A library may be very large; but if it is in disorder, it is not so
useful as one that is small but well arranged. In the same way, a man
may have a great mass of knowledge, but if he has not worked it up
by thinking it over for himself, it has much less value than a far
smaller amount which he has thoroughly pondered. For it is only when a
man looks at his knowledge from all sides, and combines the things he
knows by comparing truth with truth, that he obtains a complete hold
over it and gets it into his power. A man cannot turn over anything in
his mind unless he knows it; he should, therefore, learn something;
but it is only when he has turned it over that he can be said to know
it.
Reading and learning are things that anyone can do of his own free
will; but not so _thinking_. Thinking must be kindled, like a fire
by a draught; it must be sustained by some interest in the matter
in hand. This interest may be of purely objective kind, or merely
subjective. The latter comes into play only in things that concern
us personally. Objective interest is confined to heads that think by
nature; to whom thinking is as natural as breathing; and they are very
rare. This is why most men of learning show so little of it.
It is incredible what a different effect is produced upon the mind
by thinking for oneself, as compared with reading. It carries on and
intensifies that original difference in the nature of two minds which
leads the one to think and the other to read. What I mean is that
reading forces alien thoughts upon the mind--thoughts which are as
foreign to the drift and temper in which it may be for the moment, as
the seal is to the wax on which it stamps its imprint. The mind is
thus entirely under compulsion from without; it is driven to think
this or that, though for the moment it may not have the slightest
impulse or inclination to do so.
But when a man thinks for himself, he follows the impulse of his
own mind, which is determined for him at the time, either by his
environment or some particular recollection. The visible world of
a man's surroundings does not, as reading does, impress a _single_
definite thought upon his mind, but merely gives the matter and
occasion which lead him to think what is appropriate to his nature and
present temper. So it is, that much reading deprives the mind of all
elasticity; it is like keeping a spring continually under pressure.
The safest way of having no thoughts of one's own is to take up a book
every moment one has nothing else to do. It is this practice which
explains why erudition makes most men more stupid and silly than they
are by nature, and prevents their writings obtaining any measure of
success. They remain, in Pope's words:
_For ever reading, never to be read!_[1]
[Footnote 1: _Dunciad_, iii, 194.]
Men of learning are those who have done their reading in the pages of
a book. Thinkers and men of genius are those who have gone straight
to the book of Nature; it is they who have enlightened the world and
carried humanity further on its way. If a man's thoughts are to have
truth and life in them, they must, after all, be his own fundamental
thoughts; for these are the only ones that he can fully and wholly
understand. To read another's thoughts is like taking the leavings of
a meal to which we have not been invited, or putting on the clothes
which some unknown visitor has laid aside. The thought we read
is related to the thought which springs up in ourselves, as the
fossil-impress of some prehistoric plant to a plant as it buds forth
in spring-time.
Reading is nothing more than a substitute for thought of one's own. It
means putting the mind into leading-strings. The multitude of books
serves only to show how many false paths there are, and how widely
astray a man may wander if he follows any of them. But he who
is guided by his genius, he who thinks for himself, who thinks
spontaneously and exactly, possesses the only compass by which he can
steer aright. A man should read only when his own thoughts stagnate
at their source, which will happen often enough even with the best of
minds. On the other hand, to take up a book for the purpose of scaring
away one's own original thoughts is sin against the Holy Spirit. It is
like running away from Nature to look at a museum of dried plants or
gaze at a landscape in copperplate.
A man may have discovered some portion of truth or wisdom, after
spending a great deal of time and trouble in thinking it over for
himself and adding thought to thought; and it may sometimes happen
that he could have found it all ready to hand in a book and spared
himself the trouble. But even so, it is a hundred times more valuable
if he has acquired it by thinking it out for himself. For it is only
when we gain our knowledge in this way that it enters as an integral
part, a living member, into the whole system of our thought; that it
stands in complete and firm relation with what we know; that it is
understood with all that underlies it and follows from it; that it
wears the color, the precise shade, the distinguishing mark, of our
own way of thinking; that it comes exactly at the right time, just
as we felt the necessity for it; that it stands fast and cannot be
forgotten. This is the perfect application, nay, the interpretation,
of Goethe's advice to earn our inheritance for ourselves so that we
may really possess it:
_Was due ererbt von deinen Välern hast,
Erwirb es, um es zu besitzen._[1]
[Footnote 1: _Faust_, I. 329.]
