On Thinking for Oneself
ARTHUR SCHOPENHAUER
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!
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.
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.12 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.
[ 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