HOW TO READ A BOOK

by Mortimer J Adler

  Though it may not be so obvious at first, suspending judgment is also an act of criticism. It is taking the position that something has not been shown. You are saying that you are not convinced or persuaded one way or the other.

  This rule seems to be such obvious common sense that you may wonder why I have bothered to state it so explicitly. I have two reasons. In the first place, many people make the error I mentioned above of identifying criticism with disagreement. In the second place, though this rule seems obviously sound, my experience has been that few people' observe it in practice. Like the golden rule, it elicits more lip service than intelligent obedience.

  I have had the experience, shared by all authors, of suffering book reviews by critics who did not feel obliged to do the first reading first. The critic too often thinks he does not have to be a reader as well as a judge. I have also had the experience of lecturing, both in the university and on the public platform, and of having critical questions asked which were not based on any understanding of what I had said. (By a "critical question"

  here, I mean that rhetorical device by which someone in the audience tries to show the speaker up.) And you may remember an occasion where someone said to a speaker, in one breath or at most two, "I don't know what you mean, but I think you're wrong."

  I have gradually learned that there is no point in answering critics of this sort. The only polite thing to do is to ask them to state your position tor you, the position they claim to be challenging. If they cannot do it satisfactorily, it they cannot repeat what you have said in their own words, you know that they do not understand, and you are entirely justified in ignoring their criticisms. They are irrelevant, as all criticism must be which is not solidly based on understanding. When you find the rare person who shows that he understands what you are saying as well as you do, then you can delight in his agreement or be seriously disturbed by his dissent.

  In years of reading books with students, I have found this rule more honored in the breach than in the observance. Students who plainly do not know what the author is saying seem to have no hesitation in setting themselves up as his judges. They not only disagree with something they do not understand but, what is equally bad, they often agree to a position they cannot express intelligibly in their own way. Their discussion, like their reading, is all words, words, words. Where understanding is not present, affirmations and denials are equally meaningless and unintelligent. Nor is a position of doubt or detachment any more intelligent in a reader who does not know what he is suspending judgment atout.

  There are several further points to note concerning the observance of this first rule. If you are reading a great book, you ought to hesitate before you say, "I understand." The presumption certainly is that you have a lot of work to do before you can make that declaration honestly and with assurance. You must, of course, be a judge of yourself in this raatter, and that makes the responsibility even more severe.

  To say "I don't understand" is, o£ course, a critical judg. ment, but only after you have tried your hardest does it reflect on the book rather than yourself. If you have done everything that can be expected of you and still do not understand, it may be because the book is unintelligible. The presumption, however, is in favor of the book, especially if it be a great one. In reading great books, failure to understand is usually the reader's fault. Hence he is obligated to stay with the task of the first two readings a long time before entering on the third. When you say "I don't understand" watch your tone of voice. Be sure it concedes the possibility that it may not be the author's fault.

  There are two other conditions under which the rule requires especial care. If you are reading only part of a book, it is more difficult to be sure that you understand, and hence you should be more hesitant to criticize. And sometimes a book is related to other books by the same author, and depends upon them for its full significance. In this situation, also, you should be more circumspect about saying "I understand," and slower to raise your critical lance.

  The best example of brashness in this last respect is furnished by literary critics who have agreed or disagreed with Aristotle's Poetics without realizing that the main principles in Aristotle's analysis of poetry depend in part on points made in other of his works, his treatises on psychology and logic and metaphysics. They have agreed or disagreed without understanding what it is all about.

  The same is true of other writers, such as Plato and Kant, Adam Smith and Karl Marx, who have not been able to aay everything they thought or knew in a single work. Those who judge Kant's Critique of Pure Reason without. reading his Critique of Practical Reason, or Adam Smith's Wealth of Nations without reading his Theory of the Moral Sentiments, or The Communist Manifesto without Marx's dos Kapital, are more likely than not to be agreeing or disagreeing with something they do not fully understand.

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  The second general maxim of critical reading is as obvious as the first, but needs explicit statement, nevertheless, for the same reason. It is that there is no point in winning an argument if you know or suspect you are wrong. Practically, of course, it may get you ahead in the world for a short time. But honesty is the better policy in the slightly longer run.

  As thus stated, I learned the maxim from Mr. Beards-ley Rumi, at the time he was dean of the Social Science Division in Chicago. He formulated it in the light of many sad experiences, both in the academic world and out. He has since become a leader in the mercantile world, and he still finds it true that many people think a conversation is an occasion for personal aggrandizement. They think that winning the argument is what matters, not learning the truth.