The man who thinks for himself, forms his own opinions and learns the
authorities for them only later on, when they serve but to strengthen
his belief in them and in himself. But the book-philosopher starts
from the authorities. He reads other people's books, collects their
opinions, and so forms a whole for himself, which resembles an
automaton made up of anything but flesh and blood. Contrarily, he who
thinks for himself creates a work like a living man as made by Nature.
For the work comes into being as a man does; the thinking mind is
impregnated from without, and it then forms and bears its child.
Truth that has been merely learned is like an artificial limb, a false
tooth, a waxen nose; at best, like a nose made out of another's flesh;
it adheres to us only because it is put on. But truth acquired by
thinking of our own is like a natural limb; it alone really belongs
to us. This is the fundamental difference between the thinker and the
mere man of learning. The intellectual attainments of a man who thinks
for himself resemble a fine painting, where the light and shade are
correct, the tone sustained, the color perfectly harmonized; it is
true to life. On the other hand, the intellectual attainments of the
mere man of learning are like a large palette, full of all sorts of
colors, which at most are systematically arranged, but devoid of
harmony, connection and meaning.
Reading is thinking with some one else's head instead of one's own. To
think with one's own head is always to aim at developing a coherent
whole--a system, even though it be not a strictly complete one; and
nothing hinders this so much as too strong a current of others'
thoughts, such as comes of continual reading. These thoughts,
springing every one of them from different minds, belonging to
different systems, and tinged with different colors, never of
themselves flow together into an intellectual whole; they never form a
unity of knowledge, or insight, or conviction; but, rather, fill
the head with a Babylonian confusion of tongues. The mind that is
over-loaded with alien thought is thus deprived of all clear insight,
and is well-nigh disorganized. This is a state of things observable
in many men of learning; and it makes them inferior in sound sense,
correct judgment and practical tact, to many illiterate persons,
who, after obtaining a little knowledge from without, by means of
experience, intercourse with others, and a small amount of reading,
have always subordinated it to, and embodied it with, their own
thought.
The really scientific _thinker_ does the same thing as these
illiterate persons, but on a larger scale. Although he has need
of much knowledge, and so must read a great deal, his mind is
nevertheless strong enough to master it all, to assimilate and
incorporate it with the system of his thoughts, and so to make it
fit in with the organic unity of his insight, which, though vast, is
always growing. And in the process, his own thought, like the bass in
an organ, always dominates everything and is never drowned by other
tones, as happens with minds which are full of mere antiquarian lore;
where shreds of music, as it were, in every key, mingle confusedly,
and no fundamental note is heard at all.
Those who have spent their lives in reading, and taken their wisdom
from books, are like people who have obtained precise information
about a country from the descriptions of many travellers. Such
people can tell a great deal about it; but, after all, they have no
connected, clear, and profound knowledge of its real condition. But
those who have spent their lives in thinking, resemble the travellers
themselves; they alone really know what they are talking about; they
are acquainted with the actual state of affairs, and are quite at home
in the subject.
The thinker stands in the same relation to the ordinary
book-philosopher as an eye-witness does to the historian; he speaks
from direct knowledge of his own. That is why all those who think
for themselves come, at bottom, to much the same conclusion. The
differences they present are due to their different points of view;
and when these do not affect the matter, they all speak alike. They
merely express the result of their own objective perception of things.
There are many passages in my works which I have given to the public
only after some hesitation, because of their paradoxical nature; and
afterwards I have experienced a pleasant surprise in finding the same
opinion recorded in the works of great men who lived long ago.
