sleepless nights, not only because they are so frequently confounded
with canons of morality, but because, as we have already seen, they are
arbitrary and variable. Consider the one case of French fiction. Mr.
Wister has told librarians that all subjects are “fit for fiction.” This
is interesting as an academic thesis, but when the French proceed to act
upon it, the Anglo-Saxon catches his breath. Books, like men, when they
are in Rome must do as the Romans do, and whatever may be proper in
Paris, an American public library is justified in requiring its books to
respect American prejudices. This is true, at any rate, of books in the
English language, even if they are translations from a tongue whose
users have other customs and other prejudices. But how about these books
in the original? Can we assume that books in the French language are for
Frenchmen and that our censorship of them is to be from the French and
not the American point of view? Or shall we hold that they are to be
read wholly or in part by persons whose mother-tongue is English and
whose ideas of the proprieties are Anglo-Saxon? And shall we bear in
mind also that the reading public of a work of French fiction excludes
in France the “young person” of whom the American library public is
largely made up? This is only one of the perplexing questions that
confront the American librarian in this field. Every one must struggle
with it for himself, having in mind the force and direction of his own
local sentiment; but few public libraries are treating it consistently
and systematically. Probably, however, many librarians are placing on
open shelves books in foreign languages, whose translations into English
they would be inclined to restrict. In some cases, of course, appeal to
a wholly foreign group of readers, with their foreign point of view, may
be assumed, as in the case of a Russian collection on the East Side of
New York; though even here it is a question of whether this is not a
good place to prepare these readers for a change in library
“folkways”--to use Professor Sumner’s expressive word.
Nor must we forget that our own ideas of propriety are constantly
changing. Take the single instance of the use, in literature, of words
regarded as profane or vulgar. Most of us can recollect a time when our
acquaintances were likely to be shocked by the occurrence in a book of
the expletive “damn”--that is, if it were spelled out. It was generally
held to be unobjectionable, or at least less objectionable, if the
second and third letters were replaced by a dash. Evidently this is the
purest convention. This and worse words appear now, not without shocking
some persons, to be sure, but certainly without shocking many of those
who formerly would not have tolerated them. On the other hand, it would
not be difficult to instance words formerly common in good literature
whose use would now cause something of a sensation. There are also good
people who will read unmoved surprising words and expressions when put
into the mouth of a cowboy or a Klondike miner, but whose gorge would
rise if the same words were employed by a writer _in propria persona_.
What is true of words is true also of subjects. That which could not be
touched upon yesterday is discussed freely to-day, and _vice-versa_. No
way of dealing with the situation will fail to offend some one, and the
only approximation to satisfaction will be gained by the use of common
sense applied to each case as it comes up.
Indecency, of course, is not the only offense against beauty that a book
may commit. It may be trashy, that is, its subject matter or the manner
in which it is treated may be trivial and worthless. The dust of the
street is neither beautiful nor valuable, although it may contain
nothing injurious to health or repulsive to the senses. The diction of
the book may offend against beauty and order by its incorrectness; its
paper, its typography, its binding, its illustrations may all be
offensive to the eye. These last are mere matters of outward show, to be
sure; it may be necessary to disregard them. They are usually reasons
for excluding an edition rather than a book, though sometimes the only
obtainable edition offends in so many of these ways as to make it
unpurchasable, even if otherwise desirable. So far as they militate
against the usefulness of the book rather than its beauty, as in the
case of the badly sewed binding or paper that is comely but flimsy, they
fall under the head of badness rather than that of ugliness--they are
offenses against the Good and not against the Beautiful. Such material
grounds for rejection, however, are not peculiar to books, and I do not
dwell on them here. Ugliness that consists in mere triviality or in
incorrectness of diction has this in common with impropriety--it is
arbitrary and conventional. With regard to language, this is obvious.
The fact that a certain combination of sounds means one thing in France
and another in England and is quite unintelligible perhaps in Spain, is
a matter of pure convention, though the convention is sanctioned by long
usage. The fact that the double negative is very good Greek and very
vulgar English is equally arbitrary. These conventions have become
serious things with us; they are of prime importance in the
consideration of books, but it is desirable that we should classify them
correctly.