  He who regards conversation as a battle can win only by being an antagonist, only by disagreeing successfully, whether he is right or wrong. The reader who approaches a book in this spirit reads it only to find something he can disagree with. For the disputatious and contentious, a bone can always be found to pick on. It makes no difference whether the bone is really a chip off the other man's shoulder. What is sought is a casus belli—like an incident in the Far East or in middle Europe.

  Now in a conversation which a reader has with a book in the privacy of his own study, there is nothing to prevent the reader from winning the argument. He can dominate the situation. The author is not there to defend himself. If all he wants is the empty satisfaction of seeming to show the author up, he can get it readily. He scarcely has to read the book through to get it. Glancing at the first few pages will suffice.

  But if he realizes that the only profit in conversation, with live or dead teachers, is what one can learn from them, if he realizes that yon win only by gaining knowledge, not by knocking the other fellow down, he may see the futility of mere contentiousness. I am not saying that a reader should not ultimately disagree and try to show where the author is wrong. I am saying only that he should be as prepared to agree as to disagree.

  Whichever he does should be motivated by one consideration alone—the facts and the truth about them.

  More than honesty is required here. It goes without saying that a reader should admit a point when he sees it. But he also should not feel whipped by having to agree with an author, instead of dissenting. If he feels that way, he is chronically disputatious. In the light of this second maxim, [ would advise him to go to a psychoanalyst before he tries to do much serious reading.

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  The third maxim is closely related to the second. It states another condition prior to the undertaking of criticism. It recommends that you regard disagreements as capable of being resolved. Where the second maxim urged you not to disagree disputatiously, this one warns you against disagreeing hopelessly. One is hopeless about the fruitfulness of discussion if one does not recognize that all rational men can agree. Note that I said

  "can agree." I did not say all rational men do agree. I am saying that even when they do not agree, they can. And the point I am trying to make is that disagreement is futile agitation unless it is undertaken with the hope that it may l
ead to the resolution of an issue.

  These two facts, that men do disagree and can agree, arise from the complexity of human nature. Men are rational animals. Their rationality is the source of their power to agree. Their animality, and the imperfections of their reason which it entails, is the cause of most of the disagreements that occur. They are creatures of passion and prejudice. The language they must use to communicate is an imperfect medium, clouded by emotion and colored by interest as well as inadequately transparent tor thought. Yet to the extent that men are rational, these obstacles to their understanding one another can be overcome. The sort of disagreement which is only apparent, resulting from misunderstanding, is certainly curable.

  There is, of course, another sort of disagreement, which is due to inequalities of knowledge. The ignorant often foolishly disagree with the learned about matters exceeding their knowledge. The more learned, however, have a right to be critical of errors made by those who lack relevant knowledge. Disagreements of this sort can also be corrected. Inequality in knowledge is always curable by instruction.

  In other words, I am saying that all human disagreements can be resolved by the removal of misunderstanding or of ignorance. Both cures are always possible, though sometimes difficult. Hence the man who, at any stage of a conversation, disagrees, should at least hope to reach agreement in the end. He should be as much prepared to have his own mind changed as seek to change the mind of an-' other. He should always keep before him the possibility that he misunderstands or that he is ignorant on some point. No one who looks upon disagreement as an occasion for teaching another should forget that it is also an occasion for being taught.

  But the trouble is that many people regard disagreement as unrelated to either teaching or being taught. They think that everything is just a matter of opinion. I have mine. You have yours. Our right to our opinions is as inviolable as our right to private property. On such a view, communication cannot be profitable if the profit to be gained is an increase in knowledge. Conversation is hardly better than a ping-pong game of opposed opinions, a game in which no one keeps score, no one wins, and everyone is satisfied because he ends up holding the same opinions he started with.

  I cannot take this view. I think that knowledge can be communicated and that discussion can result in learning. If knowledge, not opinion, is at stake, then either disagreements are apparent only—to be removed by coming to terms and a meeting of minds; or, if they are real, then the genuine issues can always be resolved—in the long run, of course—by appeals to fact and reason. The maxim of rationality concerning disagreements is to be patient for the long run. I am saying, in short, that disagreements are arguable matters. And argument is both empty and vicious unless it is undertaken on the supposition that there is attainable truth which, when attained by reason in the light of all the relevant evidence, resolves the original issues.

  How does this third maxim apply to the conversation between reader and author? It deals with the situation in which the reader finds himself disagreeing with something iki a book. It requires him first to be sure that the disagreement is not due to misunderstanding. Suppose that the reader has been careful to observe the rule that he must not begin a critical reading until he understands, and is therefore satisfied that there is no misunderstanding here. What then?

  This maxim then requires him to distinguish between knowledge and opinion, and to regard an issue concerning knowledge as one which can be resolved. It he pursues the matter further he may be instructed by the author on points which will change his mind.

