What I mean by talking back, you now can see, is not something apart from reading. It
is the third way in which a book must be read. There are rules here as in the case of the
other two readings. Some of these are general maxims of intellectual etiquette. We shall
deal with them in this chapter. Others are more specific criteria for defining the points
of criticism. They will be discussed in the next chapter.
There is a tendency to think that a good book is above the criticism of the average
reader. The reader and the author are not peers. The author is subject to trill only by a
jury of his peers. Remember Bacon's recomn-endation to the reader: "Read not to
contradict and confute; not to believe and take for granted; nor to find talk and
discourse; but to weigh and consider." Sir Walter Scott cast' even more direful
aspersions on those "who read to doubt or read to scorn."
There is a certain truth here, as we shall see, but I do not like the aura of impeccability
with which books are thus surrounded, and the false piety it breeds. Readers may be like
children, in the sense that great authors can teach them, but that does not mean they
must not be heard from. I am not sure Cervantes was right in saying, "There i? no book
so bad but something good may be found in it." I do think, however, that there is no
book so good that fault cannot be found with it.
It is true that a book which can enlightel its readers, and is in this sense their better,
should not be criticized by them until they understand it. When they do, tley have
elevated themselves almost to peerage with the autror. Now they are fit to exercise the
rights and privileges of their new position. Unless they exercise their critical faculties
now, they are doing the author an injustice. He has dote what he could to make them his
equal. He deserves tiat they act like his peers, that they engage in conversation with
him, that they talk back.
As I pointed out before, docility is generally confused with subservience. (We tend to
forget that ihe word "docile" is derived from the Latin root which means to teach or be
taught.) A person is wrongly thought to ?e docile if he is passive and pliable. On the
contrary, docility is the extremely active virtue of being teachable. No one is really
teachable who does not freely exercise his power of independent judgment. The most
docile reader is, therefore, the most critical. He is the reader who finally responds to a
book by the greatest effort to make up his own mind on the matters the author has
discussed.
I say "finally" because docility requires that a teacher be fully heard and, more than that,
understood, before he is judged. I should add also that sheer amount of effort is not an
adequate criterion of docility. The reader must know how to judge a book, just as he
must know how to arrive at an understanding of its contents. This third group of rules
for reading is a guide to the last stage in the disciplined exercise of docility.
We have everywhere found a certain reciprocity between the art of teaching and the art
of being taught, between the skill of the author which makes him a considerate writer
and the skill of the reader which makes him handle a book considerately. We have seen
how the same principles of grammar and logic underlie rules of good writing as well as
rules of good reading. The rules we have so far discussed concern the achievement of
intelligibility on the part of the writer and the achievement of understanding on the part
of the reader. This last set of rules goes beyond understanding to critical judgment. Here
is where rhetoric comes in.
There are, of course, many uses of rhetoric. We usually think of it in connection with
the orator or propagandist. But in its most general significance, rhetoric is involved in
every situation in which communication takes place among men. If we are the talkers,
we wish not only to be understood but to be agreed with in some sense. If our purpose
in trying to communicate is serious, we wish to convince or persuade— nwe precisely,
to convince about theoretical matters and to persuade about matters that ultimately
affect action or feeling.
To be equally serious in receiving such communication, one must be not only a
responsive but a responsible listener. You are responsive to the extent that you follow
what has been said and note the intention which prompts it. But you also have the
responsibility of taking a position. When you take it, it is yours, not the author's. To
regard anyone except yourself as responsible for your judgment is to be a slave, not a
freeman.
On the part of the speaker or writer, rhetorical skill is knowing how to Convince or
persuade. Since this is the ultimate end in view, all the other aspects of communication
must serve it. Grammatical and logical skill in writing clearly and intelligibly has virtue
in itself, but it is also a means to an end. Reciprocally, on the part of the reader or
listener, rhetorical skill is knowing how to react to anyone who tries to convince or
persuade us. Here, too, grammatical and logical skill, which enables us to understand
what is being said, prepares the way for a critical reaction.
-3Thus you see how the three arts of grammar, logic, and rhetoric co-operate in regulating
the elaborate processes of writing and reading. Skill in the first two readings comes
from a mastery of grammar and logic. Skill in the third depends on the remaining art.
The rules of this third reading rest on the principles of rhetoric, conceived in the
broadest sense. We shall consider them as a code of etiquette to make the reader not
only polite but effective in talking back.
You probably also see what the first rule is going to be. It has been intimated several
times already. It is simply that you must not begin to talk back until you have listened
carefully and are sure you understand. Not until you are honestly satisfied that you have
accomplished the first two readings should you feel free to express yourself. When you
have, you not only can justifiably turn critic, but you should.
This means that the third reading must always follow the other two in time. You have
already seen how the first two readings interpenetrate each other. They are separate in
time only for the beginner, and even he may have to combine them somewhat.
Certainly, the expert reader can discover the contents of a book by analyzing the whole
into its parts and, at the same time, constructing the whole out of its elements of thought
and knowledge, its terms, propositions, and arguments. But the expert no less than the
beginner must wait until he understands before he is justified in criticizing.
Let me restate this first rule of critical reading in the following form. You must be able
to say, with reasonable certainty, "I understand," before you can say any one of the
following things: "I agree," or "I disagree," or "I suspend Judgment." These three
remarks exhaust all the critical positions you can take. I hope you have not made the
error of supposing that to criticize is always to disagree. That is ap unfortunate, popular
misconception. To agree is just as much an exercise of critical judgment on your part as
to disagree. You can be just as wrong in agreeing as in disagreeing. To agree without
understanding is inane. To disagree without understanding is impudent.
Though it may not be so obvious at first, suspending judgment is also an act of
criticism. It is taking the position that something has not been shown. You are saying
that you are not convinced or persuaded one way or the other.
This rule seems to be such obvious common sense that you may wonder why I have
bothered to state it so explicitly. I have two reasons. In the first place, many people
make the error I mentioned above of identifying criticism with disagreement. In the
second place, though this rule seems obviously sound, my experience has been that few
people' observe it in practice. Like the golden rule, it elicits more lip service than
intelligent obedience.
I have had the experience, shared by all authors, of suffering book reviews by critics
who did not feel obliged to do the first reading first. The critic too often thinks he does
not have to be a reader as well as a judge. I have also had the experience of lecturing,
both in the university and on the public platform, and of having critical questions asked
which were not based on any understanding of what I had said. (By a "critical question"
here, I mean that rhetorical device by which someone in the audience tries to show the
speaker up.) And you may remember an occasion where someone said to a speaker, in
one breath or at most two, "I don't know what you mean, but I think you're wrong."
I have gradually learned that there is no point in answering critics of this sort. The only
polite thing to do is to ask them to state your position tor you, the position they claim to
be challenging. If they cannot do it satisfactorily, it they cannot repeat what you have
said in their own words, you know that they do not understand, and you are entirely
justified in ignoring their criticisms. They are irrelevant, as all criticism must be which
is not solidly based on understanding. When you find the rare person who shows that he
understands what you are saying as well as you do, then you can delight in his
agreement or be seriously disturbed by his dissent.
In years of reading books with students, I have found this rule more honored in the
breach than in the observance. Students who plainly do not know what the author is
saying seem to have no hesitation in setting themselves up as his judges. They not only
disagree with something they do not understand but, what is equally bad, they often
agree to a position they cannot express intelligibly in their own way. Their discussion,
like their reading, is all words, words, words. Where understanding is not present,
affirmations and denials are equally meaningless and unintelligent. Nor is a position of
doubt or detachment any more intelligent in a reader who does not know what he is
suspending judgment atout.
There are several further points to note concerning the observance of this first rule. If
you are reading a great book, you ought to hesitate before you say, "I understand." The
presumption certainly is that you have a lot of work to do before you can make that
declaration honestly and with assurance. You must, of course, be a judge of yourself in
this raatter, and that makes the responsibility even more severe.
To say "I don't understand" is, o£ course, a critical judg. ment, but only after you have
tried your hardest does it reflect on the book rather than yourself. If you have done
everything that can be expected of you and still do not understand, it may be because
the book is unintelligible. The presumption, however, is in favor of the book, especially
if it be a great one. In reading great books, failure to understand is usually the reader's
fault. Hence he is obligated to stay with the task of the first two readings a long time
before entering on the third. When you say "I don't understand" watch your tone of
voice. Be sure it concedes the possibility that it may not be the author's fault.
There are two other conditions under which the rule requires especial care. If you are
reading only part of a book, it is more difficult to be sure that you understand, and hence
you should be more hesitant to criticize. And sometimes a book is related to other books
by the same author, and depends upon them for its full significance. In this situation,
also, you should be more circumspect about saying "I understand," and slower to raise
your critical lance.
The best example of brashness in this last respect is furnished by literary critics who
have agreed or disagreed with Aristotle's Poetics without realizing that the main
principles in Aristotle's analysis of poetry depend in part on points made in other of his
works, his treatises on psychology and logic and metaphysics. They have agreed or
disagreed without understanding what it is all about.
The same is true of other writers, such as Plato and Kant, Adam Smith and Karl Marx,
who have not been able to aay everything they thought or knew in a single work. Those
who judge Kant's Critique of Pure Reason without. reading his Critique of Practical
Reason, or Adam Smith's Wealth of Nations without reading his Theory of the Moral
Sentiments, or The Communist Manifesto without Marx's dos Kapital, are more likely
than not to be agreeing or disagreeing with something they do not fully understand.
-4The second general maxim of critical reading is as obvious as the first, but needs
explicit statement, nevertheless, for the same reason. It is that there is no point in
winning an argument if you know or suspect you are wrong. Practically, of course, it
may get you ahead in the world for a short time. But honesty is the better policy in the
slightly longer run.
As thus stated, I learned the maxim from Mr. Beards-ley Rumi, at the time he was dean
of the Social Science Division in Chicago. He formulated it in the light of many sad
experiences, both in the academic world and out. He has since become a leader in the
mercantile world, and he still finds it true that many people think a conversation is an
occasion for personal aggrandizement. They think that winning the argument is what
matters, not learning the truth.
He who regards conversation as a battle can win only by being an antagonist, only by
disagreeing successfully, whether he is right or wrong. The reader who approaches a
book in this spirit reads it only to find something he can disagree with. For the
disputatious and contentious, a bone can always be found to pick on. It makes no
difference whether the bone is really a chip off the other man's shoulder. What is sought
is a casus belli—like an incident in the Far East or in middle Europe.
Now in a conversation which a reader has with a book in the privacy of his own study,
there is nothing to prevent the reader from winning the argument. He can dominate the
situation. The author is not there to defend himself. If all he wants is the empty
satisfaction of seeming to show the author up, he can get it readily. He scarcely has to
read the book through to get it. Glancing at the first few pages will suffice.
But if he realizes that the only profit in conversation, with live or dead teachers, is what
one can learn from them, if he realizes that yon win only by gaining knowledge, not by
knocking the other fellow down, he may see the futility of mere contentiousness. I am
not saying that a reader should not ultimately disagree and try to show where the author
is wrong. I am saying only that he should be as prepared to agree as to disagree.
Whichever he does should be motivated by one consideration alone—the facts and the
truth about them.
More than honesty is required here. It goes without saying that a reader should admit a
point when he sees it. But he also should not feel whipped by having to agree with an
author, instead of dissenting. If he feels that way, he is chronically disputatious. In the
light of this second maxim, [ would advise him to go to a psychoanalyst before he tries
to do much serious reading.
-5The third maxim is closely related to the second. It states another condition prior to the
undertaking of criticism. It recommends that you regard disagreements as capable of
being resolved. Where the second maxim urged you not to disagree disputatiously, this
one warns you against disagreeing hopelessly. One is hopeless about the fruitfulness of
discussion if one does not recognize that all rational men can agree. Note that I said
"can agree." I did not say all rational men do agree. I am saying that even when they do
not agree, they can. And the point I am trying to make is that disagreement is futile
agitation unless it is undertaken with the hope that it may lead to the resolution of an
issue.
These two facts, that men do disagree and can agree, arise from the complexity of
human nature. Men are rational animals. Their rationality is the source of their power to
agree. Their animality, and the imperfections of their reason which it entails, is the
cause of most of the disagreements that occur. They are creatures of passion and
prejudice. The language they must use to communicate is an imperfect medium, clouded
by emotion and colored by interest as well as inadequately transparent tor thought. Yet
to the extent that men are rational, these obstacles to their understanding one another
can be overcome. The sort of disagreement which is only apparent, resulting from
misunderstanding, is certainly curable.
There is, of course, another sort of disagreement, which is due to inequalities of
knowledge. The ignorant often foolishly disagree with the learned about matters
exceeding their knowledge. The more learned, however, have a right to be critical of
errors made by those who lack relevant knowledge. Disagreements of this sort can also
be corrected. Inequality in knowledge is always curable by instruction.
In other words, I am saying that all human disagreements can be resolved by the
removal of misunderstanding or of ignorance. Both cures are always possible, though
sometimes difficult. Hence the man who, at any stage of a conversation, disagrees,
should at least hope to reach agreement in the end. He should be as much prepared to
have his own mind changed as seek to change the mind of an-' other. He should always
keep before him the possibility that he misunderstands or that he is ignorant on some
point. No one who looks upon disagreement as an occasion for teaching another should
forget that it is also an occasion for being taught.
But the trouble is that many people regard disagreement as unrelated to either teaching
or being taught. They think that everything is just a matter of opinion. I have mine. You
have yours. Our right to our opinions is as inviolable as our right to private property. On
such a view, communication cannot be profitable if the profit to be gained is an increase
in knowledge. Conversation is hardly better than a ping-pong game of opposed
opinions, a game in which no one keeps score, no one wins, and everyone is satisfied
because he ends up holding the same opinions he started with.
I cannot take this view. I think that knowledge can be communicated and that discussion
can result in learning. If knowledge, not opinion, is at stake, then either disagreements
are apparent only—to be removed by coming to terms and a meeting of minds; or, if
they are real, then the genuine issues can always be resolved—in the long run, of
course—by appeals to fact and reason. The maxim of rationality concerning
disagreements is to be patient for the long run. I am saying, in short, that disagreements
are arguable matters. And argument is both empty and vicious unless it is undertaken on
the supposition that there is attainable truth which, when attained by reason in the light
of all the relevant evidence, resolves the original issues.
How does this third maxim apply to the conversation between reader and author? It
deals with the situation in which the reader finds himself disagreeing with something iki
a book. It requires him first to be sure that the disagreement is not due to
misunderstanding. Suppose that the reader has been careful to observe the rule that he
must not begin a critical reading until he understands, and is therefore satisfied that
there is no misunderstanding here. What then?
This maxim then requires him to distinguish between knowledge and opinion, and to
regard an issue concerning knowledge as one which can be resolved. It he pursues the
matter further he may be instructed by the author on points which will change his mind.
If that does not happen, he may be justified in his criticism, and, metaphorically at least,
be able to instruct the author. He can at least hope that were the author alive and
present, his mind could be changed.
You may remember something that was said in the previous chapter. If an author does
not give reasons for his propositions, they can be treated only as expressions of opinion
on his part. The reader who does not distinguish between the reasoned statement of
knowledge and the flat expression of opinion is not reading to learn. He is at most
interested in the author's personality and is using the book as a case history. Such a
reader will, of course, neither agree nor disagree. He does not judge the book but the
man.
If, however, the reader is primarily interested in the book and not the man—it, seeking
to learn, he looks for knowledge not opinion—he should take his critical obligations
seriously. The distinction between knowledge and opinion applies to him as well as to
the author. The reader must do more than make judgments of agreement or
disagreement. He must give reasons for them. In the former case, of course, it suffices if
he actively share the author's reasons for the point on which they agree. But when he
disagrees, he must give his own grounds for doing so. Other' wise, he is treating a
matter of knowledge as if it were opinion.
Let me summarize now the three general maxims I have discussed. The three together
state the conditions of a critical reading and the manner in which the reader should
proceed to talk back.
The first requires the reader to complete the task of understanding before rushing in.
The second adjures him not to be disputatious or contentious. The third asks him to
view disagreement about matters of knowledge as remediable. It goes further. It
commands him to give reasons for his disagreements so that issues are not merely stated
but defined. In that lies all hope for resolution.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Things the Reader Can Say
-1the first thing a reader can say is that he understands or that he does not. In fact, he must
say he understands, in order to say more. If he does not understand, he should keep his
peace and go back to work on the first two readings of the book.
There is one exception to the harshness of the second alternative. "I don't understand"
may be itself a critical remark. To make it so, the reader must be able to support it. If the
fault is with the book rather than himself, the readei must locate the sources of trouble.
He should be able to show that the structure of the book is disorderly, that its parts do
not hang together, that some of it lacks relevance. Or, perhaps, the author equivocates in
the use of important words, with a whole train of consequent contusions. To the extent
that a leader can support his charge that the book is unintelligible, he has no further
critical obligations.
Let us suppose, however, that you are reading a good book. That means it is a relatively
intelligible one. And let us suppose that you are finally able to say, "I understand." If in
addition to understanding the book, you agree thoroughly with what the author says, the
work is over. The reading is completely done. You have been enlightened, and
convinced or persuaded. It is clear that we have additional steps to consider only in the
case of disagreement or suspended judgment. The former is the more usual case. We
shall deal mainly with it in this chapter.
To the extent that authors argue with their readers— and expect their readers to argue
back—the good reader must be acquainted with the principles of argument. He must be
able to carry on polite, as well as intelligent, controversy. That is why there is need for a
chapter of this sort in a book on reading. Not simply by following an author's arguments,
but only by meeting them as well, can the reader ultimately reach significant agreement
or disagreement with his author.
The meaning of agreement and disagreement deserves a moment's further consideration.
The reader who comes to terms with an author, and grasps his propositions and
reasoning, is en rapport with the author's mind. In fact, the whole process of
interpretation is directed toward a meeting of minds through the medium of language.
Understanding a book can be described as a kind of agreement between writer and
reader. They agree about the use of language to express ideas. Because of that
agreement, the reader is able to see through the author's language to the ideas he is
trying to express.
It the reader understands a book, then how can he disagree with it? Critical reading
demands that he make up his own mind. But his mind and the author's have become as
one through his success in understanding the book. What mind has he left to make up
independently?
There are some people who make the error which causes this apparent difficulty. They
fail to distinguish between two senses of "agreement." In consequence, they wrongly
suppose that where there is understanding between men. disagreement is impossible.
They say that all disagreement is simply due to misunderstanding.
The error is corrected as soon as we remember that the author is making judgments
about the world in which we live. He claims to be giving us theoretic knowledge about
the way things exist and behave, or practical knowledge about what should be done.
Obviously, he can be either right or wrong. His claim is justified only to the extent that
he speaks truly, or says what is probable in the light of evidence. Otherwise, his claim is
unfounded.
If you say, for instance, that "all men are equal," I may take you to mean that all men
are equally endowed at birth with intelligence, strength, and other abilities. In the light
of the tacts as I know them, I disagree with you. I think you are wrong. But suppose I
have misunderstood you. Suppose you meant by these words that all men should have
equal political rights. Because I misapprehended your meaning, my disagreement was
irrelevant. Now suppose the mistake corrected. Two alternatives still remain. I can agree
or disagree, but now if I disagree, there is a real issue between us. I understand your
political position but hold a contrary one.
Issues about matters of fact or policy—issues about the way things are or should be—
are real only when they are based on a common understanding of what is being said.
Agreement about the use of words is the absolutely indispensable condition for genuine
agreement or disagreement about the facts being discussed. It is because of, not in spite
of, your meeting the author's mind through a sound interpretation of his book that you
are able to make up your own mind as concurring in or dissenting from the position he
has taken.
-2Now let us consider the situation in which, having said you understand, you proceed to
disagree. If you have tried to abide by the maxims stated in the previous chapter, you
disagree because you think the author can be shown to be wrong on some point. You are
not simply voicing your prejudice or expressing your emotions.
What seems to me now like many years ago, I wrote a book called Dialectic. It was my
first book, and wrong in many ways, but at least It was not as pretentious as its title. It
was about the art of intelligent conversation, the etiquette of controversy.
My chief error was in thinking that there are two sides to every question, that is, two
sides both of which could be equally right. I did not know then how to distinguish
between knowledge and opinion. Despite this error, I think I rightly suggested three
conditions which must be satisfied in order for controversy to be well conducted.
Since men are animals as well as rational, it is necessary to acknowledge the emotions
you bring to a dispute, or those which arise in the course of it. Otherwise you are likely
to be giving vent to feelings, not stating reasons. You may even think you have reasons,
when all you have are strong feelings.
Furthermore, you must make your own assumptions explicit. You must know what your
prejudices—that is, your prejudg-menis—are. Otherwise you are not likely to admit that
your opponent may be equally entitled to different assumptions. Good controversy
should not be a quarrel about assumptions. If an author, for example, explicitly asks you
to take something for granted, the fact that the opposite can also be taken for granted
should not prevent you from honoring his request. If your prejudices lie on the opposite
side, and if you do not acknowledge them to be prejudices, you cannot give the author's
case a fair hearing.
Finally, I suggested that an attempt at impartiality is a good antidote for the blindness
that is inevitable in partisanship. Controversy without partisanship is, of course,
impossible. But to be sure that there is more light in it, and less heat, each of the
disputants should at least try to take the other fellow's point of view. If you have not
been able to read a book sympathetically, your disagreement with it is probably more
contentious than judicial.
I still think that these three conditions are the sine qua non of intelligent and profitable
conversation. They are obviously applicable to reading, in so far as that is a kind of
conversation between reader and author. Each of them contains sound advice for readers
who are willing to respect the decencies of disagreement.
But I have grown older since I wrote Dialectic. And I am a little less optimistic about
what can be expected of human beings. I am sorry to say that most of my
disillusionment arises from a knowledge of my own defects. I have so frequently
violated all of my own rules about good intellectual manners in controversy. I have so
often caught myself attacking a book rather than criticizing it, knocking straw men over,
denouncing where I could not support denials, proclaiming my prejudices, as if mine
were any better than the author's.
-31 am still naive enough, however, to think that conversation and critical reading can be
well disciplined. Only now, twelve years later, I am going to substitute for the rules of
Dialectic a set of prescriptions which may be easier to follow. They indicate the four
ways in which a book can be adversely criticized. My hope is that if a reader confine
himself to making these points, he will be less likely to indulge in expressions of
emotion or prejudice.
The four points can be briefly summarized by conceiving the reader as conversing with
the author, as talking back. After he has said, "I understand but I disagree," he can make
the following remarks: (1) "You are uninformed"; (2) "You are misinformed"; (3) "You
are illogical, your reasoning is not cogent"; (4) "Your analysis is incomplete."
These may not be exhaustive, though I think they are. In any case, they are certainly the
principal points a reader who disagrees can make. They are somewhat independent.
Making one of these remarks does not prevent you from making another. Each and all
can be made, because the defects they refer to are not mutually exclusive.
But, I should add, the reader cannot make any of these remarks without being definite
and precise about the respect in which the author is uninformed or misinformed or
illogical. A book cannot be uninformed or misinformed about everything. It cannot be
totally illogical. Furthermore, the reader who makes any of these remarks must not only
make it definitely, by specifying the respect, but he must always support his point. He
must give reasons for saying what he does.
The first three remarks are somewhat different from the fourth, as you will presently
see. Let us consider each of them briefly, and then turn to the fourth.
(1) To say that an author is uninformed is to say that he lacks some piece of knowledge
which is relevant to the problem he is trying to solve. Notice here that unless the
knowledge, if possessed by the author, would have been relevant, there is no point in
making this remark. To support the remark, you must be able yourself to state the
knowledge which the author lacks and show how it is relevant, how it makes a
difference to his conclusions.
A few illustrations here must suffice. Darwin lacked the knowledge of genetics which
the work of Mendel and later experimentalists now provides. His ignorance of the
mechanism of inheritance is one of the major defects in The Origin of Species. Gibbon
lacked certain facts which later historical research has shown to have a bearing on the
fall of Rome. Usually, in science and history, the lack of information is discovered by
later researches. Improved techniques of observation and prolonged investigation make
this the way things happen for the most part. But in philosophy, it may happen
otherwise. There is just as likely to be loss as gain with the passage of time. The
ancients, for example, clearly distinguished between what men can sense and imagine
and what they can understand. Yet, in the eighteenth century, David Hume revealed his
ignorance of this distinction between images and ideas, even though it had been so well
established by the work of earlier philosophers.
