Serious Reading

Novels are excluded from "serious reading," so that the man who, bent on self-improvement, has been deciding to devote ninety minutes three times a week to a complete study of the works of Charles Dickens will be well advised to alter his plans. The reason is not that novels are not serious—some of the great literature of the world is in the form of prose fiction—the reason is that bad novels ought not to be read, and that good novels never demand any appreciable mental application on the part of the reader. It is only the bad parts of Meredith's novels that are difficult. A good novel rushes you forward like a skiff down a stream, and you arrive at the end, perhaps breathless, but unexhausted. The best novels involve the least strain. Now in the cultivation of the mind one of the most important factors is precisely the feeling of strain, of difficulty, of a task which one part of you is anxious to achieve and another part of you is anxious to shirk; and that feeling cannot be got in facing a novel. You do not set your teeth in order to read "Anna Karenina." Therefore, though you should read novels, you should not read them in those ninety minutes.

Novels do not count as "serious reading." So if you are bent on self-improvement, you may have planned a complete study of Charles Dickens’s works. If you planned to spend ninety minutes on it three times a week, you would be wise to reconsider. This is not because novels are not serious. Some of the world’s great literature is in the form of prose fiction. The reason is that bad novels should not be read. Good novels, meanwhile, never require any significant mental effort from the reader. Only the bad parts of Meredith’s novels are difficult. A good novel carries you forward like a skiff down a stream. You reach the end perhaps breathless, but not exhausted. The best novels require the least effort. Now, one of the most important factors in developing the mind is precisely the feeling of strain and difficulty. It comes from a task that one part of you is eager to accomplish and another part is eager to avoid. You cannot get that feeling from reading a novel. You do not have to grit your teeth to read "Anna Karenina." So, although you should read novels, you should not read them during those ninety-minute sessions.

Imaginative poetry produces a far greater mental strain than novels. It produces probably the severest strain of any form of literature. It is the highest form of literature. It yields the highest form of pleasure, and teaches the highest form of wisdom. In a word, there is nothing to compare with it. I say this with sad consciousness of the fact that the majority of people do not read poetry.

Imaginative poetry demands far more mental effort than novels. It probably demands more mental effort than any other form of literature. It is the highest form of literature. It offers the highest form of pleasure and teaches the highest form of wisdom. In short, nothing compares with it. I say this sadly, knowing that most people do not read poetry.

I am persuaded that many excellent persons, if they were confronted with the alternatives of reading "Paradise Lost" and going round Trafalgar Square at noonday on their knees in sack-cloth, would choose the ordeal of public ridicule. Still, I will never cease advising my friends and enemies to read poetry before anything.

I believe many excellent people would choose public ridicule over reading "Paradise Lost". Given the choice, they would rather crawl around Trafalgar Square at noon, dressed in sackcloth. Still, I will never stop advising my friends and enemies to read poetry before anything else.

If poetry is what is called "a sealed book" to you, begin by reading Hazlitt's famous essay on the nature of "poetry in general." It is the best thing of its kind in English, and no one who has read it can possibly be under the misapprehension that poetry is a mediaeval torture, or a mad elephant, or a gun that will go off by itself and kill at forty paces. Indeed, it is difficult to imagine the mental state of the man who, after reading Hazlitt's essay, is not urgently desirous of reading some poetry before his next meal. If the essay so inspires you I would suggest that you make a commencement with purely narrative poetry.

If poetry is what people call "a sealed book" to you, start with Hazlitt's famous essay on "poetry in general." It is the best essay of its kind in English. Anyone who has read it cannot possibly mistake poetry for medieval torture, a mad elephant, or a gun that fires itself and kills at forty paces. In fact, it is hard to imagine how a man could read Hazlitt's essay and not urgently want to read some poetry before his next meal. If the essay inspires you that way, I suggest starting with purely narrative poetry.

There is an infinitely finer English novel, written by a woman, than anything by George Eliot or the Brontes, or even Jane Austen, which perhaps you have not read. Its title is "Aurora Leigh," and its author E.B. Browning. It happens to be written in verse, and to contain a considerable amount of genuinely fine poetry. Decide to read that book through, even if you die for it. Forget that it is fine poetry. Read it simply for the story and the social ideas. And when you have done, ask yourself honestly whether you still dislike poetry. I have known more than one person to whom "Aurora Leigh" has been the means of proving that in assuming they hated poetry they were entirely mistaken.