  If that does not happen, he may be justified in his criticism, and, metaphorically at least, be able to instruct the author. He can at least hope that were the author alive and present, his mind could be changed.

  You may remember something that was said in the previous chapter. If an author does not give reasons for his propositions, they can be treated only as expressions of opinion on his part. The reader who does not distinguish between the reasoned statement of knowledge and the flat expression of opinion is not reading to learn. He is at most interested in the author's personality and is using the book as a case history. Such a reader will, of course, neither agree nor disagree. He does not judge the book but the man.

  If, however, the reader is primarily interested in the book and not the man—it, seeking to learn, he looks for knowledge not opinion—he should take his critical obligations seriously. The distinction between knowledge and opinion applies to him as well as to the author. The reader must do more than make judgments of agreement or disagreement. He must give reasons for them. In the former case, of course, it suffices if he actively share the author's reasons for the point on which they agree. But when he disagrees, he must give his own grounds for doing so. Other' wise, he is treating a matter of knowledge as if it were opinion.

  Let me summarize now the three general maxims I have discussed. The three together state the conditions of a critical reading and the manner in which the reader should proceed to talk back.

  The first requires the reader to complete the task of understanding before rushing in.

  The second adjures him not to be disputatious or contentious. The third asks him to view disagreement about matters of knowledge as remediable. It goes further. It commands him to give reasons for his disagreements so that issues are not merely stated but defined. In that lies all hope for resolution.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Things the Reader Can Say

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  the first thing a reader can say is that he understands or that he does not. In fact, he must say he understands, in order to say more. If he does not understand, he should keep his peace and go back to work on the first two readings of the book.

  There is one exception to the harshness of the second alternative. "I don't understand"

  may be itself a critical remark. To make it so, the reader must be able to support it. If the fault is with the book rather than himself, the readei must locate the sources of trouble.

  He should be able to show that the structure of the book is disorderly, that its parts do not hang together, that some of it lacks relevance. Or, perhaps, the author equivocates in the use of important words, with a whole train of consequent contusions. To the extent that a leader can support his charge that the book is unintelligible, he has no further critical obligations.

  Let us suppose, however, that you are reading a good book. That means it is a relatively intelligible one. And let us suppose that you are finally able to say, "I understand." If in addition to understanding the book, you agree thoroughly with what the author says, the work is over. The reading is completely done. You have been enlightened, and convinced or persuaded. It is clear that we have additional steps to consider only in the case of disagreement or suspended judgment. The former is the more usual case. We shall deal mainly with it in this chapter.

  To the extent that authors argue with their readers— and expect their readers to argue back—the good reader must be acquainted with the principles of argument. He must be able to carry on polite, as well as intelligent, controversy. That is why there is need for a chapter of this sort in a book on reading. Not simply by following an author's arguments, but only by meeting them as well, can the reader ultimately reach significant agreement or disagreement with his author.

  The meaning of agreement and disagreement deserves a moment's further consideration.

  The reader who comes to terms with an author, and grasps his propositions and reasoning, is en rapport with the author's mind. In fact, the whole process of interpretation is directed toward a meeting of minds through the medium of language.

  Understanding a book can be described as a kind of agreement between writer and reader. They agree about the use of language to express ideas. Because of that agreement, the reader is able to see through the author's language to the ideas he is trying to express.

  It the reader understands a book, then how can he disagree with it? Critical reading demands that he make
up his own mind. But his mind and the author's have become as one through his success in understanding the book. What mind has he left to make up independently?

  There are some people who make the error which causes this apparent difficulty. They fail to distinguish between two senses of "agreement." In consequence, they wrongly suppose that where there is understanding between men. disagreement is impossible.

  They say that all disagreement is simply due to misunderstanding.

  The error is corrected as soon as we remember that the author is making judgments about the world in which we live. He claims to be giving us theoretic knowledge about the way things exist and behave, or practical knowledge about what should be done.

  Obviously, he can be either right or wrong. His claim is justified only to the extent that he speaks truly, or says what is probable in the light of evidence. Otherwise, his claim is unfounded.

  If you say, for instance, that "all men are equal," I may take you to mean that all men are equally endowed at birth with intelligence, strength, and other abilities. In the light of the tacts as I know them, I disagree with you. I think you are wrong. But suppose I have misunderstood you. Suppose you meant by these words that all men should have equal political rights. Because I misapprehended your meaning, my disagreement was irrelevant. Now suppose the mistake corrected. Two alternatives still remain. I can agree or disagree, but now if I disagree, there is a real issue between us. I understand your political position but hold a contrary one.

  Issues about matters of fact or policy—issues about the way things are or should be—