With regard to triviality the case is not so clear, yet I feel strongly
that it is a relative, not an absolute, quality. The term should be
classed with that other misused word--superficiality. No book, of
course, and no mind is absolutely thorough, and the lesser grades of
knowledge are as important in their place as the higher. What we should
condemn is not that a man, or a book, possesses a certain slight degree
of knowledge or of ability, but the fact that, possessing it, he
believes or represents it to be a higher degree. A man desires, we will
say, to memorize the Russian alphabet, so that he may read the proper
names on book titles. Is he to be condemned because he knows no more of
Russian? Another wishes to wield a hammer dextrously enough to drive a
nail without smashing his fingers. Is he “superficial” because he is not
an expert cabinet-maker? Still another has learned to play the piano
well enough to amuse himself in his idle hours. Does his lack of skill
lay him open to the charge of “superficiality?” These people may, it is
true, think that they are respectively a Russian scholar, a skilled
carpenter, and a good pianist; then and then only are they culpable. The
“superficiality,” in other words, consists in mistaking a lesser degree
of knowledge for a higher or in thinking that the lesser degree suffices
for something that requires the higher--not in the mere limitation of
the possessor. A superficial book is that which, skimming the surface of
the subject, persuades the reader that he has gone into its depths; as
for the skimming itself, that might be quite adequate and sufficient for
some purposes. So with “triviality.” Nothing is trivial that has an aim
and accomplishes it; as for the gradation of aims from unimportant up to
important, I leave that to others. Who shall say whether the passing of
an idle hour or the addition of a few facts to one’s store of knowledge
is the more important? The idle hour may be the recreation period of a
hard-working mind, without which it might break down from over-pressure,
leaving to less competent minds the completion of its useful labor. The
few facts might be quite unfruitful. This is why we should hesitate to
condemn a trivial book that has beauty of form or some other positive
virtue to commend it. Triviality is objectionable only when it
masquerades as importance. Perhaps it would be better to say: a book
that pretends to excellence along any line where it is really valueless
is a dangerous book. This brings us back to Truth as a criterion of
excellence, for such a book is a hypocritical or false book, as much as
if it definitely asserted as a fact that which is untrue.
When a book, therefore, comes up as a candidate for omission from the
purchasing list, or perhaps for exclusion after it has actually been
placed on the shelves, the librarian’s first duty is to inquire whether
it is objectionable because of falsity, of evil morality or of
impropriety. The first question may be determinable only by reference to
an expert. If the second is alleged, it is well to inquire whether the
supposed immorality of the book be not in fact simply impropriety, and
if impropriety is the only objection, whether it is of kind and amount
likely to be properly offensive. If the charge of immorality is
sustained I see no place for the book on the shelves of a public
circulating library.
What has been said may seem to need rounding out with specific
illustrations and instances, but it is particularly desirable to avoid
here anything in the nature of purely personal opinion and prejudice. It
might be possible of course to define the content of certain well-known
works by their conformity or non-conformity with the canons above laid
down, without attempting to settle the question, at the moment, whether
the degree of non-conformity, if it exists, is high enough to make
exclusion from a public library desirable or necessary. From this point
of view Othello, we will say, is a play teaching a moral lesson, in
doing which it discusses sin, but never with approval, expressed or
implied. The author uses words and expressions not in accordance with
modern standards of propriety, although not contrary to those of his own
time. In like manner Boccacio’s “Decameron” may be characterized as a
collection of short stories connected by thin narrative, often telling
of wrongdoing in a manner clearly implying that it is usual and
unobjectionable, with use of words and incidents frequently contrary not
only to modern ideas of propriety, but also to those of the author’s
time, except in the dissolute circles for which the tales were
originally written. Some of the stories, however, teach morality, and
the literary style and method are beautiful and commendable, while the
pictures of society are truthful. The implications of customary vice are
simply reflections of life as the author knew it. “Gil Blas,” by Le
Sage, continuing in this vein, we may call a tale of adventure in which
everything is set down as it happens, good, bad and indifferent;
important and trivial, with a hero who is somewhat of a rogue, although
the wickedness is incidental and is described in such a way that the
reader never mistakes it for virtue even when the writer tells it with a
relish. The implication that wrongdoing is common, though undoubtedly
conveyed, leaves the impression only that it is common among the people
and under the circumstances of the tale, which is undoubtedly correct.
It would greatly aid the library censor if he could have annotations of
this sort on all books intended for promiscuous public circulation. For
this purpose, in fact, all literature should be evaluated by the light
of this one color of the critical spectrum. The two or three books just
noted possess at least some of the elements of greatness; yet good
people differ regarding the extent to which they should be made freely
accessible to the general public. I have tried to set down regarding
them data on which all may agree, for the purpose of impressing upon you
the fact that disagreement is not so much regarding the data as
regarding the application to them of principles which, if they have been
stated correctly, are few, simple and readily accepted.