The book-philosopher merely reports what one person has said and
another meant, or the objections raised by a third, and so on. He
compares different opinions, ponders, criticises, and tries to get at
the truth of the matter; herein on a par with the critical historian.
For instance, he will set out to inquire whether Leibnitz was not for
some time a follower of Spinoza, and questions of a like nature. The
curious student of such matters may find conspicuous examples of what
I mean in Herbart's _Analytical Elucidation of Morality and Natural
Right_, and in the same author's _Letters on Freedom_. Surprise may
be felt that a man of the kind should put himself to so much trouble;
for, on the face of it, if he would only examine the matter for
himself, he would speedily attain his object by the exercise of a
little thought. But there is a small difficulty in the way. It does
not depend upon his own will. A man can always sit down and read, but
not--think. It is with thoughts as with men; they cannot always be
summoned at pleasure; we must wait for them to come. Thought about a
subject must appear of itself, by a happy and harmonious combination
of external stimulus with mental temper and attention; and it is just
that which never seems to come to these people.
This truth may be illustrated by what happens in the case of matters
affecting our own personal interest. When it is necessary to come to
some resolution in a matter of that kind, we cannot well sit down at
any given moment and think over the merits of the case and make up our
mind; for, if we try to do so, we often find ourselves unable, at that
particular moment, to keep our mind fixed upon the subject; it wanders
off to other things. Aversion to the matter in question is sometimes
to blame for this. In such a case we should not use force, but wait
for the proper frame of mind to come of itself. It often comes
unexpectedly and returns again and again; and the variety of temper in
which we approach it at different moments puts the matter always in a
fresh light. It is this long process which is understood by the term
_a ripe resolution._ For the work of coming to a resolution must be
distributed; and in the process much that is overlooked at one moment
occurs to us at another; and the repugnance vanishes when we find, as
we usually do, on a closer inspection, that things are not so bad as
they seemed.
This rule applies to the life of the intellect as well as to matters
of practice. A man must wait for the right moment. Not even the
greatest mind is capable of thinking for itself at all times. Hence a
great mind does well to spend its leisure in reading, which, as I have
said, is a substitute for thought; it brings stuff to the mind by
letting another person do the thinking; although that is always done
in a manner not our own. Therefore, a man should not read too much, in
order that his mind may not become accustomed to the substitute and
thereby forget the reality; that it may not form the habit of walking
in well-worn paths; nor by following an alien course of thought grow a
stranger to its own. Least of all should a man quite withdraw his gaze
from the real world for the mere sake of reading; as the impulse and
the temper which prompt to thought of one's own come far oftener from
the world of reality than from the world of books. The real life that
a man sees before him is the natural subject of thought; and in its
strength as the primary element of existence, it can more easily than
anything else rouse and influence the thinking mind.
After these considerations, it will not be matter for surprise that
a man who thinks for himself can easily be distinguished from the
book-philosopher by the very way in which he talks, by his marked
earnestness, and the originality, directness, and personal conviction
that stamp all his thoughts and expressions. The book-philosopher, on
the other hand, lets it be seen that everything he has is second-hand;
that his ideas are like the number and trash of an old furniture-shop,
collected together from all quarters. Mentally, he is dull and
pointless--a copy of a copy. His literary style is made up of
conventional, nay, vulgar phrases, and terms that happen to be
current; in this respect much like a small State where all the money
that circulates is foreign, because it has no coinage of its own.
Mere experience can as little as reading supply the place of thought.
It stands to thinking in the same relation in which eating stands
to digestion and assimilation. When experience boasts that to its
discoveries alone is due the advancement of the human race, it is as
though the mouth were to claim the whole credit of maintaining the
body in health.
The works of all truly capable minds are distinguished by a character
of _decision_ and _definiteness_, which means they are clear and free
from obscurity. A truly capable mind always knows definitely and
clearly what it is that it wants to express, whether its medium is
prose, verse, or music. Other minds are not decisive and not definite;
and by this they may be known for what they are.