(2) To say that an author is misinformed is to say that he asserts what is not the case. His
error here may be due to lack of knowledge, but the error is more than that. Whatever its
cause, it consists of assertions contrary to fact. The author is proposing as true or more
probable what is in t'9>ct false or less probable. He is claiming to have knowledge he
does not possess. This kind of defect should be pointed out, of course, only if it is
relevant to the author's conclusions. And to support the remark you must be able to
argue the truth or greater probability of a position contrary to the author's.
For example, in a political treatise, Spinoza appears to
say that democracy is a more primitive type of government than monarchy. This is
contrary to well-ascertained tacts of political history. Spinoza's error in this respect has
a bearing on his argument. Aristotle was misinformed about the role which the male
factor played in animal reproduction, and consequently came to unsupportable
conclusions about the processes of procreation. Thomas Aquinas erro neously supposed
that the heavenly bodies changed only in position, that they were otherwise unalterable.
Modern astrophysics corrects this error and thereby improves on ancient and medieval
astronomy. But here is an error which has limited relevance. Making it does not affect
St. Thomas's metaphysical account of the nature of all sensible things as composed of
matter and form.
These first two points of criticism are somewhat related. Lack of information, as we
have seen, may be the cause of erroneous assertions. Further, whenever a man is
misinformed, he is also uninformed of the truth. But it makes a difference whether the
defect be simply negative or positive as well. Lack of relevant knowledge makes it
impossible to solve certain problems or support certain conclusions. Erroneous
suppositions, however, lead to wrong conclusions and untenable solutions. Taken
together, these two points charge an author with defects in his premises. He needs more
knowledge than he possesses. His evidences And reasons are not good enough in
quantity or quality.
(3) To say that an author is illogical is to say that he has committed a fallacy in
reasoning. In general, fallacies are of two sorts. There is the non sequitur, which means
that what is drawn as a conclusion simply does not follow from the reasons offered. And
there is the occurrence of inconsistency, which means that two things the author has
tried to say are incompatible. To make either of these criticisms, the reader must be able
to show the precise respect in which the author's argument lacks cogency. One is
concerned with this defect only to the extent that the major conclusions are affected by
it. A book may lack cogency in irrelevant respects.
It is more difficult to illustrate this third point, because few great books make obvious
slips in reasoning. When they do occur, they are usually elaborately concealed, and it
requires a very penetrating reader to discover them. But I can show you a patent fallacy
which I found in a recent reading of Machiavelli's Prince:
The chief foundations of all states, new as well as old, are good laws. As there cannot be
good laws where the state is not well armed, it follows that where they are well armed
they have good laws.
Now it simply does not follow from the fact that good laws depend on an adequate
police force, that where the police force is adequate, the laws will necessarily be good. I
am ignoring the highly questionable character of the first fact. I am only interested in
the non sequitur here. It is truer to say that happiness depends on health (than that good
laws depend on an effective police force), but it does not follow that all who are healthy
are happy.
In his Elements of Law, Hobbes argues in one place that all bodies are nothing but
quantities of matter in motion. The world of bodies, he says, has no qualities
whatsoever. Then, in another place, he argues that man is himself nothing but a body, or
a collection of atomic bodies in motion. Yet, admitting the existence of sensory
qualities—colors, odors, tastes, and so forth—he concludes that they are nothing but the
motions of atoms in the brain. This conclusion is inconsistent with the position first
taken, namely, that the world of bodies in motion is without qualities. What is said of all
bodies in motion must apply to any particular group of them, including the atoms of the
brain.
This third point of criticism is related to the other two. An author may, of course, fail to
draw the conclusions which his evidences or principles imply. Then his reasoning, is
incomplete. But we are here concerned primarily with the case in which he reasons
poorly from good grounds. It is interesting, but less important, to discover lack of
cogency in reasoning from premises that are themselves untrue, or from evidences that
are inadequate.
A person who from sound premises reaches a conclusion invalidly is, in a sense,
misinformed. But it is worth while to distinguish the kind of erroneous statement which
is due to bad reasoning from the kind previously discussed, due to other defects,
especially insufficient knowledge of relevant details.
-4The first three points of criticism, which we have just considered, deal with the
soundness of the author's statements and reasoning. Let us turn now to the fourth
adverse remark a reader can make. It deals with the completeness of the author's
execution of his plan—the adequacy with which he discharges the task he has chosen.
Before we proceed to this fourth remark, one thing should be observed. Since you have
said you understand, your failure to support any of these first three remarks obligates
you to agree with the author as far as he has gone. You have no freedom of will about
this. It is not your sacred privilege to decide whether you are going to agree or disagree.
Since you have not been able to show that the author is uninformed, misinformed, or
illogical on relevant matters, you simply cannot disagree. You must agree. You cannot
say, as so many students and others do, "I find nothing wrong with your premises, and
no errors in reasoning, but I don't agree with your conclusions." All you can possibly
mean by saying something like that is that you do not like the conclusions. You are not
disagreeing. You are expressing your emotions or prejudices. It you have been
convinced, you should admit it. (If, despite your failure to support one or more of these
three critical points, you still honestly feel unconvinced, perhaps you should not have
said you understood in the first place.)
The first three remarks are related to the author's terms, propositions, and arguments.
These are the elements he used to solve the problems which initiated his efforts. The
fourth remark—that the book is incomplete—bears on the structure of the whole.
(4) To say that an author's analysis is incomplete is to say that he has not solved all the
problems he started with, or that he has not made as good a use of his materials as
possible, that he did not see all their implications and ramifications. or that he has failed
to make distinctions which are relevant to his undertaking. It is not enough to say that a
book is incomplete. Anyone can say that of any book. Men are finite, and so are their
works, every last one. There is no point in making this remark, therefore, unless the
reader can define the inadequacy precisely, either by his own efforts as a knower or
through the help of other books.
Let me illustrate this point briefly. The analysis of types of government in Aristotle's
Politics is incomplete. Because of the limitations of his time and his erroneous
acceptance of slavery, Aristotle tails to consider, or for that matter even to conceive, the
truly democratic constitution which is based on universal manhood suffrage; nor can he
imagine either representative government or the modern kind of federated state. His
analysis would have to be extended to apply to these political realities. Euclid's
Elements of Geometry is an incomplete account because he failed to consider other
postulates about the relation of parallel lines. Modern geometrical works, making these
other assumptions, supply the deficiencies. Dewey's How We Think; I pointed out
earlier, is an incomplete analysis of thinking because it fails to treat the sort of thinking
which occurs in reading or learning by instruction in addition to the sort which occurs in
investigation and discovery. To a Christian, believing in personal immortality,
Aristotle's Ethics is an incomplete account of human happiness because it is limited to
happiness in this life.
This fourth point is strictly not a basis tor disagreement. It is critically adverse only to
the extent that it marks the limitations of the author's achievement. A reader who agrees
with a book in part—because he finds no reason to make any of the other points of
adverse criticism—may, nevertheless, suspend judgment on the whole, in the light of
this fourth point about the book's incompleteness. Suspended judgment on the reader's
part responds to an author's failure to solve his problems perfectly.
Related books in the same field can be critically compared by reference to these four
criteria. One is better than another in proportion as it speaks more truth and makes fewer
errors. If we are reading for knowledge, that book is best, obviously, which most
adequately treats a given subject matter. One author may lack information which
another possesses; one may make erroneous suppositions from which another is tree;
one may be less cogent than another in reasoning from similar grounds. But the
protoundest comparison is made with respect to the completeness of the analysis which
each presents. The measure of such completeness is to be found in the number of valid
and significant distinctions which the accounts being compared contain. You may see
now how useful it is to have a grasp of the author's terms. The number of distinct terms
is correlative with the number of distinctions.
You may also see how the fourth critical remark ties together the three readings of any
book. The last step in the first reading is to know the problems which the author is
trying to solve. The last step in the second reading is to know which of these problems
the author solved and which he did not. The final step of criticism is the point about
completeness. It touches the first reading in so far as it considers how adequately the
author stated his problems, and the second reading in so tar as it measures how
satisfactorily he solved them.
-5We have now completed, in a general way, the enumeration and discussion of the rules
of reading. When you have read a book according to these rules, you have done
something. I need not tell you. You will feel that way about it yourself. But perhaps I
should remind you that these rules describe an ideal performance. Few people have ever
read any book in this ideal manner, and those who have, probably read very few books
this way. The ideal remains, however, the measure of achievement. You are a good
reader in the degree to which you approximate it.
When we speak of someone as "well read," we should have this ideal in mind. Too
often, I fear, we use that phrase to mean the quantity rather than the quality of reading.
A person who has read widely but not well deserves to be pitied rather than praised, for
so much effort has been misguided and profitless.
The great writers have always been great readers, but that does not mean that they read
all the books which, in their day, were listed as the great and indispensable ones. In
many cases, they read fewer books than are now required in some of our better colleges,
but what they did read, they read well. Because they had mastered these books, they
became peers with their authors. They were entitled to become authorities in their own
right. In the natural course of events, a good student frequently becomes a teacher, and
so, too, a good reader becomes an author.
My intention here is not to lead you from reading to writing. It is rather to remind you
that one approaches the ideal of good reading by applying the rules I have described in
the reading of a single book, and not by trying to become superficially acquainted with a
large number. There are, of course, many books worth reading well. There is a much
larger number which should be only scanned and skimmed. To become well read, in
every sense of the word, one must know how to use whatever skill one possesses with
discrimination—by reading every book according to its merits.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
And Still More Rules
-1saith the Preacher: "Of making many books there is no end, and much study is
weariness of the flesh." You probably feel that way about the reading of books by now,
and the rules for doing so. I hasten to say, therefore, that this chapter is not going to
increase the number of rules you have to worry about. All the basic rules have now been
stated in general.
Here I am going to try to be more particular by considering the rules in application to
different kinds of books. And I shall return briefly to die piublem of extrinsic reading.
So far we have kept our nose in the book. There are a few points to make about the
utility of looking outside the book you are reading, in order to read it well.
Before I undertake either of these matters, it may be helpful to present all the rules in a
single table, each written in the form of a simple prescription.
I. The Analysis of a Book's Structure
1. Classify the book according to kind and subject matter.
2. State what the whole book is about with the utmost brevity.
3. Enumerate its major parts in their order and relation, and analyze these parts as you
have analyzed the whole.
4. Define the problem or problems the author is trying to solve.
II. The Interpretation of a Book's Contents
1. Come to terms with the author by interpreting his basic words.
2. Grasp the author's leading propositions through dealing with his most important
sentences.
3. Know the author's arguments, by finding them in, or constructing them out of,
sequences of sentences.
4. Determine which of his problems the author solved, and which he did not; and of the
latter, decide which the author knew he failed to solve.
III. The Criticism of a Book as a Communication of Knowledge
A. General Maxims
1. Do not begin criticism until you have com^"^ pleted analysis and interpretation. (Do
not ."• say you agree, disagree, or suspend judgment, until you can say, "I
understand.") S. Do not disagree disputatiously or contentiously.
3. Respect the difference between knowledge and opinion, by having reasons for any
critical judgment you make.
B. Specific Criteria tor Points of Criticism
1. Show wherein the author is uninformed.
2. Show wherein the author is misinformed.
3. Show wherein the author is illogical.
4. Show wherein the author's analysis or account is incomplete.
Note: Of these, the first three are criteria for disagreement. Failing in all of these, you
must agree, in part at least, though you may suspend judgment on the whole, in the light
of the fourth point.
In any art or field of practice, rules have a disappointing way of being too general. The
more general, of course, the fewer, and that is an advantage. But it is also true that the
more general, the more remote they are from the intricacies of the actual situation in
which you try to follow them.
I have stated rules generally enough to apply to any instructive book. But you cannot
read a book in general. You read this book or that, and every particular book is of a
particular sort. It may be a history or a book in mathematics, a political tract or a work
in natural science. Hence you must have some flexibility and adaptability in following
these rules. I think you will gradually get the feel of how they work on different kinds of
books, but I may be able to speed the process somewhat by a few indications of what to
expect.
In Chapter Seven we excluded from consideration all belles-lettres—novels, plays, and
lyrics. I am sure you see now that these rules of reading do not apply to fiction. (There
is, of course, a parallel set of rules which I shall try to suggest in the following chapter.)
Then, in Chapter Eight we saw that the basic division of expository books is into the
practical and the theoretical—books that are concerned with problems of action and
books that are concerned only with something to be known. I propose now that we
examine the nature of practical books a little further.
-2The most important thing about any practical book is that it can never solve the practical
problems with which it is concerned. A theoretical book can solve its own problems.
Questions about the nature of something can be answered completely in a book. But a
practical problem can only be solved by action itself. When your practical problem is
how to earn a living, a book on how to make friends and influence people cannot solve
it, though it may suggest things to do. Nothing short of the doing solves the problem. It
is solved only by earning a living.
Take this book, for example. It is a practical book. If your interest in it is practical, you
want to solve the problem of learning to read. You would not regard that problem as
solved and done away with until you did learn. This book cannot solve the problem for
you. It can only help. You must actually go through the activity of reading, not merely
this book, but others. That is what I mean by saying that nothing but action solves
practical problems, and action occurs only in the world, not in books.
Every action takes place in a particular situation, alwaya in the here and now and under
these special circumstances. You cannot act in general. The kind of practical judgment
which immediately precedes action must be highly particular. It can be expressed in
words, but it seldom is. It is almost never found in books, because the author of a
practical book cannot envisage the concrete practical situations in which his readers
may have to act. Try as he will to be helpful, he cannot give them really concrete
practical advice. Only another person in exactly the same situation could do that.
Practical books can, however, state more .or less general rules which apply to a lot of
particular situations of the same general sort. Whoever tries to use such books must
apply the rules to particular cases and, therefore, must exercise practical judgment in
doing so. In other words, the reader himself must add something to the book to make it
applicable in practice. He must add his knowledge of the particular situation, and his
judgment of how the rule applies to the case.
Any book which contains rules—prescriptions, maxims, or any sort of general
directions—you will readily recognize as a practical book. But a practical book may
contain more than rules. It may try to state the principles which underlie the rules and
make them intelligible. For example, in this practical book about reading, I have tried
here and there to explain the rules by brief expositions of grammatical and logical
principles. The principles which underlie rules are usually in themselves scientific, that
is, they are uems of theoretic knowledge. Taken together, they are the theory of the
thing. Thus, we talk about the theory of bridge building or the theory of bridge whist.
We mean the theoretical principles which make the rules of good procedure what they
are.
Practical books fall into two main groups. Some, like this one and the cookbook and the
driver's manual, are prima^ rily presentations of rules. Whatever other discussion they
contain is for the sake of the rules. I know of no great book of this sort. The other kind
of practical book is primarily concerned with the principles which generate rules. All
the great books in economics, politics, and morals are of this sort.
I do not mean that the distinction is sharp and absolute. Both principles and rules may
be found in the same book. The point is only one of relative emphasis. You will have no
difficulty in sorting books into these two piles. The book of rules in any field will
always be immediately recognizable as practical. The book of practical principles may
look at first like a theoretical book. In a sense it is, as we have seen. It deals with the
theory of a particular kind of practice. You can always tell it is practical, however. The
nature of its problems gives it away. It is always about a field of human behavior in
which men can do better or worse.
In reading a book which is primarily a rulebook, the major propositions to look for, of
course, are the rules. A rule is most directly expressed by an imperative rather than a
declarative sentence. It is a command. It says: "Save nine, by taking a stitch in time." It
can also be expressed declara-tively, as when we say, "A stitch in time saves nine."
Both forms of statement suggest—the imperative a little mor< emphatically—that it is
worth while to be prompt in ordei to save nine stitches.
Whether it is stated declaratively or in the form of direct command, you can always
recognize a rule because it recom' mends something as worth doing to gain a certain
end. Thus, the rule of reading which commands you to come to terms can also be stated
as a recommendation: good reading involves coming to terms. The word "good" is the
giveaway here. That such reading is worth doing is implied.
The arguments in a practical book of this sort will be attempts to show you that the rules
are sound. The writer may have to appeal to principles to persuade you that they are, or
he may simply illustrate their soundness by showing you how they work in concrete
cases. Look for both sorts of arguments. The appeal to principles is usually less
persuasive, but it has one advantage. It can explain the reason for the rules better than
examples of their use can.
In the other kind of practical book, dealing mainly with the principles underlying rules,
the major propositions and arguments will, of course, look exactly like those in a purely
theoretical book. The propositions will say that something is the case, and the
arguments will try to show that it is so.
But there is an important difference between reading such a book and a purely
theoretical one. Since the ultimate problems to be solved are practical—problems of
action— an intelligent reader of such books about "practical principles" always reads
between the lines or in the margins. He tries to see the rules which may not be expressed
but can, nevertheless, be derived from the principles. He may go even further. He may
try to figure out how the rules should be applied in practice.
Unless it is so read, a practical book is not read as practical. To fail to read a practical
book as practical is to read it poorly. You really do not understand it, and you certainly
cannot criticize it properly in any other way. If the intelligibility of rules is to be found
in principles, it is no less true that the significance of practical principles is to be.found
in the rules they lead to, the actions they recommend.
This indicates what you must do to understand either sort of practical book. It also
indicates the ultimate criteria for critical judgment. In the case of purely theoretical
books, the criteria for agreement or disagreement relate to the truth of what is being
said. But practical truth is different from theoretic truth. A rule of conduct is practically
true on two conditions: one is that it works; the other is that its working leads you to the
right end, an end you rightly desire.
Suppose that the end which an author thinks you should seek does not seem like the
right oiie to you. Even though his recommendations may be practically sound, in the
sense of getting you to that end, you will not agree with him ultimately. And your
judgment of his book as practically true or false will be made accordingly. If you do not
think careful and intelligent reading is worth doing, this book has little practical truth
for you, however sound my rules may be.
Notice what this means. In judging a theoretic book, the reader must observe the
identity of, or the discrepancy between, his own basic principles or assumptions and
those of the author. In judging a practical book, everything turns on the ends or goals. If
you do not share Karl Marx's fervor about economic justice, his economic doctrine and
the reforms it suggests are likely to seem practically false or irrelevant. You may think
that preserving the status quo is a more desirable objective than removing the iniquities
of capital' ism. In that case, you are likely to think that revolutionary documents are
preposterously false. Your main judgment will always be in terms of the ends, not the
means. We have no practical interest in even the soundest means to reach ends we do
not care about.
-3This brief discussion gives you a clue to the two major questions you must ask yourself
in reading any sort of practical book. The first is: What are the author's objectives? The
second is: What means is he proposing? It may be more difficult to answer these
questions in the case of a book about principles than in the case of one about rules. The
ends and means are likely to be less obvious. Yet answering them in either case is
necessary for the understanding and criticism of a practical book.
It also reminds you of one aspect of practical writing we noted earlier. There is an
admixture of oratory or propaganda in every practical book. I have never read a political
book—however theoretical it may appear, however "abstract" the principles with which
it deals—that did not try to persuade the reader about "the best form of government."
Similarly, moral treatises try to persuade the reader about "the good life" as well as
recommend ways of leading it.
You can see why the practical author must always be something of an orator or
propagandist. Since your ultimate judgment of his work is going to turn on your
acceptance of the goal tor which he is proposing means, it is up to him to win you to his
ends. To do this, he has to argue in a way that appeals to your heart as well as your
mind. He may have to play on your emotions and gain direction of your will. That is
why I call him an orator or propagandist.
There is nothing wrong or vicious about this. It is of the very nature of practical affairs
that men have to be persuaded to think and act in a certain way. Neither practical
thinking nor action is an affair of the mind alone. The guts cannot be left out. No one
makes serious practical judgments or engages in action without being moved somehow
from below the neck. The writer of practical books who does not realize this will be
ineffective. The reader of them who does not is likely to be sold a bill of goods without
his knowing it.
The best protection against propaganda of any sort is the complete recognition of it for
what it is. Only hidden and undetected oratory is insidious. What reaches the heart
without going through the mind is likely to bounce back and put the mind out of
business. Propaganda taken in that way is like a drug you do not know you are
swallowing. The effect is mysterious. You do not know afterwards why you feel or
think the way you do. But putting alcohol in your drink in a recognized dosage can give
you a lift you need and know-how to use.
The person who reads a practical book intelligently, who knows its basic terms,
propositions, and arguments, will always be able to detect its oratory. He will spot the
passages which make an "emotive use of words." Aware that he must be subject to
persuasion, he can do something about weighing the appeals. He has sales resistance.
But do not make the error of supposing that sales resistance must be one hundred per
cent. It is good when it prevents you from buying hastily and thoughtlessly. But it
should not withdraw you from the market entirely. The reader who supposes he should
be totally deaf to all appeals imght just as well not read practical books.
There is one further point here. Because of the nature of practical problems and because
of the admixture of oratory in all practical writing, the "personality" of the author is
aiore important in the case of practical books than theoretical. Both in order to
understand and to judge a moral treatise, a political tract, or an economic discussion,
you should know something about the character of the writer, something about his life
and times. In reading Aristotle's Politics, it is highly relevant to know that Greek society
was based on slavery. Similarly, much light is thrown on The Prince by knowing the
Italian situation at the time of Machiavelli, and his relation to the Medicis; or, in the
case of Hobbes' Leviathan, to know that Hobbes lived during the English civil wars and
was pathologically distressed by social violence and disorder.
Sometimes the author tells you about himself, his life, and times. Usually he does not do
so explicitly, and when he does, his deliberate revelation of himself is seldom adequate
or dependable. Hence reading his book and nothing else may not suffice. To understand
it and to judge it, you may have to read other books, books about him and his times, or
books which he himself read and reacted to.
Any aid to reading which lies outside the book being read is extrinsic. You may
remember that I distinguished between intrinsic rules and extrinsic aids in Chapter
Seven. Well, the reading of other books is one of the most obvious extrinsic aids in
reading a particular book. Let me call this aid "extrinsic reading." I can summarize my
point here simply by saying that extrinsic reading about the author is much more
important for interpreting and criticizing practical books than theoretical ones.
Remember this as an additional rule to guide you in reading practical books.
-4Now let us turn to the large class of theoretic books and see if there are any additional
rules there. I must break this large class up into three major divisions, which I have
already named and discussed in Chapter Eight: history, science, and philosophy. In
order to deal briefly with a complicated matter, I shall discuss only two things in
connection with each of these types of books. I shall first consider whatever is peculiar
to the problems of that type of book-its terms, propositions, and arguments—and then
discuss whatever extrinsic aids are relevant.
You already know the point about a history book being a combination of knowledge and
poetry. All of the great historical works are narratives. They tell a story. Any story must
have a plot and characters. It must have episodes, complications of action, a climax, and
an aftermath. These are the elements of a history, viewed as a narrative—not terms,
propositions, and arguments. To understand a history in its poetic aspect, therefore, you
must know how to read fiction. I have not yet discussed the rules for doing that, but
most people can do this sort of reading with some skill anyway. They know how to
follow a story. They also know the difference between a good and a bad story. History
may be stranger than fiction, but the historian has to make what happened appear
plausible, nevertheless. If he does not, he tells a bad story, a dull one, or even a
preposterous one.
I shall discuss in the next chapter the rules for reading fiction. Such rules may help you
to interpret and criticize .histories in their poetic dimension as narratives. Here I shall
confine myself to the logical rules we have already discussed. Applied to histories, they
require you to distinguish two kinds of statement you will find. In the first place, there
are all the propositions about particular things-events, persons, or institutions. These
are, in a sense, the matter of the history, the substance of what is being narrated. In so
far as such statements are subject to argument, the author may try to give you, in his text
or footnotes, the evidences for believing that things happened this way rather than
otherwise.
In the second place, the historian may have some general interpretation of the facts he is
narrating. This may be expressed poetically in the way he tells the story—whom he
makes the hero, where he places the climax, how he develops the aftermath. But it may
also be expressed in certain generalizations he enunciates. You must look for general
propositions of this sort. Herodotus, in his history of the Persian wars, tells you early
what his major insight is.
The cities which were formerly great, have most of them become insignificant; and such
as are at present powerful, were weak in olden time. I shall therefore discourse equally
of both, convinced that prosperity never continues long in one place.
I have italicized the generalization which Herodotus exemplifies again and again in the
course of his story. He does not try to prove the proposition. He is satisfied with
showing you countless instances in which it appears to be true. That is usually the way
historians argue for their generalizations.
There are some historians who try to argue for their general insights about the course of
human affairs. The Marxist historian not only writes in such a way that the class
struggle is always clearly exemplified; he frequently argues that this must be the case in
terms of his "theory of history." He tries to show that the economic interpretation is the
only one. Another historian, such as Carlyle, tries to show that human affairs are
controlled by the action of leaders. This is the "great man" theory of history.