We have been lightly skimming the surface of a subject vital to all who
have to do with the production and distribution of books--to authors,
editors, publishers, booksellers, and above all to us librarians. The
ranks of readers are swelling to-day; it is our boast that we are doing
our best to swell them. They are recruited from classes whose
literature--if we may so extend the term--has been oral rather than
written, whose standards of propriety are sometimes those of an earlier
and grosser age, whose ideas of right and wrong are beclouded by
ignorance and distorted by prejudice. And at the same time hosts of our
people, with little background of hereditary refinement to steady them,
have become suddenly rich, “beyond the dreams of avarice.” The shock has
upset their ideas and their standards. Riches have come so suddenly and
so vastly even to the educated, to those whose culture dates back for
generations, that it has overturned their ideals also. Our literature is
menaced both from below and from above. Books that distinctly commend
what is wrong, that teach how to sin and tell how pleasant sin is,
sometimes with and sometimes without the added sauce of impropriety, are
increasingly popular, tempting the author to imitate them, the
publishers to produce, the booksellers to exploit. Thank heaven they do
not tempt the librarian. Here at last is a purveyor of books who has no
interest in distributing what is not clean, honest, and true. The
librarian may, if he will--and he does--say to this menacing tide, “Thus
far shalt thou go and no farther.”
HOW TO RAISE THE STANDARD OF BOOK SELECTION[9]
If a man is to improve himself, he must first realize his own
deficiencies; in other words, he must know what he ought to be, and how
and in what degree he falls short of it.
First, then, what are the best books; and do we get them?
“Best” here as always is a relative term; what is best for one may not
be best for another, or for all. We hear “good books” gravely
recommended to people who will not read them, and who could not extract
the good from them if they did read them. When the book fits the man,
provided he is a good man, it is a good book, _ipso facto_.
You remember the tale of the rural parish priest at dinner with his
bishop. The host, desiring to poke a little quiet fun, asked him whether
it were lawful to baptize a man in soup. “I should make a distinction,”
calmly answered the priest; “if it were good thick soup, I should say
not; if it were wishy-washy stuff like this we are eating, it would be
quite proper.”
So long as we do not realize that the same literary consistency is not
adapted both to nutrition and to immersion we shall not be able to
decide on what are the best books.
But is there no general line of division between bad and good books?
I can give but a few, but I venture to lay down one or two simple rules
for testing. My tests would be--
(1) The test of language. No book can be good that is not written in
correct English. By this I mean, of course, that the author himself must
speak correctly; his characters may be ignorant persons and he will
naturally make them talk accordingly.
(2) The test of simplicity and clearness. No book can be good whose
author expresses himself in words that are too large for his subject or
in sentences that are so involved that they cannot be easily understood.
(3) The best of good taste. No book can be good whose author uses words
or expressions that would not be used by cultivated people.
(4) The test of truth. No book can be good whose subject matter is
false; or, in case of fiction, whose manner of telling is such as to
make it seem absurdly improbable. The plot of the book may, it is true,
lack probability. It may be frankly improbable like a fairy tale, but
the author must not seem to lose faith in it himself, and no matter how
impossible his foundation the structure that he builds on it must hold
together.
I venture to say that if a book survives these tests--if it is simply
and clearly expressed in good English and in the best taste and is
consistently put together--it cannot be a bad book so far as style goes.
So far as the subject matter of the book is concerned, my test would be
simply that of its effect on the reader. If a book makes the reader want
to be mischievous, foolish or criminal--to be a silly or bad man or
woman, or if it tends to make him do his daily work badly, it is a bad
book and all the worse in this case if it is interesting and fascinating
in style. But even here the trouble is largely in the manner of
treatment. A book may tell of crime and criminals in such a way as to
make the reader detest both or feel an attraction toward both. In this
case, as the scripture says, “Ye shall know them by their fruits.” If a
book sends a boy out to be a burglar, it is bad; if it impels him to
take a crying child by the hand and lead it home, it is good. And here
let me say that this compelling power, this effective result of a book
should speak in its favor though all other tests be against it.
Musicians tell us that a great composer may write a work that breaks
every rule of harmony and yet be a work of genius. Genius knows no
rules.
So much for the general line of cleavage. But the special may for the
moment exclude all the claims of the general. A community may be in
crying need of books on a given subject--pottery or rowboats or hygiene.
This need may or may not be realized by the community, but its existence
makes a special class of books the best, for the moment, for that
community. To buy a good collection of minor poets for a town that
clamors, or ought to clamor, for books on the electric industries, is to
get bad books.
Now do we, under our present system, or lack of system, in selection,
get these best books--best both in the general and in the special sense?
What is the matter with the books in the average small library? The
trouble is not generally that the books are bad, but that they might
easily be better, and by “better” it must be borne in mind that I mean
more closely adapted to the legitimate needs of the community. If we go
over the shelves of the average small library we shall generally be able
to note the following facts:
(1) A considerable portion of the books have not been taken out in long
periods. This can easily be ascertained by examining the book-cards or
dating-slips. Of course, the non-use of a book does not mean that it
should not be in the library. The fault may be with the readers, not
with the book. Non-use, however, does mean that something is the matter.