The characteristic sign of a mind of the highest order is that it
always judges at first hand. Everything it advances is the result of
thinking for itself; and this is everywhere evident by the way in
which it gives its thoughts utterance. Such a mind is like a Prince.
In the realm of intellect its authority is imperial, whereas the
authority of minds of a lower order is delegated only; as may be seen
in their style, which has no independent stamp of its own.
Every one who really thinks for himself is so far like a monarch.
His position is undelegated and supreme. His judgments, like royal
decrees, spring from his own sovereign power and proceed directly from
himself. He acknowledges authority as little as a monarch admits a
command; he subscribes to nothing but what he has himself authorized.
The multitude of common minds, laboring under all sorts of current
opinions, authorities, prejudices, is like the people, which silently
obeys the law and accepts orders from above.
Those who are so zealous and eager to settle debated questions by
citing authorities, are really glad when they are able to put the
understanding and the insight of others into the field in place of
their own, which are wanting. Their number is legion. For, as
Seneca says, there is no man but prefers belief to the exercise
of judgment--_unusquisque mavult credere quam judicare_. In their
controversies such people make a promiscuous use of the weapon of
authority, and strike out at one another with it. If any one chances
to become involved in such a contest, he will do well not to try
reason and argument as a mode of defence; for against a weapon of that
kind these people are like Siegfrieds, with a skin of horn, and dipped
in the flood of incapacity for thinking and judging. They will meet
his attack by bringing up their authorities as a way of abashing
him--_argumentum ad verecundiam_, and then cry out that they have won
the battle.
In the real world, be it never so fair, favorable and pleasant,
we always live subject to the law of gravity which we have to
be constantly overcoming. But in the world of intellect we are
disembodied spirits, held in bondage to no such law, and free from
penury and distress. Thus it is that there exists no happiness on
earth like that which, at the auspicious moment, a fine and fruitful
mind finds in itself.
The presence of a thought is like the presence of a woman we love. We
fancy we shall never forget the thought nor become indifferent to the
dear one. But out of sight, out of mind! The finest thought runs the
risk of being irrevocably forgotten if we do not write it down, and
the darling of being deserted if we do not marry her.
There are plenty of thoughts which are valuable to the man who thinks
them; but only few of them which have enough strength to produce
repercussive or reflect action--I mean, to win the reader's sympathy
after they have been put on paper.
But still it must not be forgotten that a true value attaches only
to what a man has thought in the first instance _for his own case_.
Thinkers may be classed according as they think chiefly for their own
case or for that of others. The former are the genuine independent
thinkers; they really think and are really independent; they are the
true _philosophers_; they alone are in earnest. The pleasure and the
happiness of their existence consists in thinking. The others are the
_sophists_; they want to seem that which they are not, and seek their
happiness in what they hope to get from the world. They are in earnest
about nothing else. To which of these two classes a man belongs may be
seen by his whole style and manner. Lichtenberg is an example for the
former class; Herder, there can be no doubt, belongs to the second.
When one considers how vast and how close to us is _the problem of
existence_--this equivocal, tortured, fleeting, dream-like existence
of ours--so vast and so close that a man no sooner discovers it than
it overshadows and obscures all other problems and aims; and when
one sees how all men, with few and rare exceptions, have no clear
consciousness of the problem, nay, seem to be quite unaware of its
presence, but busy themselves with everything rather than with this,
and live on, taking no thought but for the passing day and the hardly
longer span of their own personal future, either expressly discarding
the problem or else over-ready to come to terms with it by adopting
some system of popular metaphysics and letting it satisfy them; when,
I say, one takes all this to heart, one may come to the opinion that
man may be said to be _a thinking being_ only in a very remote
sense, and henceforth feel no special surprise at any trait of human
thoughtlessness or folly; but know, rather, that the normal man's
intellectual range of vision does indeed extend beyond that of the
brute, whose whole existence is, as it were, a continual present,
with no consciousness of the past or the future, but not such an
immeasurable distance as is generally supposed.