There is an English novel by a woman that is infinitely finer than anything by George Eliot, the Brontes, or even Jane Austen. Perhaps you have not read it. Its title is "Aurora Leigh," and its author is E.B. Browning. It happens to be written in verse and contains a considerable amount of genuinely fine poetry. Decide to read the book all the way through, even if you die for it. Forget that it is fine poetry. Read it simply for the story and the social ideas. When you have finished, ask yourself honestly whether you still dislike poetry. I have known more than one person who thought they hated poetry. "Aurora Leigh" proved that they were entirely mistaken.

Of course, if, after Hazlitt, and such an experiment made in the light of Hazlitt, you are finally assured that there is something in you which is antagonistic to poetry, you must be content with history or philosophy. I shall regret it, yet not inconsolably. "The Decline and Fall" is not to be named in the same day with "Paradise Lost," but it is a vastly pretty thing; and Herbert Spencer's "First Principles" simply laughs at the claims of poetry and refuses to be accepted as aught but the most majestic product of any human mind. I do not suggest that either of these works is suitable for a tyro in mental strains. But I see no reason why any man of average intelligence should not, after a year of continuous reading, be fit to assault the supreme masterpieces of history or philosophy. The great convenience of masterpieces is that they are so astonishingly lucid.

Of course, after reading Hazlitt and trying his approach, you may become convinced that something in you is hostile to poetry. If so, you must be content with history or philosophy. I shall regret it, though not inconsolably. "The Decline and Fall" cannot be compared with "Paradise Lost," but it is a very pretty thing. And Herbert Spencer's "First Principles" simply laughs at poetry's claims. It refuses to be regarded as anything less than the most majestic work ever produced by a human mind. I do not suggest that either work is suitable for someone new to mental effort. But I see no reason why anyone of average intelligence should not be ready to tackle the supreme masterpieces of history or philosophy after a year of continuous reading. The great convenience of masterpieces is that they are so astonishingly clear.

I suggest no particular work as a start. The attempt would be futile in the space of my command. But I have two general suggestions of a certain importance. The first is to define the direction and scope of your efforts. Choose a limited period, or a limited subject, or a single author. Say to yourself: "I will know something about the French Revolution, or the rise of railways, or the works of John Keats." And during a given period, to be settled beforehand, confine yourself to your choice. There is much pleasure to be derived from being a specialist.

I do not suggest any particular work to start with. It would be pointless to try in the space I have. But I have two important general suggestions. The first is to define the direction and scope of your efforts. Choose a limited period, a limited subject, or a single author. Say to yourself: "I will learn something about the French Revolution, the rise of railways, or the works of John Keats." Then stick to your choice for a set period of time, which you decide on beforehand. There is much pleasure in being a specialist.

The second suggestion is to think as well as to read. I know people who read and read, and for all the good it does them they might just as well cut bread-and-butter. They take to reading as better men take to drink. They fly through the shires of literature on a motor-car, their sole object being motion. They will tell you how many books they have read in a year.

My second suggestion is to think as well as read. I know people who read and read, but get no more out of it than they would from slicing bread and butter. They turn to reading as better men turn to drink. They race through the countryside of literature in a car, with no aim but to keep moving. They will tell you how many books they have read in a year.

Unless you give at least forty-five minutes to careful, fatiguing reflection (it is an awful bore at first) upon what you are reading, your ninety minutes of a night are chiefly wasted. This means that your pace will be slow.

Unless you spend at least forty-five minutes thinking carefully and intensely about what you are reading, most of your ninety minutes each night are wasted. At first, this thinking is terribly boring. It also means you will read slowly.

Never mind.

Never mind.

Forget the goal; think only of the surrounding country; and after a period, perhaps when you least expect it, you will suddenly find yourself in a lovely town on a hill.

Forget the goal. Think only of the countryside around you. After a while, perhaps when you least expect it, you will suddenly find yourself in a lovely town on a hill.