Either the library public has had taste or is not properly guided, or
else a mistake was made in providing it with this particular book.
(2) A considerable number of standard books whose reading should be
encouraged will not be found on the shelves. These books are almost
always part of the collection, but there are not enough duplicates to
supply the demand. At the same time it will be found that the library is
adding current books of doubtful value.
(3) Books on large local industries--shoemaking, pottery,
agriculture--are often lacking. In such cases there is generally a lack
of demand; but this is because the persons who would read such books
have learned by experience not to look for them in a public library.
(4) Books in the languages spoken by industrial colonies of foreigners
in the neighborhood are usually conspicuous by their absence.
(5) The collections in classes where some technical knowledge is
necessary for selection, such, for instance, as the sciences, the arts,
or history, often show a lack of intelligence, or, at any rate, a lack
of system. There are badly written books and books full of errors; there
is lack of uniformity in grade--an advanced mathematical work on
electricity, for instance, and very elementary ones on light and sound.
(6) In particular, controverted subjects are represented in a one-sided
way; there may be no way for a reader to get at the Catholic story of
the Protestant reformation, or the southern view of the civil war, or
both sides of the spelling reform or the woman-suffrage movements.
Socialism, vivisection, anti-vaccination, the negro question,
prohibition, the tariff--all these and a hundred others are represented
only in a partisan sense.
(7) There is too much care about the outward garb of decency and too
little about the pervading atmosphere of morality. Books that describe
in decorous language ingenious methods of shop-lifting are given place,
but you look in vain for works of lofty moral tone couched in diction
that is occasionally coarse.
How far are these faults due to methods of book selection? One of the
troubles seems to be that the book-selecting body does not avail itself
of expert advice as much as it ought. The librarian is learning, to be
sure, to use lists and printed aids more and more, though they are
rarely used with discrimination; but supplementary to such lists as
these, especially since they so largely lack the personal element, we
need the personal advice of experts. If the lists and reviews will leave
us in the dark about the man who advises us to buy books on engineering
or art, we must go to someone who we know understands these subjects, at
least knows a little more of them than we do ourselves. There are, in
general, two grades of expert advice. The first is that received from
the man who is personally familiar with the current literature of his
specialty, who watches the books as they appear and who sends to the
library the titles that he thinks it ought to have. This grade of expert
service is very difficult to obtain. I have found few men in my
experience who are able and willing to give it. Those who have the
good-will and the time have usually not the knowledge; those who have
the knowledge are busy men who cannot give the time.
The second grade of expert aid is that which pronounces on concrete
cases, which decides whether a given book (either from inspection of
the mere title or of the volume itself) is suitable for the library.
This kind of aid is not difficult to obtain, and there are persons in
almost every place qualified in some degree to give it. It requires,
however, a preliminary selection and generally the obtaining of books on
approval, which is easier in a large place than a small one.
The library is only one of various institutions that must use expert aid
of this kind. The same limitations apply to all. Take, for instance, the
work of reference, the cyclopedia, we will say. Its editor cannot write
of his own knowledge the articles on Venezuela, and open-hearth steel,
and Plato. He must rely on the information, direct or secondhand, of
experts. But he cannot allow his experts to write his cyclopedia. Some
cyclopedias are written very nearly in that way, and they are not the
best. The expert must be coached before he does his work and the work
must be edited when finished. It is on the proper combination of expert
and editorial work that the value of the finished volumes will depend.
So it is with library selection. The librarian is the editor of a big
cyclopedia of thousands of volumes. He must have expert aid in
selection, but he must not allow his experts to select the library
uncontrolled. They must be instructed beforehand, and their advice must
be carefully considered after it has been given. It must, in short, be
edited. This brings us to the consideration that we have ultimately to
face in discussing any phase of human activity--the question of
personality. If the librarian and the book committee are incompetent and
believe themselves to be competent--then the collection, in spite of all
efforts, will reflect their faults--it will be intolerant, or trivial or
ill-balanced.
Much, therefore, depends upon the actual book selector for the library.
Should this be the librarian, or a committee of the trustees, or the
board itself, or an advisory committee of outsiders? Probably the best
results are obtained through a preliminary selection made by the
librarian with the aid of lists and the advice of individual
experts--not committees--as suggested above, and then submitted to some
person or committee representing the Board of trustees. This places the
final responsibility where it belongs--on the trustees; but with a
satisfactory librarian, the duties of the reviewing committee would
consist chiefly of deciding on matters of policy--rarely of considering
individual titles. It would decide, for instance, on how closely fiction
is to be censored, on how far the library is to go in the purchase of
recent fiction, on the extent to which foreign languages are to be
recognized, on the purchase and duplication of text-books, on the policy
of the library with regard to denominational religious works or of
controversial books generally--and so on.