This is, in fact, corroborated by the way in which most men converse;
where their thoughts are found to be chopped up fine, like chaff, so
that for them to spin out a discourse of any length is impossible.
If this world were peopled by really thinking beings, it could not be
that noise of every kind would be allowed such generous limits, as is
the case with the most horrible and at the same time aimless form of
it.[1] If Nature had meant man to think, she would not have given him
ears; or, at any rate, she would have furnished them with airtight
flaps, such as are the enviable possession of the bat. But, in truth,
man is a poor animal like the rest, and his powers are meant only to
maintain him in the struggle for existence; so he must need keep his
ears always open, to announce of themselves, by night as by day, the
approach of the pursuer.
[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_.--Schopenhauer refers to the cracking
of whips. See the Essay _On Noise_ in _Studies in Pessimism_.]
In the drama, which is the most perfect reflection of human existence,
there are three stages in the presentation of the subject, with a
corresponding variety in the design and scope of the piece.
At the first, which is also the most common, stage, the drama is
never anything more than merely _interesting_. The persons gain our
attention by following their own aims, which resemble ours; the action
advances by means of intrigue and the play of character and incident;
while wit and raillery season the whole.
At the second stage, the drama becomes _sentimental_. Sympathy is
roused with the hero and, indirectly, with ourselves. The action takes
a pathetic turn; but the end is peaceful and satisfactory.
The climax is reached with the third stage, which is the most
difficult. There the drama aims at being _tragic_. We are brought face
to face with great suffering and the storm and stress of existence;
and the outcome of it is to show the vanity of all human effort.
Deeply moved, we are either directly prompted to disengage our will
from the struggle of life, or else a chord is struck in us which
echoes a similar feeling.
The beginning, it is said, is always difficult. In the drama it is
just the contrary; for these the difficulty always lies in the end.
This is proved by countless plays which promise very well for
the first act or two, and then become muddled, stick or
falter--notoriously so in the fourth act--and finally conclude in a
way that is either forced or unsatisfactory or else long foreseen by
every one. Sometimes, too, the end is positively revolting, as in
Lessing's _Emilia Galotti_, which sends the spectators home in a
temper.
This difficulty in regard to the end of a play arises partly because
it is everywhere easier to get things into a tangle than to get them
out again; partly also because at the beginning we give the author
_carte blanche_ to do as he likes, but, at the end, make certain
definite demands upon him. Thus we ask for a conclusion that shall be
either quite happy or else quite tragic; whereas human affairs do not
easily take so decided a turn; and then we expect that it shall be
natural, fit and proper, unlabored, and at the same time foreseen by
no one.
These remarks are also applicable to an epic and to a novel; but the
more compact nature of the drama makes the difficulty plainer by
increasing it.
_E nihilo nihil fit_. That nothing can come from nothing is a maxim
true in fine art as elsewhere. In composing an historical picture, a
good artist will use living men as a model, and take the groundwork
of the faces from life; and then proceed to idealize them in point of
beauty or expression. A similar method, I fancy, is adopted by good
novelists. In drawing a character they take a general outline of it
from some real person of their acquaintance, and then idealize and
complete it to suit their purpose.
A novel will be of a high and noble order, the more it represents
of inner, and the less it represents of outer, life; and the ratio
between the two will supply a means of judging any novel, of whatever
kind, from _Tristram Shandy_ down to the crudest and most sensational
tale of knight or robber. _Tristram Shandy_ has, indeed, as good as
no action at all; and there is not much in _La Nouvelle Heloïse_ and
_Wilhelm Meister_. Even _Don Quixote_ has relatively little; and what
there is, very unimportant, and introduced merely for the sake of fun.
And these four are the best of all existing novels.
