CHAPTER FOURTEEN
And Still More Rules
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saith the Preacher: "Of making many books there is no end, and much study is weariness of the flesh." You probably feel that way about the reading of books by now, and the rules for doing so. I hasten to say, therefore, that this chapter is not going to increase the number of rules you have to worry about. All the basic rules have now been stated in general.
Here I am going to try to be more particular by considering the rules in application to different kinds of books. And I shall return briefly to die piublem of extrinsic reading.
So far we have kept our nose in the book. There are a few points to make about the utility of looking outside the book you are reading, in order to read it well.
Before I undertake either of these matters, it may be helpful to present all the rules in a single table, each written in the form of a simple prescription.
I. The Analysis of a Book's Structure
1. Classify the book according to kind and subject matter.
2. State what the whole book is about with the utmost brevity.
3. Enumerate its major parts in their order and relation, and analyze these parts as you have analyzed the whole.
4. Define the problem or problems the author is trying to solve.
II. The Interpretation of a Book's Contents
1. Come to terms with the author by interpreting his basic words.
2. Grasp the author's leading propositions through dealing with his most important sentences.
3. Know the author's arguments, by finding them in, or constructing them out of, sequences of sentences.
4. Determine which of his problems the author solved, and which he did not; and of the latter, decide which the author knew he failed to solve.
III. The Criticism of a Book as a Communication of Knowledge A. General Maxims
1. Do not begin criticism until you have com^"^ pleted analysis and interpretation. (Do not ."• say you agree, disagree, or suspend judgment, until you can say, "I understand.") S. Do not disagree disputatiously or contentiously.
3. Respect the difference between knowledge and opinion, by having reasons for any critical judgment you make.
B. Specific Criteria tor Points of Criticism
1. Show wherein the author is uninformed.
2. Show wherein the author is misinformed.
3. Show wherein the author is illogical.
4. Show wherein the author's analysis or account is incomplete.
Note: Of these, the first three are criteria for disagreement. Failing in all of these, you must agree, in part at least, though you may suspend judgment on the whole, in the light of the fourth point.
In any art or field of practice, rules have a disappointing way of being too general. The more general, of course, the fewer, and that is an advantage. But it is also true that the more general, the more remote they are from the intricacies of the actual situation in which you try to follow them.
I have stated rules generally enough to apply to any instructive book. But you cannot read a book in general. You read this book or that, and every particular book is of a particular sort. It may be a history or a book in mathematics, a political tract or a work in natural science. Hence you must have some flexibility and adaptability in following these rules. I think you will gradually get the feel of how they work on different kinds of books, but I may be able to speed the process somewhat by a few indications of what to expect.
In Chapter Seven we excluded from consideration all belles-lettres—novels, plays, and lyrics. I am sure you see now that these rules of reading do not apply to fiction. (There is, of course, a parallel set of rules which I shall try to suggest in the following chapter.) Then, in Chapter Eight we saw that the basic division of expository books is into the practical and the theoretical—books that are concerned with problems of action and books that are concerned only with something to be known. I propose now that we examine the nature of practical books a little further.
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The most important thing about any practical book is that it can never solve the practical problems with which it is concerned. A theoretical book can solve its own problems.
Questions about the nature of something can be answered completely in a book. But a practical problem can only be solved by action itself. When your practical problem is how to earn a living, a book on how to make friends and influence people cannot solve it, though it may suggest things to do. Nothing short of the doing solves the problem. It is solved only by earning a living.
Take this book, for example. It is a practical book. If your interest in it is practical, you want to solve the problem of learning to read. You would not regard that problem as solved and done away with until you did learn. This book cannot solve the problem for you. It can only help. You must actually go through the activity of reading, not merely this book, but others. That is what I mean by saying that nothing but action solves practical problems, and action occurs only in the world, not in books.
Every action takes place in a particular situation, alwaya in the here and now and under these special circumstances. You cannot act in general. The kind of practical judgment which immediately precedes action must be highly particular. It can be expressed in words, but it seldom is. It is almost never found in books, because the author of a practical book cannot envisage the concrete practical situations in which his readers may have to act. Try as he will to be helpful, he cannot give them really concrete practical advice. Only another person in exactly the same situation could do that.
Practical books can, however, state more .or less general rules which apply to a lot of particular situations of the same general sort. Whoever tries to use such books must apply the rules to particular cases and, therefore, must exercise practical judgment in doing so. In other words, the reader himself must add something to the book to make it applicable in practice. He must add his knowledge of the particular situation, and his judgment of how the rule applies to the case.