To read a history critically, therefore, you must discovel the interpretation a writer
places on the facts. You must know his "theory," which means his generalizations and,
if possible, the reasons for them. In no other way can you tell why certain facts are
selected and others omitted, why stress is placed on this and not on that. The easiest way
to catch on is to read two histories of the same thing, written from different points of
view. (One of the things which distinguishes history from science is that there can be
two or more good histories of the same events—sharply divergent though equally
persuasive and creditable. Of a given matter, there is at any time only one good
scientific account.)
Extrinsic reading is thus an aid to understanding and judging history books. You may go
to other histories, or to reference books, to check on the facts. You may even get
interested enough to look into the original documents from which the historian gathered
evidence. Reading other books is not the only extrinsic aid to understanding a history.
You can also visit the places where things happened, or look at monuments and other
relics of the past. The experience of walking around the battlefield at Gettysburg made
me realize how much better I should understand the account of Hannibal's invasion had
I ever crossed the Alps on the back of an elephant.
I want to stress the reading of other great histories of the same events as the best way to
get a line on the bias of a great historian. But there is often more than bias in a history.
There is propaganda. A history of something remote in time or place is also often a tract
or diatribe for the home folks, as was Tacitus' account of the Germans, and Gibbon's
explanation of why Rome fell. Tacitus exaggerated the primitive virtues of the Teutonic
tribes to shame the decadence and effeminacy of his fellow Romans. Gibbon stressed
the part a rising Christianity had played in a falling Rome to support the freethinkers
and anticlericals of his day against the established churchmen.
Of all theoretical books, a history is most like practical books in this respect. Therefore,
the advice to a reader is the same. Find out something about the character of the
historian, and the local conditions which may have motivated him. Facts of this sort will
not only explain his bias but prepare you for the moral lessons he tells you history
teaches.
-5The additional rules for reading scientific works are the easiest to state. By a scientific
work, I mean the report of findings or conclusions in some field of research, whether
carried on experimentally in a laboratory or by observations of nature in the raw. The
scientific problem is always to describe the phenomena as accurately as possible, and to
trace the interconnections among different kinds of phenomena.
In the great works of science, there is no oratory or propaganda, though there may be
bias in the sense of initial presuppositions. You detect this, and take account of it, by
distinguishing what the author assumes from what he establishes through argument. The
more "objective" a scientific author is, the more he will explicitly beg you to take this or
that for granted. Scientific objectivity is not the absence of initial bias. It is attained by
frank confession of it.
The leading terms in a scientific work are usually expressed by uncommon or technical
words. They are relatively easy to spot, and through them you can readily grasp the
propositions. The main propositions are always general ones. A scientist, unlike a
historian, tries to get away from locality in time and place. He tries to say how things
are generally, how they generally behave.
The only point of difficulty is with respect to the arguments. Science, as you know, is
primarily inductive. This means that its primary arguments are those which establish. a
general proposition by reference to observable evidence—a single case created by an
experiment, or a vast array of cases collected by patient inquiry. There are other
arguments of the sort which are called deductive. These are arguments in which a
proposition is proved by other propositions already somehow established. So far as
proof is concerned, science does not differ much from philosophy. But the inductive
argument is peculiar to science.
To understand and judge the inductive arguments in a scientific book, you must be able
to follow the evidence which the scientist reports as their basis. Sometimes the
scientist's description of an experiment performed is so vivid and clear that you have no
trouble. Sometimes a scientific book contains illustrations and diagrams which help to
acquaint you with the phenomena described.
If these things fail, the reader has only one recourse. He must get the necessary special
experience for himself at first hand. He may have to witness a laboratory demonstration.
He may have to look at and handle pieces of apparatus similar to those referred to in the
book. He may have to go to a museum and observe specimens or models.
That is the reason why St. John's College in Annapolis, where all students read the great
books, also requires four years of laboratory work for all students. The student must not
only learn how to employ apparatus for precise measurements and laboratory
constructions, but he must also become acquainted, through direct experience, with the
crucial experiments in the history of science. There are classical experiments as well as
classical books. The scientific classics become more intelligible to those who have seen
with their own eyes and done with their own hands what a great scientist describes as
the procedure by which he reached his insights.
Thus you see how the major extrinsic aid in the reading of scientific books is not the
reading of other books but rather getting a direct acquaintance with the phenomena
involved. In proportion as the experience to be obtained is highly specialized, it is both
more indispensable and more difficult to get.
I do not mean, of course, that extrinsic reading may not be helpful, too. Other books
about the same subject matter may throw light on the problems, and help us to be
critical of the book we are reading. They may locate points of misinformation, lack of
evidence, incompleteness of analysis. But I still think that the primary aid is the one
which throws direct light on the inductive arguments that are the heart of any scientific
book.
-6The reading of philosophical works has special aspects which relate to the difference
between philosophy and science. I am considering here only theoretic works in
philosophy, such as metaphysical treatises or books about the philosophy of nature,
because ethical and political books have already been treated. They are practical
philosophy.
The philosophical problem is to explain, not to describe, the nature of things. It asks
about more than the connection of phenomena. It seeks to penetrate to the ultimate
causes and conditions of things, as existing and changing. Such problems are solved
only when the answers to them are clearly demonstrated.
The major effort of the reader here must be with respect to the terms and the initial
propositions. Although the philosopher also has a technical terminology, the words
which express his terms are often taken from common speech and used in a very special
sense. This demands special care from the reader. If he does not overcome the tendency
to use familiar words in a familiar way, he will probably make gibberish and nonsense
of the book. I have seen many people throw a philosophical book away in disgust or
irritation, when the fault was theirs, not the author's. They did not even try to come to
terms.
The basic terms of philosophical discussion are, of course, abstract. But so are those of
science. No general knowledge is expressible except in abstract terms. There is notliing
peculiarly difficult about abstractions. We use them every day of our lives and in every
sort of conversation. If you substitute the distinction between the particular and the
general for that between the concrete and the abstract, you will have less fear of
abstractions.
Whenever you talk generally about anything, you are using abstractions. What you can
perceive through your senses is concrete and particular. What you think with your mind
is always abstract and general. To understand an "abstract word" is to have the idea it
expresses. "Having an idea" is just another way of saying that you know a general
aspect of something, to which the mind can refer. You cannot see or touch or even
imagine the aspect thus referred to. If you could, there would be no difference between
the senses and the mind. People who try to imagine what ideas refer to befuddle
themselves, and end up with that hopeless feeling about all abstractions.
Just as the inductive arguments should be the reader's main focus in the case of
scientific books, so here you must pay closest attention to the philosopher's principles.
The word "principle" means a beginning. The propositions with which a philosopher
begins are his principles. They may be either things he asks you to assume with him, or
matters which he calls self-evident.
There is no problem about assumptions. Make them to see what follows, even if you
yourself have contrary presuppositions. The clearer you are about your own prejudgments, the more likely you are not to misjudge those made by others.
It is the other sort of principle, however, which may cause you trouble. I know of no
philosophical book which does not have some initial propositions the author regards as
self-evident. These propositions are like the scientist's inductions in one respect. They
are drawn directly from experience rather than proved by other propositions.
The difference lies in the experience from which they are drawn. The philosopher
appeals to the common experience of mankind. He does no work in laboratories or
research in the field. Hence to understand and test a philosopher's leading principles you
do not need the extrinsic aid of special experience. He refers you to your own common
sense and daily observation of the world in which you live.
Once you have grasped a philosopher's terms and principles, the rest of your task in
reading his book raises no special difficulties. You must follow the proofs, of course.
You must note every step he takes in the progress of his analysis—his definitions and
distinctions, his ordering of terms. But the same is true in the case of a scientific book.
Acquaintance with the evidence, in the one case, and acceptance of the principles, in the
other, are the indispensable conditions for following all the remaining arguments.
A good theoretic work in philosophy is as free from oratory and propaganda as a good
scientific treatise. You do not have to be concerned about the "personality" of the
author, or investigate his social and economic backgrounds. There is utility,
nevertheless, in doing extrinsic reading in connection with a philosophical book. You
should read the works of other great philosophers who dealt with the same problems.
The philosophers have carried on a long conversation with one another in the history of
thought. You had better listen in on it before you make up your mind about what any
one of them says.
The fact that philosophers disagree does not make them different from other men. In
reading philosophical books, you must remember, above all, the maxim to respect the
difference between knowledge and opinion. The fact of disagreement must not lead you
to suppose that everything is just a matter of opinion. Persistent disagreements
sometimes locate the great unsolved and, perhaps, insoluble problems. They point to the
mysteries. But where problems are genuinely answerable by knowledge, you must not
forget that men can agree if they will talk to one another long enough.
Do not worry about the disagreement of others. Your responsibility is only for making
up your own mind. In the presence of the long conversation which the philosophers
have had through their books, you must judge what is true and false. When you have
read a philosophical book well —and that means sufficient extrinsic reading as well as
skill-tul interpretation—you are in a position to judge.
The most distinctive mark of philosophical questions is that every man must answer
them for himself. Taking the opinions of others is not solving them, but evading them.
They are answered only by knowledge, and it must be your knowledge. You cannot
depend on the testimony of the experts, as you may have to in the case of science.
There are two further points about extrinsic reading in connection with philosophical
books. Do not spend all your time reading books about the philosophers, their lives and
opinions. Try reading the philosophers themselves, in relation to one another. And in
reading ancient and medieval -philosophers, or even the early modems, do not be
disturbed by the errors or inadequacies of scientific knowledge which their books
reveal.
Philosophical knowledge rests directly on common experience and not on the findings
of science, not on the results of specialized research. You will see, if you follow the
arguments carefully, that the misinformation or lack of information about scientific
matters is irrelevant.
This second point makes it important to note the date of the philosopher you are
reading. That will not only place him properly in the conversation with those who came
before and after, but prepare you for the sort of scientific imagery he will employ to
illustrate some of his points. The same urbanity which makes you indulgent of those
who speak a foreign tongue should lead you to cultivate a tolerance for men of wisdom
who did not know all the facts we now possess. Both may have something to say that
we would be fools not to listen to, simply because of our provincialism.
-7There are two classes of books I have tailed to mention specially. One is mathematics,
the other theology. My reason is that at one level of reading, they do not present special
problems. And at another, the problems they present are much too complicated and
difficult for me to handle here. Perhaps I can say a few simple things about them,
however.
In general, the type of proposition and the type of argument in a mathematical book are
philosophical rather than scientific. The mathematician like the philosopher is an
armchair thinker. He does no experiments. He undertakes no special observations. From
principles, which are either self-evident or assumed, he proves his conclusions, and
solves his problems.
The difficulty in reading mathematical books arises in part from the kind of symbols the
mathematician uses. He writes in a special language, not that of ordinary speech. It has a
special grammar, a special syntax, and special rules of operation. In part, also, the
precise method of mathematical demonstration is peculiar to this one subject matter. We
have already seen many times that Euclid and others who write mathematically have a
distinctly different style from that of other authors.
You must know the special grammar and logic of mathematics if you are to become an
accomplished reader of mathematical books. The general rules we have discussed can
be applied intelligently to this subject matter only through understanding them in the
light of special principles. I might add that the logic of scientific argument and of
philosophical proof are also different,''not only from mathematics, but from each other.
The insight I would like you to get here is that there are as many special grammars and
logics as there are specifically different applications of the rules of reading to different
kinds of books and subject matters.
A word about theology. It differs from philosophy in that its first principles are articles
of faith adhered to by the communicants of some religion. Reasoning which rests on
premises to which reason can itself attain is philosophical, not theological. A theological
book always depends upon dogmas and the authority of a church which proclaims them.
If you are not of the faith, if you do not belong to the church, you can nevertheless read
a theological book well by treating its dogmas with the same respect you treat the
assumptions of the mathematician. But you must remember that an article of faith is not
something which the faithful assume. Faith, for those who have it, is the most certain
form of knowledge, not a tentative opinion.
There is one kind of extrinsic reading peculiar to theological works. Those who have
faith believe in the revealed word of God, as that is contained in a sacred scripture.
Thus, Jewish theology requires that its readers be acquainted with the Old Testament,
Christian theology with the New as well, Mohammedan theology with the Koran, and
so forth.
Here I must stop. The problem of reading the Holy Book—if you have faith that it is the
Word of God—is the most difficult problem in the whole field of reading. There have
been more books written about how to read Scripture than about all other aspects of the
art of reading together. The Word of God is obviously the most difficult writing men
can read. The effort of the faithful has been duly proportionate to the difficulty of the
task. I think it would be true to say that, in the European tradition at least, the Bible is
the book in more senses than one. It has been not only the most widely read but the
most carefully.
-8Let me close this chapter with a brief summary of the extrinsic aids to reading. What
lies beyond the book you are reading? Three things, it seems to me, which are especially
relevant: experience—common or special; other books; and live discussion. The role of
experience as an extrinsic factor is, I think, sufficiently clear. Other books may be of
various sorts. They may be reference books, secondary books, and commentaries, or
other great books, dealing with the same or with related matters.
Following all the rules of intrinsic reading is seldom sufficient to read any book well,
either interpretatively or critically. Experience and other books are indispensable
extrinsic aids. In reading books with students, I am as frequently impressed by the fact
that they do not employ these aids as that they do not know how to read the book by
itself.
Under the elective system, a student takes a course as if it were something quite apart.
One course has no connec tion with another, and no course seems to have any
connection with his ordinary affairs, his vital problems, his daily experience. Students
who take courses this way read books in the same way. They make no effort to connect
one book with another, even when they are most obviously related, or to refer what the
author is saying to,.their own experience. They read about Fascism and Communism in
the newspapers. They hear defenses of democracy over the radio. But it never seems to
occur to most of them that the great political treatise they may be reading deals with the
same problems, though the language it speaks is a little more elegant.
Only last year Mr. Hutchins and I read a series of political works with some students. At
first, they tended to read each book as if it existed in a vacuum. Despite the fact that the
various authors were plainly arguing about the same thing, they did not seem to think
that it was worth while to mention one book in discussing another. But the good
students could make all these connections when called upon to do so. We had one of our
most exciting class hours after Mr. Hutchins had asked whether Hobbes would have
defended Hitler for keeping Pastor Niemoller in a concentration camp. Would Spinoza
have tried to get him out? What would Locke have done, and John Stuart Mill?
The problems of free speech and free conscience found dead authors talking about
living issues. The students took sides on the Niemoller question, and so did the booksMill against Hobbes, and Locke against Spinoza. Even if the students could not help
Pastor Niemoller, his case had helped them focus the opposition of political principles
in the light of their practical consequences. Students who before had seen nothing
wrong with Hobbes and Spinoza now began to doubt their prior judgments.
The utility of extrinsic reading is simply an extension of the value of context in reading
a book by itself. We have seen how the context must be used to interpret words and
sentences to find terms and propositions. Just as the whole book is a context for any of
its parts, so related books provide an even larger context that helps you interpret the one
you are reading.
I like to think of the great books as involved in a prolonged conversation about the basic
problems of mankind. The great authors were great readers, and one way to understand
them is to read the books they read. As readers, they carried on a conversation with
other authors, just as each of us carries on a conversation with the books we read,
though we may not write other books.
To get into this conversation, we must read the great books in relation to one another,
and in an order that somehow respects chronology. The conversation of the books takes
place in time. Time is of the essence here and should not be disregarded. The books can
be read from the present into the past or from the past into the present., Though I think
the order from past to present has certain advantages, through being more natural, the
fact of chronology can be observed in either way.
The conversational aspect of reading (the authors conversing with one another, and any
reader conversing with his author) explains the third extrinsic factor I mentioned above,
namely, live discussion. By live discussion, I mean no more than the actual conversation
you and I may have together about a book we have read in common.
While this is not an indispensable aid to reading, it is certainly a great help. That is why
Mr. Hutchins and I conduct our course in reading books by meeting with the students to
discuss them. The reader who learns to discuss a book well with other readers may
come thereby to have better conversations with the author when he has him alone in his
study. He may even come to appreciate better the conversation which the authors had
with one another.
PART III .
THE REST OF THE READER'S LIFE
[ The Other half] [ The Great Books] [ Free Minds and Free Men]
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Other half
-1this is only half a book on reading, or perhaps I should say that so far it has been
concerned with only halt the reading that most people do. Even that might be too liberal
an estimate. I am not so naive as to suppose that most of the reader's life will be spent in
reading the great books. Probably the greater part of anybody's reading time is spent on
newspapers and magazines. And so far as books are concerned, most of us read more
fiction than nonfiction. True, the best-seller lists are usually divided in half: fiction and
nonfiction. But although the nonfiction books often reach large audiences, their total
audience is somewhat less than the audience of fiction, good and bad. Of the nonfiction
books, the most popular are frequently those which, like the newspapers and magazines,
deal with matters of contemporary interest.
I have not deceived you about the rules set forth in preceding chapters. In Chapter
Seven, before undertaking a detailed discussion of the rules, I explained that we wo"ld
have to limit ourselves to the business of reading serious I' nonfiction books. To
expound the rules for reading imaginative and expository literature at the same time
would be confusing, and an adequate treatment of the reading of fiction or poetry could
not be managed in less space than it took to discuss the nonfiction rules. I seemed to be
faced with the choice of writing a much longer book, perhaps even another one, or
ignoring half the reading people do. For the sake of clarity, I took the second alternative
while writing the preceding part of this book. But now, when I consider the rest of the
reader's life, I cannot ignore the other types of reading any longer. I shall try to make up
for these deficiencies, even though I know that a single chapter devoted to all other
kinds of reading must be inadequate.
I would be far from frank if I let you think that lack of space was my only shortcoming.
I must confess that I have much less competence for the task this chapter undertakes,
though I might add, in extenuation, that the problem of knowing how to read
imaginative literature is inherently much more difficult. Nevertheless, you may think
that the need to formulate rules for reading fiction is less urgent, because more people
seem to know how to read fiction and get something out of it than nonfiction.
Observe the paradox here. On the one hand, I say that skill in reading fiction is more
difficult to analyze; on the other, it seems to be a fact that such skill is more widely
possessed than the art of reading science and philosophy, politics, economics, and
history. It may be, of course, that people deceive themselves about their ability to read
novels intelligently. If that is not the case, I think I can explain the paradox another way.
Imaginative literature delights primarily rather than instructs. It is much easier to be
delighted than instructed, but much harder to know why one is delighted. Beauty is more
elusive, analytically, than truth.
From my teaching experience, I know how tongue-tied people become when asked to
say what they liked about a novel. That they enjoyed it is perfectly clear to them, but
they cannot give much account of their enjoyment or tell what the book contained which
caused them pleasure. This indicates, you may say, that people can be good readers of
fiction without being good critics. I suspect this is, at best, a half-truth. A critical
reading of anything depends upon the fullness of one's apprehension. Those who cannot
say what they like about a novel probably have not read it below its most obvious
surfaces.
To make this last point clear would require an explicit formulation of all the rules for
reading imaginative literature. Lacking both space and competence to do that, I shall
offer you two short cuts. The first proceeds by the way of negation, stating the obvious
"don'ts" instead of the constructive rules. The second proceeds by the way of analogy,
briefly translating the rules for reading nonfiction into their equivalents for reading
fiction. I shall use the word "fiction" to name all of imaginative literature, including
lyric poetry as well as novels and plays. Lyric poetry really deserves a separate and
elaborate discussion. In fact, just as in the case of expository books, where the general
rules must be particularized for history, science, and philosophy, so here an adequate
treatment would have to consider the special problems involved in reading the novel,
the drama, and the lyric. But we shall have to be satisfied with much less.
-2In order to proceed by the way of negation, it is first of all necessary to grasp the basic
differences between expository and imaginative literature. These differences will
explain why we cannot read a novel as if it were a philosophical argument, or a lyric as
if it were a mathematical demonstration.
The most obvious difference, already mentioned, relates to the purposes of the two
kinds of writing. Expository books aim primarily to instruct, imaginative ones to
delight. The former try to convey knowledge—knowledge about experiences which the
reader either has or could have. The latter try to communicate an experience itself— one
which the reader can get only by reading—and if they succeed they give the reader
something to be enjoyed. Because of their diverse intentions, the two sorts of work
appeal differently to the intellect and the imagination.
We experience things through the exercise of our senses and imagination. To know
anything we must use our powers of judgment and reasoning, which are intellectual. I
do not mean that we can think without using our imagination, or that sense experience is
ever divorced from some rational reflection. The point is only one of emphasis. Fiction
appeals primarily to the imagination. That is the reason tor calling it imaginative
literature, in contrast to science and philosophy which are intellectual.
We have been considering reading as an activity by which we receive communication
from others. If we look a little more deeply now, we shall see that expository books do
communicate what is eminently and essentially communicable—abi(rac( knowledge;
whereas imaginative books try to communicate what is essentially and profoundly
incommunicable—concrete experience. There is something mysterious about this. If
concrete experience is really incommunicable, by what magic does the poet or novelist
hope to convey to you for your enjoyment an experience which he has enjoyed?
Before I answer this question, I must be sure that you fully realize the
incommunicability of concrete experience.
Everyone has gone through some intense emotional crisis— the quick wave of anger,
prolonged anxiety about an impending disaster, the cycle of hope and despair in love.
Have you ever tried to tell your friends about it? You can tell them all the facts without
much trouble, because the outward and observable facts are matters of ordinary
knowledge and can be easily communicated. But can you give them the experience
itself, in all its concrete inwardness— the experience which you find difficult even to
remember in its fullness and intensity? If your own memory of it is pale and
fragmentary, how much more so must be the impression you are conveying by your
words. As you watch the faces of your listeners, you can tell that they are not having the
experience you are talking about. And you may realize then that it takes more narrative
art than you possess—an art which is the distinctive possession of the great imaginative
writers.
In one sense, of course, even the greatest writer cannot communicate his own
experiences. They are uniquely his through all eternity. A man can share his knowledge
with Others, but he cannot share the actual pulsations of his life. Since unique and
concrete experience cannot be communicated, the artist does the next best thing. He
creates in the reader what he cannot convey. He uses words to produce an experience
for the reader to enjoy, an experience which the reader lives through in a manner similar
and proportionate to the writer's own. His language so works upon the emotions and
imagination of each reader that each in turn suffers an experience he has never had
before, even though memories may be evoked in the process. These new experiences,
different for each reader according to his own individual nature and memories, are
nevertheless alike, because they are all created according to the same model—the
incommunicable experiences on which the writer draws. We are like so many
instruments for him to play upon, each with its .special overtones and resonances, but
the music that he plays so differently on each of us follows one and the same score. That
score is written into the novel or poem. As we read it, it seems to communicate, but it
really creates, an experience. That is the magic of good fiction, which creates
imaginatively the similitude of an actual experience.
I cannot substantiate what I have said by quoting a whole novel or play. I can only ask
the reader to remember and dwell upon what happened to him while he was reading
some fiction which moved him deeply. Did he learn facts about the world? Did he
follow arguments and proofs? Or did he suffer a novel experience actually created in hi»
imagination during the process of reading?
I can, however, quote a few short and simple lyrics, widely familiar. The first is by
Robert Herrick:
Whenas in silks my Julia goes,
Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows
That liquefaction of her clothes.
Next, when I cast mine eyes, and see
That brave vibration, each way free,
0, how that glittering taketh me!
The second is by Percy Bysshe Shelley:
Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memoryOdors, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the beloved's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.
The third is by Gerard Manley Hopkins:
Glory be to God for dappled things—
For skies of couple-color as a brindled cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;
And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.
All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.
Different in their objects and in the complexity of the emotions told about, these lyrics
work upon us in the same way. They play upon our senses directly by the music of their
words, but more than that, they evoke imaginations and memories which blend into a
single whole of significant experience. Each word is counted on to do its part, not only
musically in the pattern of sounds but also as a command to remember or imagine. The
poet has so directed our faculties that, without being aware of how it happened, we have
enjoyed an experience, not of our making but of his. We have not received something
from him, as we re" ceive knowledge from a scientific writer. Rather we have suffered
ourselves to be the medium of his creation. He has used words to get into our hearts
and fancies and move them to an experience that reflects his own as one dream might
resemble another. In fact, by some strange manner of effluence, the poet's dream is
dreamed differently by each of us.
The basic difference between expository and imaginative literature—that one instructs
by communicating, whereas the other delights by recreating what cannot be
communicated—leads to another difference. Because of their radically diverse aims,
these two kinds of writing necessarily use language differently. The imaginative writer
tries to maximize the latent ambiguities of words, thereby to gain all the richness and
force that is inherent in their multiple meanings. He uses metaphors as the units of his
construction just as the logical writer uses words sharpened to a single meaning. What
Dante says of The Divine Comedy, that it must be read as having four distinct though
related meanings, generally applies to poetry and fiction. The logic of expository
writing aims at an ideal of unambiguous explicit-ness. Nothing should be left between
the lines. Everything that is relevant and statable should be said as explicitly and clearly
as possible. In contrast, imaginative writing relies upon what is implied rather than upon
what is said. The multiplication of metaphors puts more content between the lines than
in the words which compose them. The whole poem or novel says something which
none of its words say or can say: it speaks the incommunicable experience it has recreated for the reader.