Consider, further, the wonderful romances of Jean Paul, and how much
inner life is shown on the narrowest basis of actual event. Even in
Walter Scott's novels there is a great preponderance of inner over
outer life, and incident is never brought in except for the purpose of
giving play to thought and emotion; whereas, in bad novels, incident
is there on its own account. Skill consists in setting the inner life
in motion with the smallest possible array of circumstance; for it is
this inner life that really excites our interest.
The business of the novelist is not to relate great events, but to
make small ones interesting.
History, which I like to think of as the contrary of poetry [Greek:
istoroumenon--pepoiaemenon], is for time what geography is for space;
and it is no more to be called a science, in any strict sense of the
word, than is geography, because it does not deal with universal
truths, but only with particular details. History has always been the
favorite study of those who wish to learn something, without having to
face the effort demanded by any branch of real knowledge, which taxes
the intelligence. In our time history is a favorite pursuit; as
witness the numerous books upon the subject which appear every year.
If the reader cannot help thinking, with me, that history is merely
the constant recurrence of similar things, just as in a kaleidoscope
the same bits of glass are represented, but in different combinations,
he will not be able to share all this lively interest; nor, however,
will he censure it. But there is a ridiculous and absurd claim, made
by many people, to regard history as a part of philosophy, nay, as
philosophy itself; they imagine that history can take its place.
The preference shown for history by the greater public in all ages may
be illustrated by the kind of conversation which is so much in vogue
everywhere in society. It generally consists in one person relating
something and then another person relating something else; so that in
this way everyone is sure of receiving attention. Both here and in the
case of history it is plain that the mind is occupied with particular
details. But as in science, so also in every worthy conversation, the
mind rises to the consideration of some general truth.
This objection does not, however, deprive history of its value. Human
life is short and fleeting, and many millions of individuals share in
it, who are swallowed by that monster of oblivion which is waiting for
them with ever-open jaws. It is thus a very thankworthy task to try to
rescue something--the memory of interesting and important events, or
the leading features and personages of some epoch--from the general
shipwreck of the world.
From another point of view, we might look upon history as the sequel
to zoology; for while with all other animals it is enough to observe
the species, with man individuals, and therefore individual events
have to be studied; because every man possesses a character as an
individual. And since individuals and events are without number or
end, an essential imperfection attaches to history. In the study of
it, all that a man learns never contributes to lessen that which he
has still to learn. With any real science, a perfection of knowledge
is, at any rate, conceivable.
When we gain access to the histories of China and of India, the
endlessness of the subject-matter will reveal to us the defects in the
study, and force our historians to see that the object of science is
to recognize the many in the one, to perceive the rules in any given
example, and to apply to the life of nations a knowledge of mankind;
not to go on counting up facts _ad infinitum_.
There are two kinds of history; the history of politics and the
history of literature and art. The one is the history of the will;
the other, that of the intellect. The first is a tale of woe, even of
terror: it is a record of agony, struggle, fraud, and horrible murder
_en masse_. The second is everywhere pleasing and serene, like the
intellect when left to itself, even though its path be one of error.
Its chief branch is the history of philosophy. This is, in fact, its
fundamental bass, and the notes of it are heard even in the other
kind of history. These deep tones guide the formation of opinion, and
opinion rules the world. Hence philosophy, rightly understood, is a
material force of the most powerful kind, though very slow in its
working. The philosophy of a period is thus the fundamental bass of
its history.
The NEWSPAPER, is the second-hand in the clock of history; and it is
not only made of baser metal than those which point to the minute and
the hour, but it seldom goes right.
The so-called leading article is the chorus to the drama of passing
events.
Exaggeration of every kind is as essential to journalism as it is to
the dramatic art; for the object of journalism is to make events go
as far as possible. Thus it is that all journalists are, in the very
nature of their calling, alarmists; and this is their way of giving
interest to what they write. Herein they are like little dogs; if
anything stirs, they immediately set up a shrill bark.