Any book which contains rules—prescriptions, maxims, or any sort of general directions—you will readily recognize as a practical book. But a practical book may contain more than rules. It may try to state the principles which underlie the rules and make them intelligible. For example, in this practical book about reading, I have tried here and there to explain the rules by brief expositions of grammatical and logical principles. The principles which underlie rules are usually in themselves scientific, that is, they are uems of theoretic knowledge. Taken together, they are the theory of the thing. Thus, we talk about the theory of bridge building or the theory of bridge whist.
We mean the theoretical principles which make the rules of good procedure what they are.
Practical books fall into two main groups. Some, like this one and the cookbook and the driver's manual, are prima^ rily presentations of rules. Whatever other discussion they contain is for the sake of the rules. I know of no great book of this sort. The other kind of practical book is primarily concerned with the principles which generate rules. All the great books in economics, politics, and morals are of this sort.
I do not mean that the distinction is sharp and absolute. Both principles and rules may be found in the same book. The point is only one of relative emphasis. You will have no difficulty in sorting books into these two piles. The book of rules in any field will always be immediately recognizable as practical. The book of practical principles may look at first like a theoretical book. In a sense it is, as we have seen. It deals with the theory of a particular kind of practice. You can always tell it is practical, however. The nature of its problems gives it away. It is always about a field of human behavior in which men can do better or worse.
In reading a book which is primarily a rulebook, the major propositions to look for, of course, are the rules. A rule is most directly expressed by an imperative rather than a declarative sentence. It is a command. It says: "Save nine, by taking a stitch in time." It can
also be expressed declara-tively, as when we say, "A stitch in time saves nine."
Both forms of statement suggest—the imperative a little mor< emphatically—that it is worth while to be prompt in ordei to save nine stitches.
Whether it is stated declaratively or in the form of direct command, you can always recognize a rule because it recom' mends something as worth doing to gain a certain end. Thus, the rule of reading which commands you to come to terms can also be stated as a recommendation: good reading involves coming to terms. The word "good" is the giveaway here. That such reading is worth doing is implied.
The arguments in a practical book of this sort will be attempts to show you that the rules are sound. The writer may have to appeal to principles to persuade you that they are, or he may simply illustrate their soundness by showing you how they work in concrete cases. Look for both sorts of arguments. The appeal to principles is usually less persuasive, but it has one advantage. It can explain the reason for the rules better than examples of their use can.
In the other kind of practical book, dealing mainly with the principles underlying rules, the major propositions and arguments will, of course, look exactly like those in a purely theoretical book. The propositions will say that something is the case, and the arguments will try to show that it is so.
But there is an important difference between reading such a book and a purely theoretical one. Since the ultimate problems to be solved are practical—problems of action— an intelligent reader of such books about "practical principles" always reads between the lines or in the margins. He tries to see the rules which may not be expressed but can, nevertheless, be derived from the principles. He may go even further. He may try to figure out how the rules should be applied in practice.
Unless it is so read, a practical book is not read as practical. To fail to read a practical book as practical is to read it poorly. You really do not understand it, and you certainly cannot criticize it properly in any other way. If the intelligibility of rules is to be found in principles, it is no less true that the significance of practical principles is to be.found in the rules they lead to, the actions they recommend.
This indicates what you must do to understand either sort of practical book. It also indicates the ultimate criteria for critical judgment. In the case of purely theoretical books, the criteria for agreement or disagreement relate to the truth of what is being said. But practical truth is different from theoretic truth. A rule of conduct is practically true on two conditions: one is that it works; the other is that its working leads you to the right end, an end you rightly desire.
Suppose that the end which an author thinks you should seek does not seem like the right oiie to you. Even though his recommendations may be practically sound, in the sense of getting you to that end, you will not agree with him ultimately. And your judgment of his book as practically true or false will be made accordingly. If you do not think careful and intelligent reading is worth doing, this book has little practical truth for you, however sound my rules may be.
Notice what this means. In judging a theoretic book, the reader must observe the identity of, or the discrepancy between, his own basic principles or assumptions and those of the author. In judging a practical book, everything turns on the ends or goals. If you do not share Karl Marx's fervor about economic justice, his economic doctrine and the reforms it suggests are likely to seem practically false or irrelevant. You may think that preserving the status quo is a more desirable objective than removing the iniquities of capital' ism. In that case, you are likely to think that revolutionary documents are preposterously false. Your main judgment will always be in terms of the ends, not the means. We have no practical interest in even the soundest means to reach ends we do not care about.
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This brief discussion gives you a clue to the two major questions you must ask yourself in reading any sort of practical book. The first is: What are the author's objectives? The second is: What means is he proposing? It may be more difficult to answer these questions in the case of a book about principles than in the case of one about rules. The ends and means are likely to be less obvious. Yet answering them in either case is necessary for the understanding and criticism of a practical book.