Taking lyric poetry and mathematics as the ideals, or perhaps I should say the two
extreme forms of imaginative and expository writing, we can see another and
consequent difference between the poetical and logical dimensions of grammar. A
mathematical statement is indefinitely translatable into other statements expressing the
same truth. The great French scientist Poincare once said that mathematics was the art
of saying the same thing in as many different ways as possible. Anyone who has
watched an equation undergo the countless transformations to which it is subject will
understand this. At each stage, the actual symbols may be different or in a different
order, but the same mathematical relationship is being expressed. In contrast, a poetic
statement is absolutely untranslatable, not only from one language to another, but within
the same language from one set of words to another. You cannot say what is said by
"Music, when soft voices die, vibrates in the memory" in any other English words. Here
is no proposition which can be expressed in many equivalent sentences, all equally
rendering the same truth. Here is a use of words to move the imagination, not to instruct
the mind; in consequence, only these words, and in this order, can do what the poet
contrived them for. Any other form of words will create another experience—better or
worse, but in any case different.
You may object that I have drawn the line too sharply between the two kinds of writing.
You may insist, for instance, that we can be instructed as well as delighted by
imaginative literature. Of course we can, but not in the same way as we are taught by
scientific and philosophical books. We learn from experience—the experience that we
have in the course of our daily lives. So, too, we can learn from the vicarious, or
artistically created, experiences which fiction produces in our imagination. In this sense,
poetry and novels instruct as well as delight. The sense in which science and philosophy
teach us is different. Expository books do not provide us with novel experiences. They
comment on such experiences as we already have or can get. That is why it seems right
to say that expository books teach primarily, while imaginative books teach only
incidentally, if at all, by creating experiences from which we can learn. In order to learn
from such books, we have to do our own thinking about experience; in order to learn
from scientists and philosophers, we must first try to understand the thinking they have
done.
I have emphasized these various differences in order to state a few negative rules. They
do not tell you how to read fiction. They tell you merely what not to do, because fiction
is different from science. All of these "don'ts" boil down to one simple insight: don't
read fiction as it it were fact; don't read a novel as if it were a scientific work, not even
as if it were social science or psychology. This one insight is variously expanded by the
following rules.
(1) Don't try to find a "message" in a novel, play, or poem. Imaginative writing is not
primarily didactic. No great work of fiction is the sugar-coated propaganda that some
recent critics would have us believe they all are. (It Uncle Tom's Cabin and The Grapes
of Wrath are good fiction, they are so in spite of, not because of, what they preach.) I am
not here making a sharp division between pure art and propaganda, for we know that
fiction can move men to action, often more effectively than oratory My point is rather
that fiction has this force only when it is good as fiction—not when it is a sermon or
harangue thinly wrapped in a poorly told fable. If the general precept is wise—that you
should read a book for what it is—then look for the story, not the message, in books
which offer themselves as narratives.
The plays of Shakespeare have been anatomized for centuries to discover their hidden
message—as if Shakespeare had a secret philosophy which he cryptically concealed
within his plays. The search has been fruitless. Its failure should be a classic warning
against the misreading of fiction. How much sounder is the approach which finds each
play a new world of experience that Shakespeare opens for us. Mark Van Doren, in his
recent book on Shakespeare, wisely begins by telling us that he finds creations, not
thoughts or doctrines, in the plays:
The great and central virtue of Shakespeare was not achieved by taking thought, for
thought cannot create a world. It can only understand one when one has been created.
Shakespeare, starting with the world no man has made, and never indeed abandoning it,
made many worlds within it. ... While we read a play of Shakespeare we are in it. We
may be drawn in swiftly or slowly—in most cases swiftly—but once we are there we
are enclosed. That is the secret, and it is still the secret of Shakespeare's power to
interest us. He conditions us to a particular world before we are aware that it exists; then
he absorbs us in its particulars.
The way in which Mr. Van Doren reads the plays of Shakespeare provides a model for
reading any fiction worthy of the name.
(2) Don't look for terms, propositions, and arguments in imaginative literature. Such
things are logical, not poetic, devices. They are proper to that use of language which
aims at communicating knowledge and ideas, but they are utterly foreign when
language serves as a medium for the incommunicable—when it is employed creatively.
As Mr. Van Doren says, "In poetry and in drama statement is one of the obscurer
mediums." I think I would go further and say that in fiction there are no statements at
all, no verbal declarations of the writer's beliefs. What a lyric poem "states," for
instance, cannot be found in any of its sentences. And the whole, comprising all its
words in their reactions upon each other, says something which can never be confined
within the strait jacket of propositions.
(3) Don't criticize fiction by the standards of truth and consistency which properly apply
to communications of ~ knowledge. The "truth" of a good story is its verisimilitude, its
intrinsic probability or plausibility. It must be a likely story, but it need not describe the
facts of life or society in a manner that is verifiable by experiment or research. Centuries
ago, Aristotle remarked that "the standard of correctness is not the same in poetry as in
politics," or in physics or psychology for that matter. Technical inaccuracies about
anatomy or errors in geography and history should be criticized when the book in which
they occur offers itself as a treatise on those subjects. But mis-statements of fact do not
mar a story if its teller succeeds in surrounding them with plausibility. When we read a
biography, we want the truth about a particular man's life. When we read a novel we
want a story that must be true only in the sense that it could have happened in the world
of characters and events which the novelist has created.
(4) Don't read all imaginative books eis if they were the same. Just as in the case of
expository literature, here, too, there are differences in kind—the lyric, the novel, the
play—which require appropriately different readings.
To make these "don'ts" more helpful, they must be supplemented by constructive
suggestions. By developing the analogy between reading books of tact and books ot
fiction, I may be able to take you through another short cut to the rules for reading the
latter.
-3There are, as we have seen, three groups of rules for reading expository books. The first
set consists of rules for discovering the unity and part-whole structure; the second
consists of rules for analyzing the whole into its component terms, propositions, and
arguments; the third consists of rules for criticizing the author's doctrine so that we can
reach an intelligent agreement or disagreement with him. We have called these three
groups of rules structural, interpretive, and critical. If there is any analogy at all
between reading expository and imaginative books, we should be able to find similar
sets of rules to guide us in the latter case.
First, what are the structural rules for reading fiction? If you can remember the rules of
this sort which we have already discussed (and if you cannot, you will find them
summarized at the opening of Chapter Fourteen), I shall now translate-them briefly into
their fictional analogues:
(1) You must classify a piece of imaginative literature according to its kind. You must
know whether it is a novel . or a play or a lyric. A lyric tells its story primarily in terms
of a single emotional experience, whereas novels and plays have much more
complicated plots, involving many characters, their actions and reactions upon one
another, as well as the emotions they suffer in the process. Everyone knows,
furthermore, that a play differs from a novel by reason of the fact that it narrates entirely
by means of actions and speeches. The author can never speak in his own person, as he
can, and frequently does, in the course of a novel, All of these differences in manner of
writing call for differences in the reader's receptivity. Therefore, you should recognize
at once the kind of fiction you are reading.
(2) You must grasp the unity of the whole work. Whether you have done this or not can
be tested by whether you are able to express that unity in a sentence or two. The unity of
an expository book resides ultimately in the main problem which it tries to solve. Hence
its unity can be stated by the formulation of this question, or by the propositions which
answer it. But the unity of fiction is always in its plot. I cannot stress too much the
difference between problem and plot as respectively the sources of unity in expository
and imaginative writing. You have not grasped the whole story until you can summarize
its plot in a brief narration—not a proposition or argument. It you have an old-fashioned
edition of Shakespeare at hand, you may find that each play is prefaced by a paragraph
which is called "the argument." It consists of nothing more than the story in brief—a
condensation of the plot. Herein lies the unity of the play.
(3) You must not only reduce the whole to its simplest unity, you must also discover
how that whole is constructed out of all its parts. The parts of an expository book are
concerned with parts of the whole problem, the partial solutions contributing to the
solution of the whole. But the parts of fiction are the various steps which the author
takes to develop his plot—the details of characterization and incident. The way in which
the parts are arranged differs in the two cases. In science and philosophy, they must be
ordered logically. In a story, the parts must somehow fit into a temporal scheme, a
progress from a beginning through the middle to its end. To know the structure of a
narrative, you must know where it begins, what it goes through, and where it ends. You
must know die various crises which lead up to the climax, where and how the climax
occurs, and what happens in the aftermath.
A number of consequences follow from the points I have just made. For one thing, the
parts or subwholes of an expository book are more likely to be independently readable
than the parts of fiction. The first book of Euclid's thirteen—though it is a part of the
whole work—can be read by itself. That is more or less the case with every wellorganized expository book. Its sections or chapters, taken separately or in subgroups,
make sense. But the chapters of a novel, or the acts of a play, become relatively
meaningless when wrenched from the whole.
For another thing, the expository writer need not keep you in suspense. He can tell you
in his preface or opening paragraphs precisely what he is going to do and how he is
going to do it. Your interest is not dulled by such advance information; on the contrary,
you are grateful for the guidance. But narrative, to be interesting, must sustain and
heighten the suspense. Here suspense is of the essence. Even when you know the unity
of the plot in advance, as that may be advertised by the "argument" which prefaces a
Shakespearean play, everything that creates suspense must remain concealed. You must
not be able to guess the precise steps by which the conclusion is reached. However few
the number of original plots, the good writer achieves novelty and suspense by the skill
with which he hides the turns his narrative takes in covering familial ground.
Second, what are the interpretive rules for reading fiction? Our prior consideration of
the difference between a poetic and a logical use of language prepares us to make a
translation of the rules which direct us to find the terms, the propositions, and the
arguments. We know we should not do that. But what should we look for if we try to
analyze fiction?
(1) The elements of fiction are its episodes and incidents, its characters, and their
thoughts, speeches, feelings, and actions. Each of these is an elementary part of the
world which the author creates. By manipulating these elements, the author tells his
story. They are like the terms in logical discourse. Just as you must come to terms with
an expository writer, so here you must become acquainted with the details of incident
and characterization. You have not grasped a story until you are really familiar with its
characters, until you have lived through its events.
(2) Terms are connected in propositions. The elements of fiction are connected by the
total scene or background against which they stand out in relief. The imaginative writer,
we have seen, creates a world in which his characters "live, move, and have their
being." The fictional analogue of the rule which directs you to find the author's
propositions can, therefore, be stated as follows: become at home in this imaginary
world; know it as if you were an observer on the scene; become a member of its
population, willing to befriend its characters, and able to participate in its happenings by
sympathetic insight, as you would do in the actions and sufferings of a friend. If you can
do this, the elements of fiction will cease to be so many isolated pawns moved about
mechanically on a chessboard. You will have found the connections which vitalize them
into the members of a living society.
(3) If there is any motion in an expository book, it is the movement of the argument, a
logical transition from evidences and reasons to the conclusions they support. In the
reading of such books, it is necessary to follow the argument. Hence, after you have
discovered its terms and propositions, you are called upon to analyze its reasoning.
There is an analogous last step in the interpretive reading of fiction. You have become
acquainted with the characters. You have joined them in the imaginary world wherein
they dwell, consented to the laws of their society, breathed its air, tasted its food,
traveled on its highways. Now you must follow them through their adventures. The
scene or background, the social setting, is (like the proposition) a kind of static
connection of the elements of fiction. The unraveling of the plot (like the arguments or
reasoning) is the dynamic connection. Aristotle said that plot is the soul of a story. It is
its life. To read a story well you must have your finger on the pulse of the narrative,
sensitive to its every beat.
Before leaving these fictional equivalents for the interpretive rules of reading, I must
caution you not to examine the analogy too closely. An analogy of this sort is like a
metaphor which will disintegrate if you press it too hard, I have used it only to give you
the feel of how fiction can be read analytically. The three steps I have suggested outline
the way in which one becomes progressively aware of the artistic achievement of an
imaginative writer. Far from spoiling your enjoyment of a novel or play, they should
enable you to enrich your pleasure by knowing intimately the sources of your delight.
You will not only know what you like but also why you like it.
One other caution: the foregoing rules apply mainly to novels and plays. To the extent
that lyric poems have some narrative line, they apply to lyrics also. But the heart of a
lyric lies elsewhere. It really requires a special set of rules to lead you to its secret. The
interpretive reading of lyric poetry is a special problem which I have neither the
competence nor the space to discuss. I have already mentioned (in Chapter Seven) some
books which may be helpful in this connection. To those I might add the following:
Wordsworth's preface to the first edition of Lyrical Ballads, Matthew Arnold's Essays in
Criticism, Edgar Allan Poe's essays on The Poetic Principle and The Philosophy of
Composition, T. S. Eliot's work on The Use of Poetry, Herbert Read's Form in Modern
Poetry, and Mark Van Doren's preface to An Anthology of English and American
Poetry.
While I am recommending books, perhaps I should also mention a few that may help
you develop your analytical powers in reading novels: Percy Lubbock's The Craft of
Fiction, E. M. Forster's Aspects of the Novel, Edwin Muir's The Structure of the Novel,
and Henry James's prefaces collected under the title The Art of the Novel. For the
reading of drama, nothing has replaced Aristotle's analysis of tragedy and comedy in the
Poetics. Where it needs to be supplemented for modern departures in the art of the
theater, such books as George Meredith's essay On Comedy and Bernard Shaw's The
(Quintessence of Ibsenism can be consulted.
Third, and last, what are the critical rules tor reading fiction? You may remember that
we distinguished, in the case of expository works, between the general maxims
governing criticism and a number of particular points—specific critical remarks. With
respect to the general maxims, the analogy can be sufficiently drawn by one translation.
Where, in the case of expository works, the advice was not to criticize a book—not to
say you agree or disagree—until you can first say you understand, so here the maxim is:
don't criticize imaginative writing until you fully appreciate what the author has tried to
make you experience.
To explain this maxim, I must remind you of the obvious fact that we do not agree or
disagree with fiction. We either like it or we do not. Our critical judgment in the case of
expository books concerns their truth, whereas in criticizing belles-lettres, as the word
itself suggests, we consider their beauty. The beauty of any work of art is related to the
pleasure it gives us when we know it well.
Now there is an important difference here between logical and esthetic criticism. When
we agree with a scientific book, a philosophy, or history, we do so because we think it
speaks the truth. But when we like a poem, a novel, or play, we should hesitate, at least
a moment, before attributing beauty, or artistic goodness, to the work which pleases us.
We must remember that in matters of taste there is much divergence among men, and
that some men, through greater cultivation, have better taste than others. While it is
highly probable that what a man of really good taste likes is in itself a beautiful work, it
is much less probable that the likes and dislikes of the uncultivated signify artistic
perfections or failures. We must distinguish, in short, between the expression of taste
which merely bespeaks liking or disliking and the ultimate critical judgment which
concerns the objective merits of the work.
Let me restate the maxims, then, in the following manner. Before you express your likes
and dislikes, you must first be sure that you have made an honest effort to appreciate the
work. By appreciation, I mean having the experience which the author tried to produce
for you by working on your emotions and imaginations. You cannot appreciate a novel
by reading it passively, any more than you can understand a philosophical book that
way. To achieve appreciation, as understanding, you must read actively, and that means
performing all the acts of structural and analytical reading which I have briefly outlined.
After you have completed such readings, you are competent to judge. Your first
judgment will naturally be one of taste. You will say not only that you like or dislike the
book, but why you did or did not like it. The reasons you give will, of course, have some
critical relevance to the book itself, but in their first expression they are more likely to
be about you—your preferences and prejudices—than about the book. Hence, to
complete the task of criticism, you must objectify your reactions by pointing to those
things in the book which caused them. You must pass from saying what you like or
dislike and why, to saying what is good or bad about the book and why.
There is a real difference here. No one can disagree with a man about what he likes or
dislikes. The absolute authority of his own taste is every man's prerogative. But others
can disagree with him about whether a book is good or bad. Taste may not be arguable,
but critical appraisals can be assailed and defended. We must appeal to principles of
esthetic or literary criticism if we wish to support our critical judgments.
It the principles of literary criticism were firmly established, and generally agreed on, it
would be easy to enumerate briefly the main critical remarks that a reader could make
about an imaginative hook. Unfortunately— or fortunately—that is not the case, and
you will sympathize with my discretion in hesitating to rush in. I shall, however, risk
suggesting five questions which will help anyone form a critical judgment on fiction, (i)
To what degree does the work have unity? (2) How great is the complexity of parts and
elements which that unity embraces and organizes? (3) Is it a likely story, that is, does it
have the inherent plausibility of poetic truth? (4) Does it elevate you from the ordinary
semiconsciousness of daily life to the clarity of intense wakefulness, by stirring your
emotions and filling your imagination? (5) Does it create a new world into which you
are drawn and wherein you seem to live with the illusion that you are seeing life steadily
and whole?
I shall not defend these questions beyond saying that the more they can be answered
affirmatively, the more likely it is that the book in question is a great work of art. I think
they will help you to discriminate between good and bad fiction, as well as to become
more articulate in explaining your likes and dislikes. Although you must never forget
the possible discrepancy between what is good in itself and what pleases you, you will
be able to avoid the extreme inanity of the remark: "I don't know anything about art, but
I know what I like."
The better you can reflectively discern the causes of your pleasure in reading fiction, the
nearer you come to knowing the artistic virtues in the literary work itself. You will thus
gradually develop a standard of criticism. And unless you happen to be a professional
literary critic—tortured by the need to express the same few insights differently for
every book, and driven by competition to avoid the obvious—you will find a large
company of men of similar taste to share your critical judgments. You may even
discover, what I think is true, that good taste in\ literature is acquired by anyone who
learns to read.
-4Having gone so far toward generalizing the art of reading, by translating the expository
rules into their fictional equivalents, I am impelled to take the last step and complete the
job. You now have rules for reading any book. But how about rules for reading anything
that is fit to print? How about reading newspapers, magazines, advertising copy,
political propaganda? Can the rules be stated so generally that they apply to everything?
I think they can. Necessarily, as they become more general, the rules become fewer in
number and less specific in content. In place of three sets of rules, each including three
or four, the directions for reading anything can be summarized in tour questions. To
read anything well, you must be able to answer these four questions about it. In the light
of all the discussion that has preceded, the questions need little explanation. You
already know the steps you must take in order to answer these questions.
But, first, let me remind you of the basic distinction— between reading tor information
and for understanding— which underlies everything I have said about reading. For the
most part, we read newspapers and magazines, and even advertising matter, tor the
information they contain. The amount of such material is vast, so vast that no one today
has time to read more than a small fraction of the available sources of information.
Necessity has been the mother of several good inventions in the field of such reading.
The so-called news magazines, such as Time and Newsweek, perform an invaluable
function for most of us by reading the news and reducing it to its essential elements of
information. The men who write these magazines are pri marily readers. They have
developed the art of reading for information to a point far beyond the average reader's
competence.
The same thing is true of Readers Digest, which manages to reduce almost everything
that is worth our attention in current magazines to the compact scope of a single, small
volume. Of course, the very best articles, like the best books, cannot be condensed
without loss. If the essays of Montaigne or Lamb appeared in a current periodical, we
would scarcely be satisfied to read a digest of them. A summary here would function
well only if it impelled us to read the original. For the average article, however, a
condensation is usually adequate, and often even better than the original. because the
average article is mainly informational. The skill which produces Readers Digest each
month is, first of all, a skill in reading, and only then one of writing simply and clearly.
It does for us what few of us have the technique —not merely the time—to do for
ourselves. It cuts the core of solid information out of pages and pages of less substantial
stuff.
But, after all, we still have to read the periodicals which accomplish these extraordinary
digests of current news and information. If we wish to be informed, we cannot avoid the
task of reading, no matter how good the digests are. And the task of reading the digests
is, in the last analysis, the same task as that which is performed by the editors of these
magazines on the original materials they make available in more compact form. They
have saved us labor, so far as the extent of our reading is concerned, but they have not
and cannot entirely save us the trouble of reading. In a sense, the function they perform
profits us only if we can read their digests of information as well as they have done the
prior reading in order to give us the digests.
The four questions I shall now state as guides tor reading anything apply equally to
material which can inform us or enlighten us. To use these questions intelligently as a
set of directions, you must know, of course, what it is you are after—whether you are
reading for one purpose or the other. If you are wise, your purpose will accord properly
with the nature of the thing to be read. Here are the four questions, with brief comment:
I. What in general is being said? (To answer this question, you must perform all the
steps of structural reading, according to the rules already laid down.)
II. How in partocular is it being said? (you Cannot fully discover what is being said
unless you penetrate beneath the language to the thought. To do this you must observe
how the language is being used, and how the thought is ordered. Here, then, you must
follow all the rules of interpretative reading.)
III. Is it true? (Only after you know what is being said, and how, can you consider
whether it is true or probable. This question calls for the exercise of critical judgment.
You must decide to accept or reject the information being offered you. You must be
especially alert to detect the distortions of propaganda in renderings of the news. In
reading for enlightenment, you must decide whether you agree or disagree with what
you have come to understand. The rules you must follow here are those of the third, or
critical, reading.)
IV. What of it? (Unless what you have read is true in some sense, you need go no
further. But if it is, you must face this question. You cannot read for information
intelligently without determining what significance is, or should be, attached to the facts
presented. Facts seldom come to us without some interpretation, explicit or implied.
This is especially true if you are reading digests of information which necessarily select
the facts according to some evaluation of their significance, some principle of
interpretation. And if you are reading for enlightenment, there is really no end to the
inquiry which, at every stage of learning, is renewed by the question, What of it?)
These four questions summarize all the obligations of a reader. The first three indicate,
moreover, why there are three ways of reading anything. The three sets of rules re spond
to something in the very nature of human discourse. If communications were not
complex, structural analysis would be unnecessary. If language were a perfect medium
instead of a relatively opaque one, there would be no need for interpretation. If error and
ignorance did not circumscribe truth and knowledge, we should not have to be critical.
The fourth question turns on the distinction between Information and understanding.
When the material you have read is itself primarily informational, you are challenged to
go further and seek enlightenment. Even when you have been somewhat enlightened by
what you have read, you are called upon to continue the search for significance.
Knowing these questions is, of course, not enough. You must remember to ask them as
you read and, most of all, you must be able to answer them precisely and accurately.
The ability to do just that is the art of reading, in a nutshell.
-5Ability to read anything well may be the goal, but the goal does not indicate the best
place to begin acquiring the art. You cannot begin to acquire the right habits by reading
any sort of material; perhaps I should say that some kinds of material make it easier to
acquire the discipline than others. It is too easy, for instance, to get something out of
newspapers, magazines, and digests, even when one reads them poorly and passively.
Moreover, all our bad habits of perfunctory reading are associated with these familiar
materials. That is why, throughout this book, I insisted that trying to read for
understanding rather than information—because more difficult and less usual—provides
you with a better occasion tor developing your skill.
For the same reason, reading good books, or better, the great books, is the recipe for
those who would learn to read. It is not that the rigors of difficult reading are the
punishment which fits the crime of sloppy habits; rather, from the point of view of
therapy, books which cannot be understood at all unless they are read actively are the
ideal prescription for anyone who is still a victim of passive reading. Nor do I think that
this medicine is like those drastic and strenuous remedies which are calculated either to
kill or cure the patient. For in this case, the patient can determine the dosage. He can
increase the amount of exercise he takes in easy stages. The remedy will begin to work
as soon as he begins ind the more it works, the more he can take.
The place to begin, then, is on the great books. They are so apt tor the purpose, it is
almost as if they were written for the sake of teaching people how to read. They stand to
the problem of learning how to read almost as water does to the business of learning
how to swim. There is one important difference. Water is indispensable for swimming.
But after you have learned to read by practicing on the great books, you can transfer
your abilities to reading good books, to reading any books, to reading anything. The
man who) can keep afloat in the deeps need not concern himseif about the shallows.
ut why you did or did not like it. The reasons you give will, of course, have some critical
relevance to the book itself, but in their first expression they are more likely to be about
you—your preferences and prejudices—than about the book. Hence, to complete the
task of criticism, you must objectify your reactions by pointing to those things in the
book which caused them. You must pass from saying what you like or dislike and why,
to saying what is good or bad about the book and why.
There is a real difference here. No one can disagree with a man about what he likes or
dislikes. The absolute authority of his own taste is every man's prerogative. But others
can disagree with him about whether a book is good or bad. Taste may not be arguable,
but critical appraisals can be assailed and defended. We must appeal to principles of
esthetic or literary criticism if we wish to support our critical judgments.