Therefore, let us carefully regulate the attention to be paid to this
trumpet of danger, so that it may not disturb our digestion. Let us
recognize that a newspaper is at best but a magnifying-glass, and very
often merely a shadow on the wall.
The _pen_ is to thought what the stick is to walking; but you walk
most easily when you have no stick, and you think with the greatest
perfection when you have no pen in your hand. It is only when a man
begins to be old that he likes to use a stick and is glad to take up
his pen.
When an _hypothesis_ has once come to birth in the mind, or gained a
footing there, it leads a life so far comparable with the life of an
organism, as that it assimilates matter from the outer world only when
it is like in kind with it and beneficial; and when, contrarily, such
matter is not like in kind but hurtful, the hypothesis, equally with
the organism, throws it off, or, if forced to take it, gets rid of it
again entire.
To gain _immortality_ an author must possess so many excellences that
while it will not be easy to find anyone to understand and appreciate
them all, there will be men in every age who are able to recognize
and value some of them. In this way the credit of his book will be
maintained throughout the long course of centuries, in spite of the
fact that human interests are always changing.
An author like this, who has a claim to the continuance of his life
even with posterity, can only be a man who, over the wide earth, will
seek his like in vain, and offer a palpable contrast with everyone
else in virtue of his unmistakable distinction. Nay, more: were he,
like the wandering Jew, to live through several generations, he would
still remain in the same superior position. If this were not so, it
would be difficult to see why his thoughts should not perish like
those of other men.
_Metaphors_ and _similes_ are of great value, in so far as they
explain an unknown relation by a known one. Even the more detailed
simile which grows into a parable or an allegory, is nothing more than
the exhibition of some relation in its simplest, most visible and
palpable form. The growth of ideas rests, at bottom, upon similes;
because ideas arise by a process of combining the similarities and
neglecting the differences between things. Further, intelligence, in
the strict sense of the word, ultimately consists in a seizing of
relations; and a clear and pure grasp of relations is all the more
often attained when the comparison is made between cases that lie wide
apart from one another, and between things of quite different nature.
As long as a relation is known to me as existing only in a single
case, I have but an _individual_ idea of it--in other words, only an
intuitive knowledge of it; but as soon as I see the same relation in
two different cases, I have a _general_ idea of its whole nature, and
this is a deeper and more perfect knowledge.
Since, then, similes and metaphors are such a powerful engine of
knowledge, it is a sign of great intelligence in a writer if his
similes are unusual and, at the same time, to the point. Aristotle
also observes that by far the most important thing to a writer is
to have this power of metaphor; for it is a gift which cannot be
acquired, and it is a mark of genius.
As regards _reading_, to require that a man shall retain everything he
has ever read, is like asking him to carry about with him all he has
ever eaten. The one kind of food has given him bodily, and the other
mental, nourishment; and it is through these two means that he has
grown to be what he is. The body assimilates only that which is like
it; and so a man retains in his mind only that which interests him, in
other words, that which suits his system of thought or his purposes in
life.
If a man wants to read good books, he must make a point of avoiding
bad ones; for life is short, and time and energy limited.
_Repetitio est mater studiorum_. Any book that is at all important
ought to be at once read through twice; partly because, on a second
reading, the connection of the different portions of the book will be
better understood, and the beginning comprehended only when the end
is known; and partly because we are not in the same temper and
disposition on both readings. On the second perusal we get a new view
of every passage and a different impression of the whole book, which
then appears in another light.
A man's works are the quintessence of his mind, and even though he may
possess very great capacity, they will always be incomparably more
valuable than his conversation. Nay, in all essential matters his
works will not only make up for the lack of personal intercourse with
him, but they will far surpass it in solid advantages. The writings
even of a man of moderate genius may be edifying, worth reading and
instructive, because they are his quintessence--the result and fruit
of all his thought and study; whilst conversation with him may be
unsatisfactory.
So it is that we can read books by men in whose company we find
nothing to please, and that a high degree of culture leads us to seek
entertainment almost wholly from books and not from men.