It also reminds you of one aspect of practical writing we noted earlier. There is an admixture of oratory or propaganda in every practical book. I have never read a political book—however theoretical it may appear, however "abstract" the principles with which it deals—that did not try to persuade the reader about "the best form of government."
Similarly, moral treatises try to persuade the reader about "the good life" as well as recommend ways of leading it.
You can see why the practical author must always be something of an orator or propagandist. Since your ultimate judgment of his work is going to turn on your acceptance of the goal tor which he is proposing means, it is up to him to win you to his ends. To do this, he has to argue in a way that appeals to your heart as well as your mind. He may have to play on your emotions and gain direction of your will. That is why I call him an orator or propagandist.
There is nothing wrong or vicious about this. It is of the very nature of practical affairs that men have to be persuaded to think and act in a certain way. Neither practical thinking nor action is an affair of the mind alone. The guts cannot be left out. No one makes serious practical judgments or engages in action without being moved somehow from below the neck. The writer of practical books who does not realize this will be ineffective. The reader of them who does not is likely to be sold a bill of goods without his knowing it.
The best protection against propaganda of any sort is the complete recognition of it for what it is. Only hidden and undetected oratory is insidious. What reaches the heart without going through the mind is likely to bounce back and put the mind out of business. Propaganda taken in that way is like a drug you do not know you are swallowing. The effect is mysterious. You do not know afterwards why you feel or think the way you do. But putting alcohol in your drink in a recognized dosage can give you a lift you need and know-how to use.
The person who reads a practical book intelligently, who knows its basic terms, propositions, and arguments, will always be able to detect its oratory. He will spot the passages which make an "emotive use of words." Aware that he must be subject to persuasion, he can do something about weighing the appeals. He has sales resistance.
But do not make the error of supposing that sales resistance must be one hundred per cent. It is good when it prevents you from buying hastily and thoughtlessly. But it should not withdraw you from the market entirely. The reader who supposes he should be totally deaf to all appeals imght just as well not read practical books.
There is one further point here. Because of the nature of practical problems and because of the admixture of oratory in all practical writing, the "personality" of the author is aiore important in the case of practical books than theoretical. Both in order to understand and to judge a moral treatise, a political tract, or an economic discussion, you should know something about the character of the writer, something about his life and times. In reading Aristotle's Politics, it is highly relevant to know that Greek society was based on slavery. Similarly, much light is thrown on The Prince by knowing the Italian situation at the time of Machiavelli, and his relation to the Medicis; or, in the case of Hobbes' Leviathan, to know that Hobbes lived during the English civil wars and was pathologically distressed by social violence and disorder.
Sometimes the author tells you about himself, his life, and times. Usually he does not do so explicitly, and when he does, his deliberate revelation of himself is seldom adequate or dependable. Hence reading his book and nothing else may not suffice. To understand it and to judge it, you may have to read other books, books about him and his times, or books which he himself read and reacted to.
Any aid to reading which lies outside the book being read is extrinsic. You may remember that I distinguished between in
trinsic rules and extrinsic aids in Chapter Seven. Well, the reading of other books is one of the most obvious extrinsic aids in reading a particular book. Let me call this aid "extrinsic reading." I can summarize my point here simply by saying that extrinsic reading about the author is much more important for interpreting and criticizing practical books than theoretical ones.
Remember this as an additional rule to guide you in reading practical books.
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Now let us turn to the large class of theoretic books and see if there are any additional rules there. I must break this large class up into three major divisions, which I have already named and discussed in Chapter Eight: history, science, and philosophy. In order to deal briefly with a complicated matter, I shall discuss only two things in connection with each of these types of books. I shall first consider whatever is peculiar to the problems of that type of book-its terms, propositions, and arguments—and then discuss whatever extrinsic aids are relevant.
You already know the point about a history book being a combination of knowledge and poetry. All of the great historical works are narratives. They tell a story. Any story must have a plot and characters. It must have episodes, complications of action, a climax, and an aftermath. These are the elements of a history, viewed as a narrative—not terms, propositions, and arguments. To understand a history in its poetic aspect, therefore, you must know how to read fiction. I have not yet discussed the rules for doing that, but most people can do this sort of reading with some skill anyway. They know how to follow a story. They also know the difference between a good and a bad story. History may be stranger than fiction, but the historian has to make what happened appear plausible, nevertheless. If he does not, he tells a bad story, a dull one, or even a preposterous one.
HOW TO READ A BOOK Page 24