It the principles of literary criticism were firmly established, and generally agreed on, it
would be easy to enumerate briefly the main critical remarks that a reader could make
about an imaginative hook. Unfortunately— or fortunately—that is not the case, and
you will sympathize with my discretion in hesitating to rush in. I shall, however, risk
suggesting five questions which will help anyone form a critical judgment on fiction, (i)
To what degree does the work have unity? (2) How great is the complexity of parts and
elements which that unity embraces and organizes? (3) Is it a likely story, that is, does it
have the inherent plausibility of poetic truth? (4) Does it elevate you from the ordinary
semiconsciousness of daily life to the clarity of intense wakefulness, by stirring your
emotions and filling your imagination? (5) Does it create a new world into which you
are drawn and wherein you seem to live with the illusion that you are seeing life steadily
and whole?
I shall not defend these questions beyond saying that the more they can be answered
affirmatively, the more likely it is that the book in question is a great work of art. I think
they will help you to discriminate between good and bad fiction, as well as to become
more articulate in explaining your likes and dislikes. Although you must never forget
the possible discrepancy between what is good in itself and what pleases you, you will
be able to avoid the extreme inanity of the remark: "I don't know anything about art, but
I know what I like."
The better you can reflectively discern the causes of your pleasure in reading fiction, the
nearer you come to knowing the artistic virtues in the literary work itself. You will thus
gradually develop a standard of criticism. And unless you happen to be a professional
literary critic—tortured by the need to express the same few insights differently for
every book, and driven by competition to avoid the obvious—you will find a large
company of men of similar taste to share your critical judgments. You may even
discover, what I think is true, that good taste in\ literature is acquired by anyone who
learns to read.
-4Having gone so far toward generalizing the art of reading, by translating the expository
rules into their fictional equivalents, I am impelled to take the last step and complete the
job. You now have rules for reading any book. But how about rules for reading anything
that is fit to print? How about reading newspapers, magazines, advertising copy,
political propaganda? Can the rules be stated so generally that they apply to everything?
I think they can. Necessarily, as they become more general, the rules become fewer in
number and less specific in content. In place of three sets of rules, each including three
or four, the directions for reading anything can be summarized in tour questions. To
read anything well, you must be able to answer these four questions about it. In the light
of all the discussion that has preceded, the questions need little explanation. You
already know the steps you must take in order to answer these questions.
But, first, let me remind you of the basic distinction— between reading tor information
and for understanding— which underlies everything I have said about reading. For the
most part, we read newspapers and magazines, and even advertising matter, tor the
information they contain. The amount of such material is vast, so vast that no one today
has time to read more than a small fraction of the available sources of information.
Necessity has been the mother of several good inventions in the field of such reading.
The so-called news magazines, such as Time and Newsweek, perform an invaluable
function for most of us by reading the news and reducing it to its essential elements of
information. The men who write these magazines are pri marily readers. They have
developed the art of reading for information to a point far beyond the average reader's
competence.
The same thing is true of Readers Digest, which manages to reduce almost everything
that is worth our attention in current magazines to the compact scope of a single, small
volume. Of course, the very best articles, like the best books, cannot be condensed
without loss. If the essays of Montaigne or Lamb appeared in a current periodical, we
would scarcely be satisfied to read a digest of them. A summary here would function
well only if it impelled us to read the original. For the average article, however, a
condensation is usually adequate, and often even better than the original. because the
average article is mainly informational. The skill which produces Readers Digest each
month is, first of all, a skill in reading, and only then one of writing simply and clearly.
It does for us what few of us have the technique —not merely the time—to do for
ourselves. It cuts the core of solid information out of pages and pages of less substantial
stuff.
But, after all, we still have to read the periodicals which accomplish these extraordinary
digests of current news and information. If we wish to be informed, we cannot avoid the
task of reading, no matter how good the digests are. And the task of reading the digests
is, in the last analysis, the same task as that which is performed by the editors of these
magazines on the original materials they make available in more compact form. They
have saved us labor, so far as the extent of our reading is concerned, but they have not
and cannot entirely save us the trouble of reading. In a sense, the function they perform
profits us only if we can read their digests of information as well as they have done the
prior reading in order to give us the digests.
The four questions I shall now state as guides tor reading anything apply equally to
material which can inform us or enlighten us. To use these questions intelligently as a
set of directions, you must know, of course, what it is you are after—whether you are
reading for one purpose or the other. If you are wise, your purpose will accord properly
with the nature of the thing to be read. Here are the four questions, with brief comment:
I. What in general is being said? (To answer this question, you must perform all the
steps of structural reading, according to the rules already laid down.)
II. How in partocular is it being said? (you Cannot fully discover what is being said
unless you penetrate beneath the language to the thought. To do this you must observe
how the language is being used, and how the thought is ordered. Here, then, you must
follow all the rules of interpretative reading.)
III. Is it true? (Only after you know what is being said, and how, can you consider
whether it is true or probable. This question calls for the exercise of critical judgment.
You must decide to accept or reject the information being offered you. You must be
especially alert to detect the distortions of propaganda in renderings of the news. In
reading for enlightenment, you must decide whether you agree or disagree with what
you have come to understand. The rules you must follow here are those of the third, or
critical, reading.)
IV. What of it? (Unless what you have read is true in some sense, you need go no
further. But if it is, you must face this question. You cannot read for information
intelligently without determining what significance is, or should be, attached to the facts
presented. Facts seldom come to us without some interpretation, explicit or implied.
This is especially true if you are reading digests of information which necessarily select
the facts according to some evaluation of their significance, some principle of
interpretation. And if you are reading for enlightenment, there is really no end to the
inquiry which, at every stage of learning, is renewed by the question, What of it?)
These four questions summarize all the obligations of a reader. The first three indicate,
moreover, why there are three ways of reading anything. The three sets of rules re spond
to something in the very nature of human discourse. If communications were not
complex, structural analysis would be unnecessary. If language were a perfect medium
instead of a relatively opaque one, there would be no need for interpretation. If error and
ignorance did not circumscribe truth and knowledge, we should not have to be critical.
The fourth question turns on the distinction between Information and understanding.
When the material you have read is itself primarily informational, you are challenged to
go further and seek enlightenment. Even when you have been somewhat enlightened by
what you have read, you are called upon to continue the search for significance.
Knowing these questions is, of course, not enough. You must remember to ask them as
you read and, most of all, you must be able to answer them precisely and accurately.
The ability to do just that is the art of reading, in a nutshell.
-5Ability to read anything well may be the goal, but the goal does not indicate the best
place to begin acquiring the art. You cannot begin to acquire the right habits by reading
any sort of material; perhaps I should say that some kinds of material make it easier to
acquire the discipline than others. It is too easy, for instance, to get something out of
newspapers, magazines, and digests, even when one reads them poorly and passively.
Moreover, all our bad habits of perfunctory reading are associated with these familiar
materials. That is why, throughout this book, I insisted that trying to read for
understanding rather than information—because more difficult and less usual—provides
you with a better occasion tor developing your skill.
For the same reason, reading good books, or better, the great books, is the recipe for
those who would learn to read. It is not that the rigors of difficult reading are the
punishment which fits the crime of sloppy habits; rather, from the point of view of
therapy, books which cannot be understood at all unless they are read actively are the
ideal prescription for anyone who is still a victim of passive reading. Nor do I think that
this medicine is like those drastic and strenuous remedies which are calculated either to
kill or cure the patient. For in this case, the patient can determine the dosage. He can
increase the amount of exercise he takes in easy stages. The remedy will begin to work
as soon as he begins ind the more it works, the more he can take.
The place to begin, then, is on the great books. They are so apt tor the purpose, it is
almost as if they were written for the sake of teaching people how to read. They stand to
the problem of learning how to read almost as water does to the business of learning
how to swim. There is one important difference. Water is indispensable for swimming.
But after you have learned to read by practicing on the great books, you can transfer
your abilities to reading good books, to reading any books, to reading anything. The
man who) can keep afloat in the deeps need not concern himseif about the shallows.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Great Books
As I noted in the Preface, it was necessary to revise this chapter to make it fit the new
Appendix to this edition of How to Read a Book. However, the chapter is not as
radically revised as it might have been. Let me explain why.
This chapter was originally intended to introduce the recommended great books that
were listed in the Appendix. It discussed the character of great books in general, and set
forth the criteria by which we can tell whether a book is truly great. It went on to show,
by the use of examples, how these books take part in a great conversation—how they
are interwoven in the fabric of our thought. The revised chapter still does that, except
that I have changed the examples to fit the books and authors listed in the new
Appendix.
Since I wrote the original chapter, however, remarkable advances have occurred in the
reading and the discussion of great books. I have called attention to these changes in the
Preface to this edition. The publication and distribution of Great Books of the Western
World and of Gateway to the Great Books is largely responsible tor them. The existence
of these sets, and particularly the existence of the Syntopicon, has also radically altered
the context of this chapter, in two ways.
Volume i of Great Books of the Western World contains as essay by Robert M.
Hutchins, titled "The Great Conversation." Here Mr. Hutchins says, at greater length
and with much more force and eloquence, everything that I said about the character of
great books in my original Chapter 16, and he describes the interplay of these books
with one another better than I could ever hope to do. From one point of view, therefore,
I need not really revise this chapter at all. The essay that I would like it to be has been
written by Mr. Hutchins.
The existence of the Syntopicon is an even more important reason why I have not
attempted to revise this chapter more than superficially. The Syntopicon, with its vast
number of references to the great books, by idea, topic, and subtopic, makes' it possible
to read them in an entirely new way. In the Preface to the Syntopicon (pages xi-xxxi of
Volume 2 in Great Books of the Western World), I describe this new way of reading,
which I call "syntopical reading," and which consists of "reading in" the whole set of
great books as contrasted with "reading through" a single work. Hence I would only
have repeated here, with less space at my disposal, what I said there.
Finally, I have discovered on reading this chapter again after many years, that its
discussion of how to read great books without the Syntopicon is revealing about the
Syntopicon itself. Twenty-five years ago, I could not even hope that the kind of reading
that the Syntopicon makes possible would ever be available. (I had dreamed of the
Syntopicon, but I did not then think it would ever be a reality.) Now, looking back, I see
even more clearly how useful and powerful a tool the Syntopicon is. Reading great
books without its help is an intellectual experience hardly to be equaled in the world of
thought. But reading them with it as a guide is even more rewarding. I hope the reader
will see this when he peruses this chapter, and will forgive me, too, for leaving it to
stand as an obvious anachronism—for the sake of his education.
-1there is no end to the making of books. Nor does there seem to be any end to the making
of book lists. The one is the cause of the other. There have always been more books
than anyone could read. And as they have multiplied at an ever increasing rate through
the centuries, more and more blue-ribbon lists have had to be made.
It is just as important to know what to read as how to read. When you have learned to
read, you will still have, I hope, a long life to spend in reading. But, at best, you will be
able to read only a few books of all that have been written, and the few you do read
should include the best. You can rejoice in the fact that there are not too many great
books to read. There are fifty-four volumes in Great Books of the Western World—tern
hundred and forty-five works by seventy-tour authors.
The listing of the best books is as old as reading and writing. The teachers and librarians
of ancient Alexandria did it. Their book lists were the backbone of an educational
curriculum. Quintilian did it for Roman education, selecting, as he said, both ancient
and modern classics. It was done again and again in the Middle Ages by
Mohammedans, Jews, and Christians, and for a similar purpose. In the Renaissance,
such leaders of the revival of learning as Montaigne and Erasmus made lists of the
books they read. They offered themselves as models of gentlemanly literacy.
Humanistic education was built on a foundation of "humane letters," as the phrase went.
The reading prescribed was primarily in the great works of Roman literature—its
poetry, biography, and history, and its moralistic essays.
In the nineteenth century, there were still other book lists. If you want to know the
books which went into the making of a leading liberal of his day, look at John Stuart
Mill's Autobiography. Perhaps the most famous book list made in the last century was
Auguste Comte's. Comte was the French thinker who epitomized the nineteenth
century's devotion to science and to progress through science.
It is to be expected, of course, that the selection of "best books" will change with the
times. Yet there is a surprising uniformity in the lists that represent the best choices of
any period. In^very age, both b.c. and a.d., the list makers include both ancient and
modern books in their selections, and they always wonder whether the modems are up
to the great books of the past. The changes which each later age makes are mainly
additions rather than substitutions. Naturally, the list of great books grows in the course
of time, but its roots and outlines remain the same.
The reason for this is that the famous lists are genuinely many-sided. They try to include
all that is great in the human tradition. A bad selection would be one motivated by a
sectarian bias, directed by some kind of special pleading. There have been lists of this
sort, which picked only the books that would prove a certain point. The European
tradition cannot be boxed that way. It includes much that must necessarily appear false
or misguided when judged from any particular point of view. Wherever one finds the
truth, there will always be great errors in its company. To list the great books
adequately, one must include all that have made a difference, not simply those one
agrees with or approves of.
Until sixty or seventy years ago, a college course was built around a set of required
readings. Under the impact of the elective system and other educational changes, the
requirements in this country were gradually relaxed to a point where the bachelor's
degree no longer meant general literacy. The great books still appeared here and there,
in this course and that, but they were seldom read in relation to one another. Frequently
they were made supplementary to the textbooks which dominated the curriculum.
Things were at their worst when I entered college at the start o£ the twenties. As I have
already reported, I also saw the upward turn begin. John Erskine had persuaded the
Columbia faculty to institute an Honors course, devoted to the reading of great books.
The list, which he was largely instrumental in composing, included between sixty and
seventy authors, representing all fields of learning and all kinds of poetry. It differed
from other current selections by having a higher standard of choice, and also by trying
to include every great book, not only those of a certain period or a certain kind.
The Erskine list has been modified and revised many times since its inception. Mr.
Hutchins and I have used it with some alterations at the University of Chicago. The
four-year program of reading at St. John's College is substantially the same list, though
it has been enriched by additions from the fields of mathematics and natural science. A
similar list, though somewhat shorter, is being used at many colleges now in courses
required tor all students. And the list of Great Books of the Western World,
supplemented by Gateway to the Great Books, is a fairly accurate expression of what
anyone would name as the great works of Western culture.
I had one experience which gave me insight into this business of listing the great books.
I acted as secretary tor the faculty which taught the Honors course at Columbia during
the years when the original list was being revised. Various members of the faculty had
expressed dissatisfaction. They wanted to drop some authors and include others. To
settle matters, we constructed a master list of about three hundred books, many more
than anyone would wish included, but long enough to contain any author anyone might
name.
We then proceeded to vote, gradually excluding the books or authors which the voting
indicated as not generally agreed on. After many ballots, we obtained a list which
satisfied everyone. It had eighty items on it, only about fifteen more than Erskine's
enumeration. It contained almost all the titles on the original list. From those two years
of revision, I learned the extent to which there is unanimity of judgment about the great
books. It became clear that it would be difficult to make a list much longer than a
hundred authors about whom such universal agreement could be obtained. When you
get beyond that, you would be catering to the interests of specialists in this period or
that subject matter. Our experience was similar when we constructed the list of Great
Books of the Western World.
Strictly speaking, a catalogue is not something to read. It is for reference purposes. That
is why I have listed the contents of Great Books and of Gateway in the Appendix. In
this chapter, I am going to try to make that list come to life by talking about the books.
I shall try, therefore, to collect the great books into smaller groups, each group
participating in a conversation about some particular problem in which you may be
already interested. In some cases, the conversations will overlap, as the problems do. In
other cases, conversation about one problem will lead to another. Thus, instead of lying
side by side in a graveyard row, the books may appear to you as they should—the lively
actors in a living tradition. I will not name all the books in this chapter, but I shall be
able to bring enough of them into conversation with one another, so that you can
imagine the job completed. If you are induced to join in the conversation by reading
some of these books, they will take care of the rest.
-2Before I begin, however, it may be wise to say a little more about what a great book is. I
have used the phrase again and again, hoping that what I said in Chapter Four a-bout
great books as original communications would suffice for the time. In Chapter Eight, I
suggested that among poetical works there was a parallel distinction. Just as great
expository books are those which, more than others, can increase our understanding, so
the great works of imaginative literature elevate our spirit and deepen our humanity.
In the course of other chapters, I may have mentioned other qualities which the great
books possess. But now I want to bring together in one place all the signs by which the
great books can be recognized—repeating some, adding new ones. These are the signs
which everyone uses in making lists or selections.
(1) I used to say jocularly that the great books were those everybody recommends and
nobody reads, or those everyone says he intends to read and never does. The joke (it is
Mark Twain's, really) may have its point for some of our contemporaries, but the
remark is false for the most part. In fact, the great books are probably the most widely
read. They are not best sellers for a year or two. They are enduring best sellers. James
Bond has had relatively few readers compared to Don Quixote or the plays of
Shakespeare. It would be reasonable to estimate, as a recent writer did, that Homer's
Iliad has been read by at least 25,000,000 people in the last 3,000 years. When you
realize the number of languages into which these books have been translated, and the
number of years during which they have been read, you will not think that a number of
readers running high into the millions is exaggerated.
It does not follow, of course, that every book which reaches a tremendous audience
ranks as a classic by reason of that fact alone. Three Weeks, Quo Vadis, and Ben-Hur, to
mention only fiction, are cases in point. Nor do I mean that a great book need be a best
seller in its own day. It may take time for it to accumulate its ultimate audience. The
astronomer Kepler, whose work on the planetary motions is now a classic, is reported to
have said of his book that "it may wait a century for a reader, as God has waited 6,000
years for an observer."
(2) The great books are popular, not pedantic. They are not written by specialists about
specialties for specialists. Whether they be philosophy or science, or history or poetry,
they treat of human, not academic, problems. They are written for men, not professors.
When I say they are popular, I do not mean they are popularizations in the sense of
simplifying what can be found in other books. I mean they were initially written for a
popular audience. They were intended for beginners. This, as I pointed out earlier, is a
consequence of their being original communications. With respect to what these books
have to say, most men are beginners.
To read a textbook for advanced students, you have to read an elementary textbook first.
But the great books arc all elementary. They treat the elements of any subject matter.
They are not related to one another as a series o£ textbooks, graded in difficulty or in
the technicality o£ the problems with which they deal. That is what I meant by saying
that they are all for beginners, even though they do not all begin at the same place in the
tradition of thought. There is one kind of prior reading, however, which does help you
to read a great book, and that is the other great books the author himself read. If you
begin where he began, you are better prepared tor the new departure he is going to
make. This is the point I suggested before, when I said that even the mathematical and
scientific books can be read without special instruction.
Let me illustrate this point by taking Euclid's Elements of Geometry and Newton's
Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy. Euclid requires no prior study of
mathematics. His book is genuinely an introduction to geometry, and to basic arithmetic
as well. The same cannot be said for Newton, because Newton uses mathematics in the
solution of physical problems. The reader must be able to follow his mathematical
reasoning in order to understand how it interprets his observations. Newton had
mastered Euclid. His mathematical style shows how deeply he was influenced by
Euclid's treatment of ratio and proportions. His book is, therefore, not readily
intelligible, even to competent scientists, unless Euclid has been read before. But with
Euclid as a guide, the effort to read Newton, or Galileo, ceases to be fruitless.
I am not saying that these great scientific books can be read without effort. I am saying
that it they are read in an historical order, the effort is rewarded. Just as Euclid
illuminates Newton and Galileo, so they in turn help to make Faraday and Einstein
intelligible. The point is not limited to mathematical and scientific works. It applies to
philosophical books as well. Their authors tell you what you should have read before
you come to them: Dewey wants you to have read Mill and Hume; Whitehead wants
you to have read Descartes and Plato.
(3) The great books are always contemporary. In contrast, the books we call
"contemporary," because they are currently popular, last only for a year or two, or ten at
the most. They soon become antiquated. You probably cannot recall the names of the
best sellers of the fifties. If they were recalled for you, you probably would not be
interested in reading them. Especially in the field of nonfiction books, you want the
latest "contemporary" product. But the great books are never outmoded by the
movement of thought or the shitting winds of doctrine and opinion. On the contrary, one
great book tends to intensify the significance of others about the same subject. Thus,
Marx's Capital and Adam Smith's Wealth of Nations illuminate each other, and so do
works as far apart as Claude Bernard's Introduction to Experimental Medicine and the
medical writings of Hippocrates and Galen.
Schopenhauer said this clearly. "Looking over a huge catalogue of new books," he said,
"one might weep at thinking that, when ten years have passed, not one of them will be
heard of." His further explanation is worth following:
There are at all times two literatures in progress, running side by side, but little known
to each other; the one real, the other only apparent. The former grows into permanent
literature; it is pursued by those who live for science or poetry; its course is sober and
quiet, but extremely slow;
and it produces in Europe scarcely a dozen works in a century; these, however, are
permanent. The other kind is pursued by persons who live on science and poetry. It goes
at a gallop, with much noise and shouting of partisans. Every twelve-month it puts a
thousand works on the market. But after a few years one asks. Where are they? Where is
the glory which came so soon and made so much clamor? This kind may be called
fleeting, and the other, permanent literature.
"Permanent" and "fleeting" are good words to name the persistently contemporary great
books and the soon antiquated current ones.
Because they are contemporary, and should be read as such, the word "classic" must be
avoided. Mark Twain, you will recall, defined a classic as "something that everybody
wants to have read, and nobody wants to read." I am afraid not even that is true for most
people any longer. "Classic" has come to mean an ancient and antiquated book. People
regard the classics as the great has-beens, the great books of their times. "But our times
are different," they say. From this point of view, the only motive for reading the classics
is an historical or philological interest. It is like poking about among the somewhat
moldy monuments of a past culture. The classics, thus viewed, cannot offer instruction
to a modern man, except, of course, about the peculiarities of his ancestors.
But the great books are not faded glories. They are not dusty remains for scholars to
investigate. They are not a record of dead civilizations. They are rather the most potent
civilizing forces in the world today.
Of course, there is progress in some things. There is progress in all the utilities which
man can invent to make the motions of life easier and more efficient. There is progress
in social affairs, of the sort signalized by the advent of democracy in modern times. And
there is progress in knowledge and the clarification of problems and ideas.
But there is not progress in everything. The fundamental human problems remain the
same in all ages. Anyone who reads Plutarch and Cicero, or, if you prefer, the essays of
Bacon and Montaigne, will find how constant is the preoccupation of men with
happiness and justice, with virtue and truth, and even with stability and change itself.
We may succeed in accelerating the motions of life, but we cannot seem to change the
routes that are available to its ends.
It is not only in moral or political matters that progress is relatively superficial. Even in
theoretic knowledge, even in science and philosophy, where knowledge increases and
understanding may be deepened, the advances made by every epoch are laid upon a
traditional foundation. Civilization grows like an onion, layer upon layer. To understand
Einstein, you must, as he tells you himself, understand Galileo and Newton. To
understand Whitehead, you must, as he also tells you, know Descartes and Plato. It any
contemporary books are great because they deal with fundamental matters, then all the
great books are contemporary because they are involved in the same discussion.
(4) The great books are the most readable. I have said this before. It means several
things. If the rules of skilled reading are somehow related to the rules of skillful writing,
then these are the best-written books. If a good reader is proficient in the liberal arts,
how much more so is a great writer a master of them! These books are masterpieces of
liberal art. In saying this, I refer primarily to expository works. The greatest works of
poetry or fiction are masterpieces of fine art. In both cases, language is mastered by the
writer for the sake of the reader, whether the end be instruction or delight.
To say that the great books are most readable is to say that they will not let you down it
you try to read them well. You can follow the rules of reading to your utmost ability and
they, unlike poorer works, will not stop paying dividends. But it is equally true to say
that there is actually more in them to read. It is not merely how they are written, but
what they have to say. They have more ideas per page than most books have in their
entirety. That is why you can read a great book over and over again and never exhaust
its contents, and probably never read skillfully enough to master it completely. The
most readable books are infinitely readable.
They are rereadable for another reason. They can be read at many different levels of
understanding, as well as with a great diversity of interpretation. The most obvious
examples of many levels of reading are found in such books as Gulliver's Travels,
Robinson Crusoe, and The Odyssey. Children can read them with enjoyment, but fail to
find therein all the beauty and significance which delight an adult mind.
(5) I have also said before that the great books are the
most instructive, the most enlightening. This follows, in a sense, from the tact that they
are original communications, that they contain what cannot be found in other books.
Whether you ultimately agree or disagree with their doctrines, these are the primary
teachers of mankind, because they have made the basic contributions to human learning
and thought. Insofar as they have solved important problems, wholly or partially, the
principles to be found in them are the leading principles of human knowledge. And^the
conclusions their authors reached are the major achievements of human thought.
