THREE WORDS ABOUT LITERATURE
A friend of mine (and aside from this error a very fine friend he is,
too) not long ago published a book which he declared, in his Preface,
should be read in bed. He insisted, to such an extent was he the victim
of a remarkable and pernicious fallacy which I find here and there, that
this book could not otherwise be properly enjoyed.
Now the difficulty about this particular book, that is the circumstance
wherein my friend has got me in a position where it is not so easy for
me to overturn him all at once, is this: one, not knowing any better,
might take the author's advice, and find pleasure reading the book in
bed, not being aware that this simply was because here was a book that
one would find pleasure in reading anywhere. But because you have got
hold of a book which it is possible to enjoy reading in the wrong way,
it naturally follows (does it not?) that you'd enjoy it much more
reading it in the right way. That, I should say, was simple and logical
enough.
I know, I know! I'm coming to that: there are plenty of other people who
have this ridiculous reading-in-bed idea. There, for instance, is
Richard Le Gallienne. I had a letter from him awhile ago, in which he
remarked that it was his practice to do most of his reading in bed. Then
I had a letter recently from Meredith Nicholson, in which there was some
such absurd phrase as "going to bed and reading until the cock crows."
Also I one time read an essay, a very pleasant essay outside the
mistaken notion of its main theme, by Michael Monahan, which was largely
about the pleasure of reading in bed. Spoke of the delights of being
tucked in, with what satisfaction you got the light just right, and all
that.
It must, of course, be acknowledged that all these gentlemen are, if
perverse in their method, persons of some reading. However, a fact such
as that, an accident as you might say, cannot be permitted to upset the
course of a profound argument. Why! as to that, a suspicion just occurs
to me that maybe someone could dig up Lamb, Hazlitt, Mark Twain,
Coleridge, Leigh Hunt, Cowper (perhaps all of them, and more) to the
effect that it is pleasant to read in bed. Didn't Thackeray have some
nonsense about "bedside books"? _I_ haven't time to refute each of these
persons separately. It is sufficient, I take it, to roll into one point
of attack all this bed-reading heresy, from whatever quarters it comes,
and put an end to that.
Understand me; I have no complaint against the reading in bed of persons
confined there through physical disability. The world war which brought
more people to bed for indefinite periods than any other matter since
time began thereby probably got more souls into the way of reading than
seventeen times several hundred schools ever did. All of them, however,
would find that they were much better off in the matter of reading when
they had got out of bed. What I say is that, in a manner of speaking,
there is no use in taking the air in a wheel-chair if you can take it on
horseback. Why do a thing in a halfway fashion when you can go to it
right?
Another thing. There are people (I've seen them at it) who read on
porches. Sometimes in swings, rocking to and fro. Even in hammocks,
slung above the ground from trees. On trains, too. I have (with my own
ears) heard people say that they would "take a book" and go out into the
park, or into the woods, or out in a boat, or up on the mountain, or by
the sea, or any conceivable place except where one should go to read.
All of these ways of reading are worse, if anything can be worse than
that, than reading in bed. Because in bed you do, at least, have your
mind sandwiched within doors. You do not feel the surge and rumble of
the world--the sound and movement of the things of which literature is
made; but any contact with which (at the moment of reading) is
destructive to the illusion which it is the province of literature to
create.
For literature (reading it, I mean here) is, in this, like love: Richest
are the returns to that one whose passion is most complete in its
surrender. And a man lapping his frame in soft indolence, though he have
a book in his hand, is indulging in sensuous physical pleasure at least
equally with intellectual receptivity or aesthetic appreciation. No.
Reading should not be taken as an opiate.
The way to read, then--but, a moment more; a couple of other points are
to be cleared up. There is much babble of slippers and dressing-gowns,
easy chairs and "soft lights" in connection with the comments about the
pleasures, the "delights" as I believe some people say, of reading.
What is wanted to _know_ the relish to be got from reading is, first (of
course), an uncommon book. And by that term is meant merely one
uncommonly suited to the spirit of the reader. (The only perfect
definition, that, of a "good book.") Some people still read Stevenson.
Well, there's no great harm in that. Providing you read him (or anybody
else) as follows:
You should read as you should die--with your boots on. You take a wooden
chair, without arms, such (this is the best) as is commonly called a
"kitchen chair." It has a good, hard seat. You sit upright in this,
crossing and recrossing your legs as they tire. Nearby you is a good,
strong light, one with a tonic effect, a light that keeps your eyes wide
open. You sit facing a dull, blank wall. No pictures or other ornaments
or decorations should be on this wall, as, in case such things are
there, and you happen to raise your eyes for an instant, in ecstasy or
in thought, your vision lights upon one of these things; and the heart
which you have given your author is, certainly in some measure,
alienated from him. Maybe, indeed, you go back to him almost at once.
But then harm has been done--you have not read with supreme abandon.