It is almost unnecessary to add that the great books are the most influential books. In the
tradition of learning, they have been most discussed by readers who have also been
writers. These are the books about which there are many other books. Countless and, for
the most part, forgotten are the books which have been written about them —the
commentaries, digests, or popularizations.
(6) Finally, the great books deal with the persistently unsolved problems of human life.
It is not enough to say of them that they have solved important problems, in whole or in
part—that is only one aspect of their achievement. There are genuine mysteries in the
world that mark the limits of human knowing and thinking. Inquiry not only begins with
wonder, but usually ends with it also.
Great minds do not, like shallower ones, despise mysteries or run away from them.
They acknowledge them honestly and try to define them by the clearest statement of
ultimately imponderable alternatives. Wisdom is fortified, not destroyed, by
understanding its limitations. Ignorance does not make a fool as surely as selfdeception.
-3You can see now how these six criteria hang together, how they follow from and
support one another. You can see why, if these are the qualifications, the exclusive
society of great authors has fewer than four hundred members.
Perhaps you can also see why you should read the great books rather than books about
them or books which try to distill them for you. "Some books," says Francis Bacon,
"may be read by deputy, and extracts made o£ them by others. But that would be only in
the less important arguments, and the meaner sort o£ books." With respect to the others,
"distilled books are like common distilled waters, flashy things." The same reason
which sends men to the concert hall and the art gallery should send them to the great
books rather than to imperfect reproductions. The firsthand witness is always preferred
to garbled hearsay. A good story can be spoiled by a bad raconteur.
The only excuse which men have ever given tor reading books about these books does
not hold here any more than it would in the case of canned music or cheap replicas of
painting and sculpture. They know that it is easier, as well as better, to meet the fine
artist in his own work rather than in its imitations. But they believe that the great
teachers cannot be met in their own works. They think they are too difficult, too far
above them, and hence they console themselves with substitutes. This, as I have tried to
show, is not the case. I repeat: the great books are the most readable tor anyone who
knows how to read. Skill in reading is the only condition for entry into this good
company.
Please do not look at the list of great books as another of those lists which men make up
tor the lonely island on which they are going to be shipwrecked. You do not need the
idyllic solitude, which modern men can dream of only as the benefit of disaster, in order
to read the great books. If you have any leisure at all, you can use it to read in. But do
not make the mistake of the businessman who devotes every energy to making his pile
first, and supposes that he will know how to use his spare time when he retires. Leisure
and work should be components of every week, not divisions of (he span of life.
The pursuit of learning and enlightenment through the great books can relieve the
tedium of toil and the monotony of business as much as music and the other fine arts.
But the leisure must be genuinely leisure. It must be time free from the children and
from television, as well as un-'pccupied by money grubbing. Not only is the widely
advertised fifteen minutes a day ridiculously insufficient—would anyone interested in
golf or bridge think that fifteen minutes are long enough even to warm up and get
started?— but the time spent in reading must not be shared with bouncing Teddy on
your knee, answering Mary's questions, or watching the cops catch the robbers.
There is one point, however, in the selection of books men make for a possible
shipwreck. When they are faced with having to choose a very small number, they tend
to pick the best. We forget that the total amount of leisure we can rescue from our busy
lives is probably no longer than a few years on a desert island. If we realized that, we
might make up a list of reading for the rest of our lives as carefully as we would for a
desert island. We cannot count on eternity. The bell will ring soon enough. School will
be out, and unless we have laid our plans well and followed them, we are likely to find,
when reading time is over, that we might just as well have played golf or bridge, for all
the good it did our minds.
The list of Great Books in the Appendix is a suggestion for those who can take the hint.
It is neither too long for the average man's leisure nor too short for those who can
manage to find more time. However much of it you do, I am sure of one thing: no time
will be wasted. Whether your economy be one of abundance or scarcity, you will find
every item on this list a profitable investment of hours and energy.
-4I said before that I was going to make smaller groupings of books according as their
authors appeared to be talking about the same problems and conversing with one
another. Let's begin at once. The easiest way to begin is with the themes that dominate
our daily conversation. The newspapers and television will not let us forget about the
world crisis and our national role in it. We talk at table and in the evening, and even
during office hours, about war and peace, about democracy against the totalitarian
regimes, about planned economies, about civil rights and Communism, about the next
national election, and hence about the Constitution, which both parties are going to use
as a platform and as a plank with which to hit the other fellow over the head.
It we do more than look at the newspapers or watch television, we may have been
induced to look at the Constitution itself. It the political problems with which current
books deal interest us, there is more reading for us to do in relation to them and the
Constitution. These contemporary authors probably read some of the great books, and
the men who wrote the Constitution certainly did. All we have to do is to follow the
lead, and the trail will unwind by itself.
First, let us go to the other writings of the men who drafted the Constitution. Most
obvious of all is the collection of pieces, arguing for the ratification of the Constitution,
published weekly in The Independent Journal and elsewhere by Hamilton, Madison,
and Jay. To understand The Federalist, you should read not only the Articles of
Confederation, which the Constitution was intended to supplant, but also the writings of
the Federalists' major opponent on many issues, Thomas Jefferson.
George Washington, Edmund Burke, and Tom Paine ^ were other great participants in
the argument. Washington saw the Constitution as in some sense the leading hope of
mankind. Burke, an Englishman, supported our Revolution and attacked the one in
France in 1789. And Paine's works throw light on the issues of the day and the
ideologies that controlled the opponents.
These writers, because they were readers as well, lead us to the books which influenced
them. They are using ideas whose more extended and disinterested exposition is to be
found elsewhere. The pages of The Federalist, and the writings of Jefferson, Burke, and
Paine refer us to the great political thinkers of the eighteenth and late seventeenth
centuries in Europe. We should read Montesquieu's The Spirit of Laws, Locke's essay
Concerning Civil Government, Rousseau's Social Contract. To savor the rationalism of
this Age of Reason, we must also read here and there in the voluminous papers of
Voltaire.
You may suppose that the laissez-faire individualism of Adam Smith also belongs in
our revolutionary background, but remember that The Wealth of Nations was first
published in 1776. The founding fathers were influenced, in their ideas about property,
agrarianism, and free trade, by John Locke and the French economists against whom
Adam Smith subsequently wrote.
Our founding fathers were well read in ancient history. They drew upon the annals of
Greece and Rome tor many of their political examples. They had read Plutarch's Lives
and Thucydides' History of the Peloponnesian War—the war between Sparta and
Athens and their allies. They followed the fortunes of the various Greek federations for
what light they might throw on the enterprise they were about to undertake. They were
not only learned in history and political thought, but they went to school with the
ancient orators. As a result, their political propaganda is not only magnificently turned,
but amazingly effective even today. With the exception of Lincoln (who had read a few
great books very well), American statesmen of a later day neither speak nor write so
well.
The trail leads further. The writers of the eighteenth century had been influenced in turn
by their immediate forebears in political thought. The Leviathan of Thomas Hobbes and
the political tracts of Spinoza deal with the same problems of government—the
formation of society by contract, the justifications of monarchy, oligarchy, and
democracy, the right of rebellion against tyranny. Locke, Spinoza, and Hobbes are, in a
sense, involved in a conversation with one another. Locke and Spinoza had read
Hobbes. Spinoza, moreover, had read Machiavelli's The Prince, and Locke everywhere
refers to and quotes "the judicious Hooker," the Richard Hooker who wrote a book
about ecclesiastical government at the end of the sixteenth century, and of whom Izaak
Walton, the fisherman, wrote a life.
I mention Hooker—even though he is not in either Great Books or Gateway— because
he, more than the men of a later generation, had read the ancients well, especially the
Ethics and Politics of Aristotle. He had certainly read them better than Thomas Hobbes,
if we can judge^by the references in the latter's work. Hooker's influence on Locke
partly accounts tor the difference between Locke and Hobbes on many political
questions.
Like Locke, Hooker opposed the theory of the divine right of kings. Madison and
Jefferson were acquainted with his arguments. Through him, still other books entered
the picture. Hooker reflected the great medieval works on political theory, especially the
writings of St. Thomas Aquinas, who was an upholder of popular sovereignty and the
natural rights of man.
The conversation about current political issues thus enlarges itself to take in the whole
of European political thought. If we go back to the Constitution and the writings of '76,
we are inevitably led further, as each writer reveals himself to be a reader in turn. Little
has been left out. If we add Plato's Republic and Laws which Aristotle read and
answered, and Cicero's Republic and Laws which were read by Roman jurists, and
through them influenced the development of law throughout medieval Europe, almost
all the great political books have been drawn in.
-5That is not quite true. By returning to the original conversation, and taking a fresh start,
we may discover the few major omissions. Suppose there is an ex-Nazi in our midst,
and he quotes Mein Kampf to us. Since it is not clear that Hitler ever read the great
books, the political utterances of Mussolini might be more productive of leads. We may
remember that Mussolini was once a socialist. If we pursue these lines in all their
ramifications, other books inevitably find their way into the conversation.
There would be Hegel's Philosophy of History and Philosophy of Right. Here we would
find the justifications of state absolutism, the deification o£ the state. There would also
be writings of Carlyle, especially such books as On Heroes, Hero-Worship, and the
Heroic in History. Here we would find the theory of the superman as above the canons
of right and wrong, the theory of a successful use of might as its own ultimate
justification. And behind Hegel on the one hand, and Carlyle on the other—in the latter
case through the influence of Schopenhauer—would be the greatest of German thinkers,
Immanuel Kant. Anyone who reads Kant's Science of Right will see that he cannot be
held responsible for the positions of certain of his followers.
There might also be a Communist at our table, either Khrushchevist or Stalinist. Both
sorts swear by the same book. The conversation would not get very tar without Karl
Marx being mentioned. His great work, Capital, would also be mentioned, even though
no one had read it, not even the Communist. But if anyone had read Capital, and other
literature of revolution, he would have found a trail which led, on the one hand, to
Hegel again —a starting point for both Communism and Fascism—and, on the other
hand, to the great economic and social theorists of England and France: to Adam
Smith's Wealth of Nations, to Malthus's essay on Population, and to Guizot's History of
Civilization in Europe.
A lawyer present might turn the discussion away from economic theory by turning it to
the problems of government, and especially those of a democracy. He may have just
recently read Walter Lippmann's The Public Philosophy. Or he might raise questions
about the role of the UN in current crises abroad, and refer to Arnold Toyn-bee's
Civilization on Trial. These books would bring others in their train.
Becoming interested in the problems of democracy, and of our own democratic
government in particular, we might go from Lippmann to Alexis de Tocqueville's
Democracy in America and to Calhoun's Disquisition on Government. The issues both
of these books raise about the possible tyranny of majority rule and the protection of the
rights of minorities would lead us to John Stuart Mill's essay on Representative
Government and to his essay On Liberty. The latter, in turn, especially its magnificent
chapter on freedom of thought and discussion, would send us to Milton's Areopagitica.
Mill's two essays, by the way, are being paraphrased every day, with approval or
disapproval, by men who have not read them, so much have they become a part of the
contemporary controversy between liberals and conservatives.
The discussion of Toynbee's views about war and peace and about the role of
international or supranational organizations in the prevention of war might turn our
attention to the failure of the league of the ancient Greek cities to prevent the
Peloponnesian War. Toynbee tells us how much his own views were influenced by
reading Thucyd-ides' tragic account of that war. The whole subject of war, and
especially the distinction between the hot war of bombs and battles and the cold war of
diplomats, propaganda agencies, and spies would probably open up another line of
reading for us, beginning with von Clausewitz's On War, and going back through Kant's
little treatise on Perpetual Peace and Rousseau's essay on A Lasting Peace Through the
Federation of Europe to Dante's thirteenth-century vision o£ world peace through world
government, set forth with unassailable logic in the opening book of his De Monarchia.
Discussions of democracy and government, on the one hand, or of international affairs
and war and peace, on the other, have a way of getting into thorny questions about the
intrinsic defects of human nature, and about the intricacies of semantic clarification. The
question about man's aggressiveness might suggest the reading of Freud's little essay
Why War? And it we started on that, the whole history of psychology might unfold in
another list of books, including Pavlov's work Lectures on Conditioned Reflexes,
William James's Principles of Psychology, Hume's Treatise on Human Nature,
Descartes' work on The Passions of the Soul, and so on. Since we started out by
considering the psychological aspects of politics and of war, Machiavelli's The Prince
would also become relevant, tor it raises the fundamental question about the
benevolence or malice o£ men in relation to their fellow men.
The problem of the meaning of words, and especially the problem of their tricky
ambiguity, would, of course, lead someone to refer to current books by linguistic
philosophers of one school or another. All this current literature—and there is a spate of
it—has deep roots in the tradition of Western thought, from the very beginning in the
dialogues of Plato and in the treatises of Aristotle, wherein hardly a step is taken
without attention being paid to the multiple meanings of the critical terms of the
discussion. If we pursue this interest in the meanings of words and their uses in thought,
all the great works in the liberal arts would eventually have to be rediscovered.
A list of required readings would include Locke's Essay on Human Understanding,
especially Book III on language; Hobbes's Leviathan, especially the first book, and his
Rhetoric, which closely follows Aristotle's Rhetoric. It would also include Plato's
dialogues about language and oratory (the Cratylus, Gorgias, and Phaedrus, especially),
and two great medieval works on teaching and being taught—one by St. Augustine and
one by St. Thomas, both called Of the Teacher. I dare not start on logical works,
because the list might be too long, but John Stuart Mill's System of Logic, Bacon's
Novum Organum, and Aristotle's Or-ganon must be mentioned.
One other direction is possible. The consideration of political and economic issues tends
to raise the basic ethical problems about pleasure and virtue, about happiness, the ends
of life, and the means thereto. Someone may have read Jacques Maritain's Moral
Philosophy and noticed what this living-follower of Aristotle and Aquinas had to say
about contemporary problems, especially the moral aspects of current political and
economic issues. That would not only lead us back to the great moral treatises of the
past—Aristotle's Ethics and the second part of Aquinas's Summa Theologica—but it
might also get us into a many-sided dispute. To see it through, we would have to consult
Mill's Utilitarianism, Kant's Critique of Practical Reason, and Spinoza's Ethics. We
might even return to the Roman Stoics and Epicureans, to the Meditations of Marcus
Au-relius, and Lucretius's On the Nature of Things.
-6You should have observed a number of things in this ramification of conversation or
reflection about current problems. Not only does one book lead to another, but each
contains implicitly a large diversity of leads. Our conversation or thought can branch
out in many directions. and each time it does another group of books seems to be drawn
in. Notice, furthermore, that the same authors are often represented in different
connections, tor they have usually written about many of these related topics, sometimes
in different books, but often in the same work.
Nor is it surprising that, as one goes back to the medieval and ancient worlds, the same
names are repeated many times. Aristotle and Plato, Cicero and Aquinas, for instance,
stand at the fountainhead. They have been read and discussed, agreed with and
disagreed with by the writers of modern times. And when they have not been read, their
doctrines have filtered down in many indirect -ways, through such men as Hooker.
So tar we have dealt mainly with practical matters-politics, economics, morals—
although you probably observed a tendency to become theoretical. We turned to
psychology by way of Freud's influence on the lawyers. If the ethical controversy had
been followed a bit further, we would soon have been in metaphysics. In fact, we were,
with Maritain's discussion of free will and with Spinoza's Ethics. Kant's Critique of
Practical Reason might have led us to his Critique of Pure Reason, and all the theoretic
questions about the nature of knowledge and experience.
Suppose we consider briefly some theoretic questions. We have been concerned with
education throughout this book. Someone who had read Mr. Hutchins' book. The Higher
Learning in America, might raise a question about metaphysics and its place in higher
education. That usually starts a discussion about what metaphysics is. And usually
someone says there is no such thing. We would probably be referred to John Dewey's
Democracy and Education and his Quest for Certainty to see that all valid knowledge is
scientific or experimental. It all the leads therein were followed, we might soon find
ourselves back to the source of the current anti-metaphysical trend:
Hume's Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, and perhaps even Kant's
Prolegomena to Any Future Metaphysics.
Someone who had read books such as Whitehead's Process and Reality and Science and
the Modern World, or Santayana's Realm of Essence and Realm of Matter, or Maritain's
Degrees of Knowledge, might object to the dismissal of metaphysics. The 'protagonist
might defend the claims of theoretic philosophy to give us knowledge about the nature
of things, of a different sort and apart from science. It he had read those books well, he
would have been led back to the great speculative works of modem and ancient times;
to Descartes' Principles of Philosophy; to Aquinas's little work on Being and Essence;
to Aristotle's Metaphysics, and to Plato's dialogues, the Timaeus, the Parmenides, and
the Sophist.
Or let us suppose that our theoretic interests turn to the natural sciences rather than to
philosophy. I have already mentioned Freud and Pavlov. The problems'of human
behavior and human nature open into a lot of other questions. Not only man's nature but
his place in nature would concern us. All these roads lead to Darwin's Origin of Species
and thence, on bypaths, to Lyell's Antiquity of Man and Malthus's essay on Population.
Recently there have been a lot of books about the practice of medicine, and a few about
the theory of it. Man's normal hypochondria makes him abnormally interested in
doctors, health, and the functioning of his own body. Here there are many routes in
reading, but they would all probably go through Claude Bernard's Introduction to
Experimental Medicine and Harvey's book on The Motion of the Heart, all the way back
to Galen's Natural Faculties and Hippocrates' amazing formulations of Greek medicine.
Einstein and Infeld's The Evolution of Physics refers us to the great milestones in the
development of man's experimental knowledge. Here our reading would be deepened if
we looked into Poincare's Foundations of Science and Clifford's Common Sense of the
Exact Sciences. They, in turn, would take us to such works as Faraday's Experimental
Researches into Electricity and Mendeleev's Periodic Law of the Chemical Elements;
perhaps even to Newton's Optics, and Galileo's Two New Sciences.
The most exact sciences are not only the most experimental but also the most
mathematical ones. If we are interested in physics, we cannot avoid considering
mathematics. Here, too, there have been many recent books, but I think none so good as
a little masterpiece by Whitehead called An Introduction to Mathematics. Bertrand
Russell's various writings on the meaning of mathematics are also worthy of
consideration.
If we read these works, we might turn to Forsyth's Mathematics, in Life and Thought.
From it, we could not help returning to the starting points of modern mathematics in
Descartes' Geometry and the mathematical works of Newton. Modern commentaries,
like those of Hogben, Dantzig, and Kasner and Newman, would be extremely helpful,
but I think we would also find it necessary to see the whole of modern mathematics in
the light of its contrast with the Greek accomplishment, especially Euclid's Elements of
Geometry, Nicomachus's Introduction to Arithmetic, and Apollonius's Treatise on
Conic Sections.
The connection of the great books and the versatility of their authors may now appear
even more plainly than before. Descartes and Whitehead were both mathematicians and
metaphysicians. Malthus's essay on Population was not only a work in social science,
but also influenced Darwin's notions about the struggle for existence and the survival of
the fittest. Newton was not only a great experimental physicist but also a great
mathematician. Leonardo's Notebooks contain both his theory of perspective in painting
and the record of his mechanical investigations and inventions.
-7I am going to take one step further. Even though we have been primarily concerned with
expository works, a recitation of the great books would be sorely deficient if the
masterpieces of belles-lettres were not mentioned. Here, too, contemporary works might
generate an interest in their forebears. The modern novel has a varied history which
opens up when we go back from D. H. Lawrence and Thomas Mann, F. Scott Fitzgerald
and Ernest Hemingway, to the forms of narration they have tried to modify. These four,
along with Joseph Conrad, Stephen Crane, and Isaac Singer, lead us to Flaubert,
Maupassant, and Balzac, and to the great Russians Dostoevsky and Tolstoy. Nor will we
forget our own Mark Twain, Herman Melville, and Henry James; or Hardy, Dickens,
and Sir Walter Scott. Behind all these lie the great eighteenth-century novels of Defoe
and Fielding. Robinson Crusoe and Tom Jones would remind us of many others,
including Swift's Gulliver. Our travels would not be complete, of course, until we came
to Cervantes' Don Quixote and Rabelais' Gargantua and Pantagruel.
The plays, both pleasant and unpleasant, by Shaw and other moderns follow an even
longer tradition of dramatic writing. There would be not only the plays of Ibsen and
Chekhov, who influenced Shaw considerably, and the earlier comedies of Sheridan and
Moliere; but behind the tragedies of Synge and O'Neill, as well as the plays of
Shakespeare and other Elizabethans, there lie the Greek comedies of Aristophanes and
the great tragedies of Euripides, Sophocles, and Aeschylus.
Finally, there are the long narrative poems, the great epics: Goethe's Faust, Milton's
Paradise Lost, Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, Dante's Divine Comedy, Virgil's Aeneid,
and Homer's Iliad and Odyssey.
I have not mentioned all the books and authors in Great Books of the Western World
and in Gateway to the Great Books, but I have referred to a large number of them as
they might group themselves in the course of conversation, or in the pursuit of interests
aroused by contemporary issues or current books. There are no fixed barriers between
these groups. They flow into one another at every turn.
This is not only true of such obviously related subject matters as politics and ethics,
ethics and metaphysics, metaphysics and mathematics, mathematics and natural science.
It appears in more remote connections. The writers of The Federalist refer to Euclid's
axioms as a model for political principles. A reader of Montaigne and Machia-velli, as
well as, of course, of Plutarch, will find their sentiments and stories, even their
language, in the plays of Shakespeare. The Divine Comedy reflects the Summa Theologica of St. Thomas Aquinas, Aristotle's Ethics, and Ptolemy's astronomy. And we
know how frequently Plato and Aristotle refer to Homer and the great tragic poets.
-8Perhaps you see now why I have said so often that the great books should be read in
relation to one another and in the most varied sorts of connection. Thus read, they
support each other, illuminate each other, intensify each other's significance. And, of
course, they make one another more readable. In reciting their names and tracing their
connections, I have gone backward from contemporary books, taking each step in terms
of the books an author himself read. That has shown you how the whole tradition of the
great books is involved in our life today.
But if you wish to use one great book to help you read another, it would be better to
read from the past into the present, rather than the other way around. It you first read the
books an author read, you will understand him better. Your mind has grown as his did,
and therefore you are better able to come to terms with him, to know and understand
him.
To proceed in the other direction is sometimes more exciting. It is more like doing
detective work, or playing hare and hounds. Even when you get this excitement out of
reading the books backwards, you will nevertheless have to understand them in the
forward direction. That is the way they happened, and they can be completely
understood in no other way.
Our wanderings among the great books help me to make another point. It is difficult to
say of any contemporary book that it is great. We are too near it to make a sober
judgment. Sometimes we can be relatively sure, as in the case of Einstein's work, the
novels o£ Proust and Joyce, or the philosophy of Dewey, Whitehead, and Maritain. But,
for the most part, we must refrain from such elections. The hall of fame is too august a
place for us to send our twentieth-century candidates, without enclosing return postage.
But current books can certainly be good, even if we cannot be sure they are great. The
best sign I know that a current book is good, and that it may even be judged great some
day, is the obviousness of its connection with the great books. Such books are drawn,
and draw us, into the conversation which the great books have had. Necessarily their
authors are well read. They belong to the tradition, whatever they think of it, or however
much they seem to revolt from it.
Let me state one further conclusion. We suffer today not only from political nationalism
but cultural provincialism. We have developed the cult of the present moment. We read
only current books for the most part, it we read any at all. Not only shall we fail to read
the good books of this year well, if we read them only, but our failure to read the great
books isolates us from the world of man, just as much as unqualified allegiance to the
hammer and sickle makes one a Russian or Chinese first, and a man later—if ever. It is
our most sacred human privilege to be men first, and citizens or nationals second. This
is just as true in the cultural sphere as the political. We are not pledged to our country or
our century.
It is our privilege, in fact, I would say it is our duty, to belong to the larger brotherhood
of man which recognizes no national boundaries or any local or tribal fetishes. I do not
know how to escape from the straitjacket of political nationalism, but I do know how we
can become citizens of the world of letters, friends of the human spirit in all its
manifestations, regardless of time and place.
You can guess the answer. It is by reading the great books. Thus the human mind,
wherever it is located, can be freed from current emergencies and local prejudices,
through being elevated to the universal plane of communication. There it grasps the
general truths, to which the whole human tradition bears witness.
Those who can read well can think critically. To this extent, they have become free
minds. If they have read the great books—and I mean really read them—they will have
the freedom to move anywhere in the human world. Only they can fully lead the life of
reason who, though living in a time and place, are yet not wholly of it.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Free Minds and Free Men
-1let us not get confused about means and ends. Reading the great books is not for the
sake of talking about them. Mentioning them by name may give you the appearance of
literacy, but you do not have to read them to participate in parlor sports or outshine the
silver at a dinner party. I hope I have made clear that there are better reasons for
reading— really reading—the great books.
So far as conversation is concerned, it is the other way around. I have recommended
discussion as an aid to reading, not reading for the sake of "brilliant" conversation. The
conversation between reader and author, which is an integral part of good reading, may
not take place unless the reader is accustomed to the discussion of books. It he has
friends with whom he talks about books, he is more likely to talk back to the books
themselves.
But there is another and more important point. Even reading the great books well is not
an end in itself. It is a means toward living a decent human life, the life of a free man
and a free citizen. This should be our ultimate objective. It is the ultimate theme of this
book. I shall turn to it at the end of this chapter. For the present, I want to give a little
more attention to the problem of discussion in relation to reading.
You can, of course, carry on a conversation with a book alone, but that will seem to
most people like talking to yourself. For lively conversation, you need more than books
and the ability to read them. You need friends and the ability to talk and listen.
Unfortunately, just having friends is not enough. We all have friends. But suppose our
friends do not like to read books, and do not know how to read and talk about them.
Suppose they are friends of the golf course or the bridge table, friends of music or of the
theater, or anything except books. In that case, the kind of conversations I imagined in
the last chapter will not take place.
You may have conversations which start in the same way with current topics or recent
books. Someone recites the newspaper headlines or the latest news broadcast. The big
news these days is full of problems. It contains the seeds for countless conversations.
But do they develop? Does the talk leave the level of the newspaper and the radio? If it
does not, everyone will soon find the conversation dull and, tired of repeating the same
old stuff, you will decide to play cards, go to the movies, or talk about your neighbors.
No special literacy is required for that.
Someone may have read a book, probably one thu Is now being talked about in wellinformed circles. There is another chance for a conversation to begin. But it will falter
and die away early unless by good luck there happen to be other readers of the same
book. More likely the others will join in by mentioning other books they have recently
read. No connections will be made. When everyone has given and taken
recommendations about the next book to read, the talk will shift to the things people
think they have in common. Even if several are present who have read the same book,
the conversation is likely to choke because of their inability to discuss it in a way that
leads somewhere.
I may be exaggerating your situation somewhat, but I speak from my own experience of
too many endlessly dull social evenings. It does not seem as if there were enough people
who had a common background of reading. It has become fashionable to use the phrase
"frame of reference." Good conversation requires all those who engage in it to speak
within the same frame of reference. Communication not only results in something
common; it usually needs a common background to begin with. Our failures in
communication are as much due to the lack of an initial community of ideas as to our
inabilities in talking and listening.
What I am saying may sound as if it had drastic implications. Not only do I want you to
learn to read, but now I am asking you to change your friends! I tear there is some truth
in that. Either you yourself will not change very much, or you must change your friends.
I am only saying what everyone knows, that friendship depends on a community of
interests. If you read the great books, you will want friends with whom to discuss them.
You do not have to find new ones if you can persuade your old ones to read along with
you.
I remember what John Erskine said when he launched the group of students I belonged
to on the reading of the great books. He told us that for some years past he had noticed
that college students could not talk to one another intelligently. Under the elective
system, they went to different classes, meeting only now and then and reading only this
or that textbook in common. Members of the same college year were not intellectual
friends. When he had gone to Columbia at the beginning of the century, everyone took
the same courses and read the same books, many of them great ones. Good conversation
had flourished and, more than that, there had been friendships with respect to ideas as
well as on the playing field or in fraternities.
One of his motives in starting the Honors course was to .revive college life as an
intellectual community. If a group of students read the same books and met weekly for
two years to discuss them, they might find a new sort of fellowship. The great books
would not only initiate them into the world of ideas but would provide the frame of
reference for further communication among them. They would know how to talk
intelligently and intelligibly to one another, not only about the books, but through the
books about all the problems which engage men's thought and action.
In such a community, Erskine said, democracy would be safe, tor democracy requires
intelligent communication about and common participation in the solution of human
problems. That was before anyone thought that democracy would ever again be
threatened. As I remember, we did not pay much attention to Erskine's insight at the
time. But he was right. I am sure of it now. I am sure that a liberal education is
democracy's strongest bulwark.
-2I do not know what chance there is of changing the schools and colleges of this country.
They are moving in the opposite direction today, away from the three R's and literacy.
(Paradoxically enough, the current trends in education, which I have criticized, are also
motivated by a devotion to democracy.) But I do know that something can be done
about adult education. That is not yet entirely under the control of the teachers' colleges
and schools of education. You and your friends are free to make plans tor yourself. You
do not have to wait for someone to come along and offer you a program. You do not
need any elaborate machinery to set up one. You do not even need any teachers. Get
together, read the great books, and discuss them. Just as you will learn to read by
reading, so you will learn to discuss by discussing.
I have many reasons for thinking this quite feasible. When I went to Chicago and started
to teach a reading course with President Hutchins, some people in a near-by suburb
invited me to tell them about it. The group consisted of mature men and women, all of
them college graduates, some of the men engaged in professional work, some in
business, many of the women involved in local educational and political activities as
well as in taking care of their families. They decided they would like to take the course.
In college we read about sixty books in two years at the rate of one a week. Since the
suburban group would not have as much time (what with babies and business to occupy
them), they could only read a book a month. It would take them about eight years,
therefore, to read the same list of books. Frankly, I did not think they would stick at it.
At first they read no better than most college graduates do. They were starting from
scratch, the veneer-thin scratch that a college education leaves. They found that their
habits of reading, adjusted to the daily paper and even the best periodical or current
book, were remarkably like no skill at all when they came to read the Iliad, The Divine
Comedy, or Crime and Punishment; Plato's Republic, Spinoza's Ethics, or Mill's Essay
on Liberty; Newton's Opticks or Darwin's Origin of Species. But they read them all and
in the course of doing so they learned how to read.
They kept at it because they felt their proficiency grow with each year, and enjoyed the
mastery which skill provides. They can tell now what the author is trying to do, what
questions he is trying to answer, what his most important concepts are, what reasons he
has for his conclusions, and even what defects there are in his treatment of the subject.
The intelligence of their discussion is clearly greater than it was ten years ago, and that
signifies one thing surely: they have learned to read more intelligently.
This group has kept together for ten years now. So tar as I can see, they plan to continue
indefinitely, increasing the scope of their reading, and rereading some of the books they
did poorly by in the earlier years. I may have helped them by leading their discussions,
but I am sure they could now go on without my help. In fact, I am sure they would.
They have discovered the difference it makes in their lives.
They were all friends before they started, but now their friendships have matured
intellectually. Conversation now flourishes where before it might soon languish and
give way to other things. They have experienced the pleasure of talking about serious
problems intelligently. They do not exchange opinions as they would the time of day.
Discussion has become responsible. A man must support what he says. Ideas have
connections with one another and with the world of everyday affairs. They have learned
to judge propositions and arguments by their intelligibility and relevance.
Several years before I went to Chicago, we had started a similar adult-education
program in New York. Mr. Bu-chanan was then assistant director of the People's
Institute, and he and I persuaded Mr. Everett Dean Martin to let us try reading the great
books with groups of adults. We were proposing what was then a wild experiment in
adult education. It is not an experiment any longer. We should not have thought it was
one then, if we had remembered the facts of European history. The discussion of
important problems has always been the way adults continue their education, and it has
seldom taken place except against the common background provided by reading
important books.
We started about ten groups all around the New York area. They met in libraries,
gymnasiums, church social halls, and Y.M.CA.'s. They consisted of all sorts of peoplesome who had been to college, some who had not, rich and poor, dull and brilliant. The
leaders of these groups were young men most of whom had not read the books
themselves but were willing to try. Their chief function was to conduct the discussion,
to start it off by asking some leading questions, to keep it going when it bogged down,
to clarify disputes when they threatened to becloud the real issues.
It was a great success. It stopped only because it needed financial support it did not get
to pay for staff and maintenance. But it can be revived anywhere and any time by any
group of people who decide they will read and talk about the great books together. All
you need are some friends to begin with, and you will be better friends before you are
through.
You may say that I have forgotten one thing. In both the New York and Chicago groups
I have described, there were leaders responsible for conducting the discussion, leaders
who may have had a little more experience than the rest of the group in reading the
books. Trained leaders would help you get started, I admit. But they are a luxury, not a
necessity.
You can proceed in the most democratic fashion by electing a leader for each meeting.
Let different people take turns at it. On each occasion the leader will probably leam
more about reading and discussing the book than all the others. If every member of the
group gets this experience in turn, the whole group will leam more quickly than if they
imported a leader from the outside. There is this compensation in the plan I am
suggesting, though it may be more difficult at the start.
I do not have to tell you how a book should be discussed. All the rules for reading tell
you that. They are a set of directions for discussing a book as well as reading it. Just as
they should regulate the conversation you have with the author, so they govern the
conversation you can have with your friends about the book. And, as I have said before,
the two conversations mutually support each other.
A discussion is led by the asking of questions. The rules for reading indicate the major
questions which can be asked about any book, in itself or in relation to other books. The
discussion is sustained by the answering of questions. Those who participate must, of
course, understand the questions and be relevant in the remarks they make. But if you
have acquired the discipline of coming to terms with an author, you and your friends
should have no difficulty in coming to terms with each other. In fact, it is easier,
because you can help one another reach an understanding. I am supposing, of course,
that you will have good intellectual manners, that you will not judge until you
understand what the other fellow is saying, and that when you do judge, you will give
reasons.
Every good conversation is a unique thing. It has never happened that way before and
will never happen again, The order ot the questions will be different in every case.
The opinions expressed, the way they are opposed and clarified, will vary from book to
book and from group to group discussing the same book. Yet every good discussion is
the same in some respects. It moves freely. The argument is followed wherever it leads.
Understanding and agreement are the constant goals, to be reached by infinitely various
routes. A good conversation is neither aimless nor empty. When something worth
discussing has been well discussed, discussion is not the stale and unprofitable thing
most people think it is.
Good discussion of important problems in the light of great books is almost a complete
exercise in the arts of thinking and communicating. Only writing is left out. Bacon said:
"Reading maketh a full man, conference a ready man, and writing an exact man."
Perhaps even exactitude can be attained through the precision which well-regulated
discussion demands. In any case, the mind can be sufficiently disciplined by reading,
listening, and talking.
-3The mind which is trained to read well has its analytical and critical powers developed.
The mind which is trained to discuss well has them further sharpened. One acquires a
tolerance for arguments through dealing with them patiently and sympathetically. The
animal impulse to impose our opinions upon others is thus checked. We learn that the
only authority is reason itself—the only arbiters in any dispute are the reasons and
evidences. We do not try to gain ascendancy by a show of force or by counting the
noses of those who agree with us. Genuine issues cannot be decided by the mere weight
of opinion. We must appeal to reason, not depend on pressure groups.
We all want to learn to think straight. A great book may help us by the examples it
affords of penetrating insight and cogent analysis. A good discussion may give further
support by catching us when we are thinking crooked. If our friends do not let us get
away with it, we may soon learn that sloppy thinking, like murder, will always out.
Embarrassment may reduce us to making an effort we had never supposed was within
our power. Unless reading and discussion enforce these demands for straight and clear
thinking, most of us go through life with an amazingly false confidence in our
perceptions and judgments. We think badly most of the time and, what is worse, we do
not know it because we are seldom found out.
Those who can read well, listen and talk well, have disciplined minds. Discipline is
indispensable for a free use of our powers. The man who has not the knack of doing
something gets tied up in knots when he tries to perform. The discipline which comes
from skill is necessary for facility. How far can you go in discussing a book with
someone who does not know how to read or talk about it? How far can you get in your
own reading without a trained ability?
Discipline, as I have said before, is a source of freedom. Only a trained intelligence can
think freely. And where there is no freedom in thinking, there can be no freedom of
thought. Without free minds, we cannot long remain free men.
Perhaps you are now prepared to admit that learning to read may be significantly related
to other things—in fact, to all the rest of a reader's life. Its social and political
implications are not remote. Before I consider them, however, let me remind you of one
immediate justification for bothering to learn to read.
Reading—and with it thinking and learning—is enjoyable for those who do it well. Just
as we enjoy being able to use our bodies skillfully, so we can derive pleasure from a
competent employment of our other faculties. The better we can use our minds, the
more we appreciate how good it is to be able to think and learn. The art of reading can
be praised, therefore, as intrinsically good. We have mental powers to use and leisure in
which to employ them disinterestedly. Reading is certainly one way of fulfilling them.
If such praise were all, I should not be satisfied. However good reading may be as an
immediate source of pleas-nre, it is not completely an end in itself. We must do more
than think and learn in order to lead a human life. We must act. If we wish to preserve
our leisure for disinterested activities, we cannot shirk our practical responsibilities. It is
in relation to our practical life that reading has its ultimate justification.
Reading the great books has been for nought unless we are concerned with bringing
about a good society. Everyone wants to live in it, but few seem willing to work for it.
Let me say briefly what I mean by a good society. It is simply the enlargement of the
community in which we live with our friends. We live together with our friends in
peaceful and intelligent association. We form a community to the extent that we
communicate, share common ideas and purposes. The good society, in the large, must
be an association of men made friends by intelligent communication.
-4Where men lack the arts of communication, intelligent discussion must languish. Where
there is no mastery of the medium for exchanging ideas, ideas cease to play a part in
human life. When that happens, men are little better than the brutes they dominate by
force or cunning, and they will soon try to dominate each other in the same way.
The loss of freedom follows. When men cannot live together as friends, when a whole
society is not built on a real community of understanding, freedom cannot flourish. We
can live freely only with our friends. With all others, we are constantly oppressed by
every sort of dread, and checked in every movement by suspicion.
Preserving freedom, for ourselves and our posterity, is one of our major concerns today.
A proper respect for liberty is the heart of sound liberalism. But I cannot help
wondering whether our liberalism is sound. We do not seem to know the origins of
liberty or its ends. We cry out for all sorts of liberty—freedom of speech, of the press,
of assembly—but we do not seem to realize that freedom of thought is the basis for all
these others. Without it, freedom of speech is an empty privilege, and a free conscience
nothing but a private prejudice. Without it, our civil liberties can be exercised only in a
pro forma way, and we are unlikely to retain them long if we do not know how to use
them well.
As President Barr, of St. John's College, has pointed out, American liberalism today
asks for too little, not too much. We have not demanded, as our ancestors did, a mind
freed from ignorance, an awakened imagination, and a disciplined reason, without
which we cannot effectively use our other freedoms or even preserve them. We have
paid attention to the external uses of liberty rather than its essence. The reigning
educational system suggests, moreover, that we no longer know how free minds are
made and, through them, free men.
It is not just a play on words to connect liberalism and liberal education, or to say that
training in the liberal arts liberalizes— makes us free. The arts of reading and writing,
listening and speaking, are the arts which make it possible for us to think freely, because
they discipline the mind. They are the liberating arts. The discipline they accomplish
frees us from the vagaries of unfounded opinion and the strictures of local prejudice.
They free our minds from every domination except the authority of reason itself. A free
man recognizes no other authority. Those who ask to be free from all authority—from
reason itself—are false liberals. As Milton said, "license they mean, when they cry
liberty."
I was invited last year by the American Council 6n Education to address its annual
meeting in Washington. I chose to speak about the political implications of the three
R's, under the title "Liberalism and Liberal Education." I tried to show how false
liberalism is the enemy of liberal education, and why a truly liberal education is needed
in this country to correct the confusions of this widely prevalent false liberalism. By
false liberalism, I mean the sort which confuses authority with tyranny and discipline
with regimentation. It exists wherever men think everything is just a matter of opinion.
That is a suicidal doctrine. It ultimately reduces itself to the position that only might
makes right. The liberal who frees himself from reason, rather than through it,
surrenders to the only other arbiter in human affairs—force, or what Mr. Chamberlain
has called "the awful arbitrament of war."
The political implications of the three R's, or the liberal arts, are not far to seek. If
democracy is a society of free men, it must sustain and extend liberal education or
perish. Democratic citizens must be able to think for themselves. To do this, they must
first be able to think, and have a body of ideas to think with. They must be able to
communicate clearly with one another and receive communications of all sorts
critically. It is for such ends that skill in reading and reading the great books are
obviously only means.
In Shakespeare's Henry VI, the following speech occurs:
Thou hast most traitorously corrupted the youth of the realm in erecting a grammarschool; and whereas before, our forefathers had no other books but the score and the
tally, thou hast caused printing to be used, and, contrary to the king, his crown and
dignity, thou hast built a paper-mill.
Reading and writing looked like high treason to the tyrant. He saw in them the forces
which might shake him from his throne. And for a while they did, in the gradual
democrati-zation of the Western world through the spread of learning and the growth of
literacy. But we see today a different turn in human affairs. The means of
communication which once were used by liberators to free men are now used by
dictators to subdue them.
Today the pen is as potent as the sword in the making of a despot. Tyrants used to be
great generals. Now they are strategists in communication, beguiling orators or
propagandists. Their weapons are the radio and the press, as much as secret police and
concentration camps. And when men are pushed about by propaganda, they are as
servile as when they are coerced by brute force. They are political puppets, not free men
democratically ruled.
Hobbes was suspicious of democracy because he feared its tendency to degenerate into
an oligarchy of orators. Though our aims be different from his, we must admit that
recent history supports his point. We have seen abroad how the leading orator in the
land can become its tyrant. We must save democracy from these inherent weaknesses by
closing such roads to despotism. If we are being oppressed by organizations of force, we
fight to disarm them. So we must disarm the orators, and we must do so in advance of
the day when their spell begins to bind. There is only one way of doing that in a land
where free speech is everybody's privilege. The citizens must become critical of what
they read and what they hear. They must be liberally educated. If the schools fail to give
them such education, they must get it for themselves by learning to read and by reading.
But, for their children's sake, they may ultimately realize that something will have to be
done about the schools.
The fact that liberally disciplined minds make it harder for those who try to misuse the
means of communication is a negative point. There are positive advantages as well. A
democracy needs both competent leaders and responsible followers. Neither is possible
unless men can exercise free judgment and are in possession of principles which direct
action to the right ends. A democratic citizen is an independent subject, because he is
ultimately subject to his own free choices. A democratic leader rules only by guiding,
not imposing upon, that freedom.
Just as a good teacher tries to elicit active learning on the part of his students, so the art
of ruling in a democracy is one of inviting active participation on the part of citizens.
But just as good teaching cannot succeed unless the students have the art of being
taught—the skills involved in learning actively from a teacher—so democratic ruling
fails unless the citizens possess the reciprocal art of being ruled. Without the art of
being taught, students must receive instruction passively. They can learn only through
being indoctrinated, in the vicious sense of that word. As we have seen, we are properly
teachable, or docile, only to the extent that we have the mental discipline to learn by the
active and fr"e use of our powers. Similarly, without the art of being ruled, we can be
governed only by force or imposition.
A democracy, in short, depends on men who can rule themselves because they have the
art of being ruled. Whether they occupy the offices of government or merely the rank of
citizens, such men can rule or be ruled without losing their integrity or freedom. Brute
force and insidious propaganda are evils with which they are prepared to cope. To
maintain the reciprocity between ruling and being ruled is to guarantee political and
civil liberty. They do not suffer because all men are not in the government or because
just laws must be enforced.
The art of being ruled and the reciprocal art of ruling, like the arts of being taught and of
teaching, are arts of the mind. They are liberal arts. The democratic ruler must move us
by rational persuasion. If we are good democratic citizens, we must be capable of being
moved that way—and only in that way. The appeal to fact and reason distinguishes
rational persuasion from vicious propaganda. Men who arc moved by such persuasion
remain free because they have moved themselves. They have been persuaded
knowingly.
To know how to be ruled is thus the primary qualification for democratic citizenship. A
liberal education is needed to qualify men for their political duties as well as for their
intellectual life. The art of reading is related to the art of being ruled as well as to the art
of being taught. In both cases, men must be able to engage in communication actively,
intelligently, critically. Democratic government, more than any other, depends upon
successful communication; for, as Walter Lippmann has pointed out, "in a democracy,
the opposition is not only tolerated as constitutional, but must be maintained because it
is indispensable." The consent of the governed is fully realized only when, through
intelligent debate of issues, all colors of political opinion share in the formation of
decisions. Debate which is not founded on the communication of all parties is specious.
The democratic process is a sham when men tail to understand each other. We must be
able to meet other minds in the processes of government and social life as well as in the
processes of learning; and, in both cases, we must be able to make up our own minds
and act accordingly.
We must act, however. That is the final word in every phase of human life. I have not
hesitated to praise the reading and discussion of great books as things intrinsically good,
but I repeat: they are not the ultimate ends of life. We want happiness and a good
society. In this larger view, reading is only a means to an end.
If, after you have learned to read and have read the great books, you act foolishly in
personal or political affairs, you might just as well have saved yourself the trouble. It
may have been fun at the time, but the fun will not last long, Unless those who are well
read can act well also, we shall soon find ourselves deprived of the pleasures we get
from these accomplishments. Knowledge may be a good in itself, but knowledge
without right action will bring us to a world in which the pursuit of knowledge itself is
impossible—a world in which books are burned, libraries closed, the search for truth is
repressed, and disinterested leisure lost.
I hope it is not too naive to expect the contrary from genuinely liberal education, in
school and out. I have some reason to believe that those who have really read the great
books will probably think well and soundly on the issues we face today. The man who
thinks clearly about practical problems certainly knows that they are well solved only
by right action. Whether he will respect the obligation to act accordingly is, of course,
beyond the province of the liberal arts. Nevertheless, they prepare for freedom. They
make free minds and form a community of friends who share a common world of ideas.
Beyond that the responsibility for acting like free men is ours to accept or shirk.
Authors and Titles in
GREAT BOOKS OF THE WESTERN WORLD
ARRANGED CHRONOLOGICALLY WITHIN CATEGORIES
Imaginative Literature
HOMER,
The Iliad, The Odyssey
AESCHYLUS,
Complete Plays
SOPHOCLES,
Complete Plays
EURIPIDES,
Complete Plays
ARISTOPHANES,
Complete Plays
VIRGIL,
The Eclogues,
The Georgics,
The Aeneid
DANTE,
The Divine Comedy
CHAUCER,
Troilus and Criseyde,
The Canterbury Tales
RABELAIS,
Gargantua and Pantagruel
SHAKESPEARE,
Complete Plays,
Sonnets
CERVANTES,
Don Quixote
MILTON,
English Minor Poems,
Paradise Lost,
Samson Agonistes,
Areopagitica
SWIFT,
Gulliver's Travels
FIELDING,
Tom Jones
STERNE,
Tristram Shandy
GOETHE,
Faust
MELVILLE,
Moby Dick
TOLSTOY,
War and Peace
DOSTOEVSKY,
The Brothers Karamazov
HISTORY AND SOCIAL SCIENCE
HERODOTUS,
The History
THUCYDIDES,
The History of the Peloponnesian War
PLUTARCH,
Complete Lives
TACITUS,
The Annals,
The Histories
MACHIAVELLI,
The Prince
MONTAIGNE,
Complete Essays
HOBBES,
Leviathan
MONTESQUIEU,
The Spirit of Laws
ROUSSEAU,
A Discourse on the Origin of Inequality,
A Discourse on Political Economy,
The Social Contract
SMITH,
The Wealth of Nations
GIBBON,
The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire
The Declaration of Independence,
Articles of Confederation,
The Constitution of the United States of America
BOSWELL,
The Life of Samuel Johnson, LL.D.
HAMILTON, MADISON, and JAY,
The Federalist
MILL,
On Liberty,
Representative Government,
Utilitarianism
MARX,
Capital
MARX and ENGELS,
Manifesto of the Communist Party
NATURAL SCIENCE AND MATHEMATICS
HIPPOCRATES,
Complete Works
EUCLID,
Elements
ARCHIMEDES,
Complete Writings
APOLLONIUS OF PERGA,
On Conic Sections
NICOMACHUS,
Introduction to Arithmetic
GALEN,
On the Natural Faculties
PTOLEMY,
The Almagest
COPERNICUS,
On the Revolutions of the Heavenly Spheres
GILBERT,
On the Loadstone
GALILEO,
Two New Sciences
KEPLER,
Epitome of Copernican Astronomy,
The Harmonies of the World
HARVEY,
Medical Writings
HUYGENS,
Treatise on Light
NEWTON,
Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy, Optics
LAVOISIER,
Elements of Chemistry
FOURIER,
Analytical Theory of Heat
FARADAY,
Experimental Researches in Electricity
DARWIN,
The Origin of Species,
The Descent of Man
JAMES,
The Principles of Psychology
FREUD, Major Works
PHILOSOPHY AND THEOLOGY
PLATO,
Complete Dialogues,
The Seventh Letter
ARISTOTLE,
Complete Works
LUCRETIUS,
On the Nature of Things
EPICTETUS,
The Discourses
MARCUS AURELIUS,
The Meditations
PLOTINUS,
The Six Enneads
ST. AUGUSTINE,
The Confessions,
The City of God,
On Christian Doctrine
AQUINAS,
Summa Theologica
BACON,
Advancement of Learning,
Novum Organum,
New Atlantis
DESCARTES,
Philosophical Works,
The Geometry
PASCAL,
The Provincial Letters, Pensees,
Scientific Works
SPINOZA,
Ethics
LOCK.E,
A Letter Concerning Toleration,
Concerning Civil Government,
An Essay Concerning Human Understanding
BERKELEY,
The Principles of Human Knowledge
HUME,
An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding
KANT,
Major Philosophical Works
HEGEL,
The Philosophy of Right,
The Philosophy of History
Authors and Titles in
GATEWAY TO THE GREAT BOOKS
ARRANGED ALPHABETICALLY WITHIN CATEGORIES
IMAGINATIVE LITERATURE
SHERWOOD ANDERSON,
I'm a Fool
ANONYMOUS,
Aucassin and Nicolette
LUCIUS APULEIUS,
"Cupid and Psyche" (from The Golden Ass)
HONORE DE BALZAC,
A Passion in the Desert
IVAN BUNIN,
The Gentleman from San Francisco
SAMUEL BUTLER,
"Customs and Opinions of the Erewhonians" (from Erewhon)
ANTON CHEKHOV,
The Darling,
The Cherry Orchard
JOSEPH CONRAD,
Youth
STEPHEN CRANE,
The Open Boat
DANIEL DEFOE,
Robinson Crusoe
CHARLES DICKENS,
"A Full and Faithful Report of the Memorable Trial of Bardell Against Pickwick" (from
The Pickwick Papers)
ISAK DINESEN,
Sorrow-Acre
FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY,
White Nights
GEORGE ELIOT,
The Lifted Veil
F. SCOTT FITZGERALD,
The Diamond as Big as the Ritz
GUSTAVE FLAUBERT,
The Legend of St. Julian the Hospitaller
JOHN GALSWORTHY,
The Apple-Tree
NIKOLAI GOGOL,
The Overcoat
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE,
Rappaccini's Daughter
ERNEST HEMINGWAY,
The Killers
VICTOR HUGO,
"The Battle with the Cannon" (from Ninety-Three)
HENRIK IBSEN,.
An Enemy of the People
HENRY JAMES,
The Pupil
RUDYARD KIPLING,
Mowgli's Brothers
D. H. LAWRENCE,
The Rocking-Horse Winner
THOMAS MANN,
Mario and the Magician
GUY DE MAUPASSANT,
Two Friends
HERMAN MELVILLE,
Billy Budd
MOLIERE,
The Misanthrope,
The Doctor in Spite of Himself
EUGENE O'NEILL,
The Emperor Jones
EDGAR ALLAN POE,
The Tell-Tale Heart,
The Masque of the Red Death
ALEXANDER PUSHKIN,
The Queen of Spades
SIR WALTER SCOTT,
The Two Drovers
GEORGE BERNARD SHAW,
The Man of Destiny
RICHARD SHERIDAN,
The School for Scandal
ISAAC SINGER,
The Spinoza of Market Street
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON,
The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
JOHN M. SYNGE,
Riders to the Sea
LEO TOLSTOY,
The Death of Ivan Ilyitch,
The Three Hermits,
What Men Live By
IVAN TURGENEV,
First Love
MARK TWAIN,
The Man That Corrupted Hadleyburg
VOLTAIRE,
Micromegas
OSCAR WILDE,
The Happy Prince
CRITICAL ESSAYS
MATTHEW ARNOLD,
The Study of Poetry,
Sweetness and Light
SIR FRANCIS BACON,
Of Beauty,
Of Discourse,
Of Studies
THOMAS DE QUINCEY,
Literature of Knowledge and Literature of Power,
On the Knocking at the Gate in "Macbeth"
THOMAS STEARNS ELIOT,
Dante,
Tradition and the Individual Talent
WILLIAM HAZLITT,
My First Acquaintance with Poets,
On Swift,
Of Persons One Would Wish to Have Seen
DAVID HUME,
Of the Standard of Taste
SAMUEL JOHNSON,
Preface to Shakespeare
CHARLES LAMB,
My First Play;
Dream Children, a Reverie;
Sanity of True Genius
SAINTE-BEUVE,
What Is a Classic?, Montaigne
FRIEDRICH SCHILLER,
On Simple and Sentimental Poetry
ARTHUR SCHOPENHAUER,
On Style,
On Some Forms of Literature,
On the Comparative Place of Interest and Beauty in Works of Art
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY,
A Defence of Poetry
WALT WHITMAN,
Preface to Leaves of Grass
VIRGINIA WOOLF,
How Should One Read a Book?
MAN AND SOCIETY
HENRY ADAMS,
"The United States in 1800" (from History of the United States of America)
SIR FRANCIS BACON,
Of Youth and Age,
Of Parents and Children,
Of Marriage and Single Life,
Of Great Place,
Of Seditions and Troubles,
Of Custom and Education,
Of Followers and Friends,
Of Usury,
Of Riches
EDMUND BURKE,
Letter to the Sheriffs of Bristol
JOHN BAGNELL BURY,
Herodotus
JOHN C. CALHOUN,
"The Concurrent Majority" (from A Disquisition on Government)
THOMAS CARLYLE,
The Hero as King
KARL VON CLAUSEWITZ,
"What Is War?" (from On War)
JEAN DE CREVECOEUR,
"The Making of Americans" (from Letters from an American Farmer)
DANTE ALIGHIERI,
"On World Government" (from De Monarchia)
RALPH WALDO EMERSON,
Thoreau
MICHAEL FARADAY,
Observations on Mental Education
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN,
Proposal for Promoting Useful Knowledge Among the British Plantations in America,
Proposals Relating to the Education of Youth in Pennsylvania
GREAT DOCUMENTS,
The English Bill of Rights,
Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen,
The Virginia Declaration of Rights,
The Declaration of Independence,
Charter of the United Nations,
Universal Declaration of Human Rights
FRANCOIS GUIZOT,
"Civilization" (from History of Civilization in Europe)
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE,
Sketch of Abraham Lincoln
DAVID HUME,
Of Refinement in the Arts,
Of Money,
Of the Balance of Trade,
Of Taxes,
Of the Study of History
WILLIAM JAMES,
On a Certain Blindness in Human Beings,
The Energies of Men, Great Men and Their Environment
THOMAS JEFFERSON,
"The Virginia Constitution" (from Notes on Virginia),
First Inaugural Address,
Biographical Sketches
IMMANUEL KANT,
Perpetual Peace
LA BRUYERE,
Characters
ABRAHAM LINCOLN,
Address at Cooper Institute,
First "Inaugural Address,
Letter to Horace Greeley,
Meditation on the Divine Will,
The Gettysburg Address,
Second Inaugural Address,
Last Public Address
HANIEL LONG,
The P,ower Within Us
LUCIAN,
The Way to Write History
THRMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY,
Machiavelli
THOMAS ROBERT MALTHUS,
"The Principle of Population" (from Population: The First Essay)
JOHN STUART MILL,
"Childhood and Youth" (from Autobiography)
THOMAS PAINE,
"A Call to Patriots—December 23, 1776" (from The Crisis)
PLINY THE YOUNGER,
"The Eruption of Vesuvius" (from Letters)
PLUTARCH,
Of Bashfulness
WILLIAM H. PRESCOTT,
"The Land of Montezuma" (from The Conquest of Mexico)
JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU,
A Lasting Peace Through the Federation of Europe
JOHN RUSKIN,
An Idealist's Arraignment of the Age
ARTHUR SCHOPENHAUER,
On Education
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON,
The Lantern-Bearers
JONATHAN SWIFT,
Resolutions When I Come to Be Old,
An Essay on Modern Education,
A Meditation Upon a Broomstick,
A Modest Proposal for Preventing the Children of Ireland from Being a Burden to Their
Parents or Country
CORNELIUS TACITUS,
The Life of Gnaeus Julius Ag-ricola
HENRY DAVID THOREAU,
Civil Disobedience,
A Plea for Captain John Brown
ALEXIS DE TOCQUEVILLE,
"Observations on American Life and Government" (from Democracy in America)
MARK TWAIN,
"Learning the River" (from Life on the Mississippi)
VOLTAIRE,
"English Men and Ideas" (from Letters on the English)
GEORGE WASHINGTON,
Circular Letter to the Governors of All the States on Disbanding the Army,
The Farewell Address
WALT WHITMAN,
Death of Abraham Lincoln
VIRGINIA WOOLF,
The Art of Biography
XENOPHON,
"The March to the Sea" (from The Persian Expedition),
"The Character of Socrates" (from Memorabilia)
NATURAL SCIENCE
SIR FRANCIS BACON,
The Sphinx
CLAUDE BERNARD,
Experimental Considerations Common to Living Things and Inorganic Bodies
KEES BOEK.E,
Cosmic View
TOMMASO CAMPANELLA,
"Arguments For and Against Galileo" (from The Defense of Galileo)
RACHEL L. CARSON,
"The Sunless Sea" (from The Sea Around Us)
EVE CURIE,
The Discovery of Radium
CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN,
Autobiography
SIR ARTHUR EDDINGTON,
The Running-Down of the Universe
ALBERT EINSTEIN and LEOPOLD INFELD,
"The Rise and Decline of Classical Physics" (from The Evolution of Physics)
LOREN EISELEY,
"On Time" (from The Immense Journey)
JEAN HENRI FABRE,
A Laboratory of the Open Fields, The Sacred Beetle
MICHAEL FARADAY,
The Chemical History of a Candle
GALILEO GALILEI,
The Starry Messenger
SIR FRANCIS GALTON,
"The Classification of Human Ability" (from Hereditary Genius')
B. S. HALDANE,
On Being the Right Size
H. L. F. VON HELMHOLTZ,
On the Conservation of Force
THOMAS HENRY HUXLEY,
On the Relations of Man to the Lower Animals, On a Piece of Chalk
SIR JAMES JEANS,
Beginnings and Endings
SIR CHARLES LYELL,
"Geological Evolution" (from The Principles of Geology)
DMITRI MENDELEEV,
"The Genesis of a Law of Nature" (from The Periodic Law of the Chemical Elements)
IVAN PETROVICH PAVLOV,
Scientific Study of the So-called Psychical Processes in the Higher Animals
JOHN TYNDALL,
"Michael Faraday" (from Faraday as a Discoverer)
FRIED RICH WOHLER,
On the Artificial Production of Urea
MATHEMATICS
NORMAN ROBERT CAMPBELL,
Measurement, Numerical Laws and the Use of Mathematics in Science
WILLIAM KINGDON CLIFFORD, The Postulates of the Science of Space
TOBIAS DANTZIG,
Fingerprints,
The Empty Column
LEONHARD EULER,
The Seven Bridges of Konigsberg
ANDREW RUSSELL FORSYTH,
Mathematics, in Life and Thought
LANCELOT HOGBEN,
Mathematics, the Mirror of Civilization
EDWARD KASNER and JAMES R. NEWMAN,
New Names for Old, Beyond the Googol
PIERRE SIMON DE LAPLACE,
"Probability" (from A Philosophical Essay on Probabilities)
CHARLES SANDERS PEIRCE,
The Red and the Black
HENRI POINCARE,
Space,
Mathematical Creation,
Chance
BERTRAND RUSSELL,
The Study of Mathematics,
Mathematics and the Metaphysicians,
Definition of Number
ALFRED NORTH WHITEHEAD,
"On Mathematical Method" (from An Introduction to Mathematics),
On the Nature of a Calculus
PHILOSOPHICAL ESSAYS
HENRY ADAMS,
St. Thomas Aquinas
SIR FRANCIS BACON,
Of Truth, Of Death,
Of Adversity,
Of Love,
Of Friendship,
Of Anger
SIR THOMAS BROWNE,
"Immortality" (from Urn-Burial)
CICERO,
On Friendship,
On Old Age
WILLIAM KINGDON CLIFFORD,
The Ethics of Belief
JOHN DEWEY,
"The Process of Thought" (from How We Think
RALPH WALDO EMERSON,
Nature,
Self-Reliance,
Montaigne;
or, the Skeptic
EPICTETUS,
The Enchiridion
EPICURUS,
Letter to Herodotus,
Letter to Menoeceus
JOHN ERSKINE,
The Moral Obligation to Be Intelligent
WILLIAM HAZLITT,
On the Feeling of Immortality in Youth
WILLIAM JAMES,
The Will to Believe,
The Sentiment of Rationality
JOHN STUART MILL,
Nature
WALTER HORATIO PATER,
"The Art of Life" (from The Renaissance)
PLUTARCH,
Contentment
GEORGE SANTAYANA,
Lucretius,
Goethe's Faust
VOLTAIRE,
"The Philosophy of Common Sense" (from Philosophical Dictionary)
Mind Map
INDEX
Adams, John
Adonais (Shelley)
Aeneid (Virgil)
Aeschylus
American Council on Education
American Doctor's Odyssey, An (Heiser)
American Library Association
Anthology of English and American Poetry, An (Van Doren)
Antiquity of Man (Lyell)
Antoninus, Marcus Aurelius
Apollonius
Areopagitica (Milton)
Aristophanes
Aristotle
Arnold, Matthew
Art of the Novel, The (James)
Art of Thinking, The (Dimnet)
Aspects of the Novel (Forster)
Atlantic Monthly, The
Augustine, Saint
Autobiography (Franklin)
Autobiography (Mill)
Bacon, Francis
Balzac, Honore de
Barr, President
Barzun, Jacques
Bateson, William
Being and Essence (Thomas Aquinas)
Ben-Hur (Wallace)
Bernard, Claude
Bible
Boas, Franz
Boyle, Robert
Buchanan, Scott
Burke, Edmund
Butler. Nicholas Murray
Calhoun, John C
California, University of
Cambridge University
Canterbury Tales (Chaucer)
Cantor, Georg
Capital (Marx)
Carlyle, Thomas
Carnegie Foundation
Caxton, William
Cervantes Saavedra, Miguel de
Chamberlain, Neville
Chase, Stuart
Chaucer, Geoffrey
Chicago, University of
Cicero, Marcus Tullius
City of God, The (St. Augustine),
Classics of the Western World
Clausewitz, Karl von,
Clifford, William K.,
Cohen, Morris
Collier, Jeremy
Columbia University
Common Prayer, Book of,
Common Sense of the Exact Sciences (Clifford)
Communist Manifesto, The (Marx),
Comte, Auguste
Confederation, Articles of
Constitution of the United States
Copland, Aaron, quoted
Craft of Fiction, The (Lubbock)
Cratylus (Plato)
Crime and Punishment (Dostoevsky)
Critical Essays (Poe)
Critique of Practical Reason (Kant),
Critique of Pure Reason, The (Kant)
Dalton, John
Dante, Alighieri
Dantzig, Tobias
Darwin, Charles
Declaration of Independence
"Defeat of the Schools, The" (Mursell)
Defoe, Daniel
Degrees of Knowledge (Maritain)
Democracy and Education (Dewey)
Democracy in America (de Tocqueville)
Descartes, Rene
Dewey, John
Dialectic (Adier)
Dialogue of the Common Laws (Hobbes)
Dickens, Charles
Diederich, Professor
Discourse on Inequality (Rousseau)
Disquisition on Government (Calhoun)
Divine Comedy, The (Dante)
Don Quixote (Cervantes)
dos Passes, John
Dostoevsky, Fyodor
Duhem, Pierre Maurice
Eddington, Sir Arthur
Education of the Founding Fathers of the Republic (Lippmann)
Einstein, Albert
Elements of Geometry (Euclid)
Elements of Law (Hobbes)
Eliot, Charles William
Eliot, T. S.
Empson, William
Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding (Hume)
Erasmus, Desiderius
Erskine, John
Essay Concerning Human Understanding, An (Locke)
Essay Concerning the Origin, Extent, and End of Civil Government, An (Locke)
Essay on Liberty (Mill)
Essays in Criticism (Arnold)
Ethics (Aristotle)
Ethics (Spinoza)
Euclid
Euripides
Evolution of Physics, The (Einstein and Infeld)
Experimental Researches into Electricity (Faraday)
Fadiman, Clifton
Faraday, Michael
Faust (Goethe)
Federalist, The
Fielding, Henry
Flaubert, Gustave
Form in Modern Poetry (Read),
Forster, E. M.
Forsyth, Andrew Russell
Foundations of Science (Poincare),
Franklin, Benjamin
Freud, Sigmund
Galen, Claudius
Galileo Galilei
Gargantua and Pantagruel (Rabelais)
Gateway to the Great Books
Geometry (Descartes)
Gerould, Gordon
Gibbon, Edward
Gilby, Thomas
Gilson, Etienne
Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von
Gorgias (Plato)
Governance of Princes, The (Thomas Aquinas)
Grapes of Wrath, The (Steinbeck)
Great Books of the Western World
Guizot, Francois
Gulick, Luther
Gulliver's Travels (Swift)
Gunther, John
Haldane, J. B. S.
Hamilton, Alexander
Hannibal
Hardy, Thomas
Harper's Magazine
Harvard Classics
Harvard University
Harvey, William
Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich
Heiser, Victor
Hemingway, Ernest
Henry VI (Shakespeare)
Herodotus
Herrick, Robert
Higher Learning in America, The (Hutchins)
Hilbert, David
Hippocrates
History of the Peloponnesian War (Thucydides)
Hitler, Adolf
Hobbes, Thomas
Hogben, Lancelot
Holmes
Oliver Wendell
Homer
Hooker, Richard
Hopkins, Gerard Manley
How to Read Fiction (Gerould)
How We Think (Dewey)
Hume, David
Hutchins, Robert M.
Ibsen, Henrik
Iliad (Homer)
Independent Journal, The
Infeld, Leopold
Inside Europe (Gunther)
Institutes (Justinian)
Intelligent Reading (Tenney)
Interpretation in Reading (Richards)
Introduction to Arithmetic (Nicomachus)
Introduction to Experimental Medicine (Bernard)
Introduction to Mathematics, An (Whitehead)
James, Henry
James, William
Jay, John
Jefferson, Thomas
Joyce, James
Justinian (Flavius Anicius Justinianus)
Kant, Immanuel
Kasner, Edward
Keats, John
Kepler, Johannes
Koran
Korzybski, Alfred
Lamb, Charles
Lavoisier, Antoine Laurent
Laws (Cicero)
Laws (Plato)
Leibnitz, Gottfried Wilhelm, Freiherr von
Lenin, Nikolay
Leonardo da Vinci
Leinathan (Hobbes)
Lippmann, Walter
Lives (Plutarch)
Locke, John
Lubbock, Percy
Lucretius (Titus Lucretius Carus)
Lyell, Sir Charles
Lyrical Ballads (Wordsworth)
Machiavelli, Niccole
Madison, James
Main Street (Lewis)
Malthus, Thomas Robert
Mann, Thomas
Marcus Aurelius; see Antoninus,
Marcus Aurelius
Maritain, Jacques
Marshall, Alfred
Martin, Everett Dean
Marx, Karl
Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy (Newton)
Mathematics for the Million (Hogben)
Mathematics, in Life and Thought (Forsyth)
Maxwell, James C.
Medici, Lorenzo de
Meditations (Marcus Aurelius)
Mein Kampf (Hitler)
Mendel, Gregor Johann
Mendeleev, Dmitri
Meredith, George
Metaphysics (Aristotle)
Middletown (Lynd and Lynd)
Mill, John Stuart
Milton, John
Moliere (Jean-Baptiste Poquelin),
Montaigne, Michel de
Montesquieu, Charles de Secondat, Baron de
Morgan, T. H.
Motion of the Heart, The (Harvey)
Muir, Edwin
Mursell, James, quoted
Mussolini, Benito
Natural Faculties (Galen)
Nature of the Physical World, The (Eddington)
Newman, James R.
Newsweek
New Testament
Newton, Isaac
New York Times, The
Nicomachus
Niemoller, Pastor
Notebooks (Leonardo da Vinci)
Novum Organum (Bacon)
Odyssey (Homer)
Of Human Freedom (Barzun)
Of the Teacher (St. Augustine)
Of the Teacher (St. Thomas Aquinas)
Ogden, C. K.
Old Testament
On Comedy (Meredith)
On the Nature of Things (Lucretius)
Optics (Newton)
Organon (Aristotle)
Origin of Species, The (Darwin),
Outline of History, The (Wells)
Oxford English Dictionary
Paine, Thomas
Paradise Lost (Milton)
Parmenides (Plato)
Passions of the Soul, The (Descartes)
Pasteur, Louis
Pavlov, Ivan Petrovich
People's Institute
People's Library, The
Periodic Law of the Chemical Elements, The (Mendeleev)
Phaedrus (Plato)
Philosophy of Composition, The (Poe)
Philosophy of History (Hegel)
Philosophy of Right (Hegel)
Physics (Aristotle)
Pitkin, Walter B.
Planck, Max
Plato
Plotinus
Plutarch
Poe, Edgar Allan
Poetic Experience, The (Gilby)
Poetic Principle, The (Poe)
Poetics (Aristotle)
Poetry and Mathematics (Bu-chanan)
Poincare, Jules Henri
Politics (Aristotle)
Pope, Alexander
Population (Malthus)
Practical Criticism (Richards)
Prince, The (Machiavelli)
Princeton University
Principles of Criticism, The (Richards)
Principles of Philosophy (Decartes)
Principles of Psychology (James)
Process and Reality (Whitehead)
Prolegomena to Any Future Metaphysics (Kant)
Proust, Marcel
Ptolemy (Claudius Ptolemaeus)
Public Philosophy, The (Lippmann)
Quest for Certainty, The (Dewey)
Quintessence of Ibsenism, The (Shaw)
Quintilian (Marcus Fabius Quintilianus)
Rabelais, Francois
Read, Herbert
Reader's Digest
Realm of Essence, The (Santayana)
Realm of Matter, The (Santayana), Regents, Board of. New York State
Regents Inquiry
Republic, The (Cicero)
Republic, The (Plato)
Rhetoric (Aristotle)
Rhetoric (Hobbes)
Ricardo, David
Richards, I. A.
Riemann, Georg Friedrich
Robinson Crusoe (Defoe)
Rousseau, Jean-Jacques
Rumi, Beardsley
Russell, Bertrand
St. John's College
St. Thomas Aquinas
Santayana, George
Schopenhauer, Arthur
Science and the Modern World (Whitehead)
Scott, Sir Walter
Scribner's Magazine
Seven Types of Ambiguity (Empson)
Shakespeare, William
Shakespeare (Van Doren)
Sharp, Malcolm
Shaw, George Bernard
Shelley, Percy Bysche
Sheridan, Richard Brinsley
Short View of the Immorality and Profaneness of the English Stage, together with the
Sense of Antiquity upon this Argument, A (Collier)
Sidney, Sir Philip
Smith, Adam
Social Contract, The (Rousseau),
Socrates
Sophist (Plato)
Sophocles
Spinoza, Baruch
Spirit of Laws, The (Montesquieu),
Steinbeck, John
Story of Philosophy, The (Durant),
Structure of the Novel, The (Muir)
Studebaker, John
Summa Theologica (St. Thomas Aquinas)
Swift, Jonathan
Syntopicon
System of Logic (Mill)
Tacitus, Publius Cornelius
Talmud
Teachers College, Columbia University
Tenney, Professor
Theory of the Moral Sentiments (Smith)
Thucydides
Timaeus (Plato)
Time
Tocqueville, Alexis de
Tolstoy, Leo
Tom Jones (Fielding)
Town Meeting
Toynbee, Arnold
Treatise on Conic Sections (Apollonius)
Treatise on Human Nature (Hume)
Twain, Mark
Two New Sciences (Galileo)
Ulysses (Joyce)
Uncle Tom's Cabin (Stowe)
Use of Poetry, The (Eliot)
Utilitarianism (Mill)
Van Doren, Mark,
Van Loon's Geography (Van Loon)
Veblen, Thorstein
Virgil (Publius Virgilius Maro)
Voltaire, Francois Marie Arouet de,
Walton, Izaak
Washington, George
Wealth of Nations, The (Smith)
What to Listen for in Music (Copland)
Whitehead, A. N.
Wordsworth, William
Yale University

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