HOW TO READ A BOOK

by Mortimer J Adler

  I shall discuss in the next chapter the rules for reading fiction. Such rules may help you to interpret and criticize .histories in their poetic dimension as narratives. Here I shall confine myself to the logical rules we have already discussed. Applied to histories, they require you to distinguish two kinds of statement you will find. In the first place, there are all the propositions about particular things-events, persons, or institutions. These are, in a sense, the matter of the history, the substance of what is being narrated. In so far as such statements are subject to argument, the author may try to give you, in his text or footnotes, the evidences for believing that things happened this way rather than otherwise.

  In the second place, the historian may have some general interpretation of the facts he is narrating. This may be expressed poetically in the way he tells the story—whom he makes the hero, where he places the climax, how he develops the aftermath. But it may also be expressed in certain generalizations he enunciates. You must look for general propositions of this sort. Herodotus, in his history of the Persian wars, tells you early what his major insight is.

  The cities which were formerly great, have most of them become insignificant; and such as are at present powerful, were weak in olden time. I shall therefore discourse equally of both, convinced that prosperity never continues long in one place.

  I have italicized the generalization which Herodotus exemplifies again and again in the course of his story. He does not try to prove the proposition. He is satisfied with showing you countless instances in which it appears to be true. That is usually the way historians argue for their generalizations.

  There are some historians who try to argue for their general insights about the course of human affairs. The Marxist historian not only writes in such a way that the class struggle is always clearly exemplified; he frequently argues that this must be the case in terms of his "theory of history." He tries to show that the economic interpretation is the only one. Another historian, such as Carlyle, tries to show that human affairs are controlled by the action of leaders. This is the "great man" theory of history.

  To read a history critically, therefore, you must discovel the interpretation a writer places on the facts. You must know his "theory," which means his generalizations and, if possible, the reasons for them. In no other way can you tell why certain facts are selected and others omitted, why stress is placed on this and not on that. The easiest way to catch on is to read two histories of the same thing, written from different points of view. (One of the things which distinguishes history from science is that there can be two or more good histories of the same events—sharply divergent though equally persuasive and creditable. Of a given matter, there is at any time only one good scientific account.)

  Extrinsic reading is thus an aid to understanding and judging history books. You may go to other histories, or to reference books, to check on the facts. You may even get interested enough to look into the original documents from which the historian gathered evidence. Reading other books is not the only extrinsic aid to understanding a history.

  You can also visit the places where things happened, or look at monuments and other relics of the past. The experience of walking around the battlefield at Gettysburg made me realize how much better I should understand the account of Hannibal's invasion had I ever crossed the Alps on the back of an elephant.

  I want to stress the reading of other great histories of the same events as the best way to get a line on the bias of a great historian. But there is often more than bias in a history.

  There is propaganda. A history of something remote in time or place is also often a tract or diatribe for the home folks, as was Tacitus' account of the Germans, and Gibbon's explanation of why Rome fell. Tacitus exaggerated the primitive virtues of the Teutonic tribes to shame the decadence and effeminacy of his fellow Romans. Gibbon stressed the part a rising Christianity had played in a falling Rome to support the freethinkers and anticlericals of his day against the established churchmen.

  Of all theoretical books, a history is most like practical books in this respect. Therefore, the advice to a reader is the same. Find out something about the character of the historian, and the local conditions which may have motivated him. Facts of this sort will not only explain his bias but prepare you for the moral lessons he tells you history teaches.

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  The additional rules for reading scientific works are the easiest to state. By a scientific work, I mean the report of findings or conclusions in some field of research, whether carried on experimentally in a laboratory or by observations of nature in the raw. The scientific problem is always to describe the phenomena as accurately as possible, and to trace the interconnections among different kinds of phenomena.

  In the great works of science, there is no oratory or propaganda, though there may be bias in the sense of initial presuppositions. You detect this, and take account of it, by distinguishing what the author assumes from what he establishes through argument. The more "objective" a scientific author is, the more he will explicitly beg you to take this or that for granted. Scientific objectivity is not the absence of initial bias. It is attained by frank confession of it.

  The leading terms in a scientific work are usually expressed by uncommon or technical words. They are relatively easy to spot, and through them you can readily grasp the propositions. The main propositions are always general ones. A scientist, unlike a historian, tries to get away from locality in time and place. He tries to say how things are generally, how they generally behave.

  The only point of difficulty is with respect to the arguments. Science, as you know, is primarily inductive. This means that its primary arguments are those which establish. a general proposition by reference to observable evidence—a single case created by an experiment, or a vast array of cases collected by patient inquiry. There are other arguments of the sort which are called deductive. These are arguments in which a proposition is proved by other propositions already somehow established. So far as proof is concerned, science does not differ much from philosophy. But the inductive argument is peculiar to science.

  To understand and judge the inductive arguments in a scientific book, you must be able to follow the evidence which the scientist reports as their basis. Sometimes the scientist's description of an experiment performed is so vivid and clear that you have no trouble. Sometimes a scientific book contains illustrations and diagrams which help to acquaint you with the phenomena described.

  If these things fail, the reader has only one recourse. He must get the necessary special experience for himself at first hand. He may have to witness a laboratory demonstration.

  He may have to look at and handle pieces of apparatus similar to those referred to in the book. He may have to go to a museum and observe specimens or models.

  That is the reason why St. John's College in Annapolis, where all students read the great books, also requires four years of laboratory work for all students. The student must not only learn how to employ apparatus for precise measurements and laboratory constructions, but he must also become acquainted, through direct experience, with the crucial experiments in the history of science. There are classical experiments as well as classical books. The scientific classics become more intelligible to those who have seen with their own eyes and done with their own hands what a great scientist describes as the procedure by which he reached his insights.

  Thus you see how the major extrinsic aid in the reading of scientific books is not the reading of other books but rather getting a direct acquaintance with the phenomena involved. In proportion as the experience to be obtained is highly specialized, it is both more indispensable and more difficult to get.

  I do not mean, of course, that extrinsic reading may not be helpful, too. Other books about the same subject matter may throw light on the problems, and help us to be critical of the book we are reading. They may locate points of misinformation, lack of evidence, incompleteness of analysis. But I still think that t
he primary aid is the one which throws direct light on the inductive arguments that are the heart of any scientific book.

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  The reading of philosophical works has special aspects which relate to the difference between philosophy and science. I am considering here only theoretic works in philosophy, such as metaphysical treatises or books about the philosophy of nature, because ethical and political books have already been treated. They are practical philosophy.

  The philosophical problem is to explain, not to describe, the nature of things. It asks about more than the connection of phenomena. It seeks to penetrate to the ultimate causes and conditions of things, as existing and changing. Such problems are solved only when the answers to them are clearly demonstrated.

  The major effort of the reader here must be with respect to the terms and the initial propositions. Although the philosopher also has a technical terminology, the words which express his terms are often taken from common speech and used in a very special sense. This demands special care from the reader. If he does not overcome the tendency to use familiar words in a familiar way, he will probably make gibberish and nonsense of the book. I have seen many people throw a philosophical book away in disgust or irritation, when the fault was theirs, not the author's. They did not even try to come to terms.

  The basic terms of philosophical discussion are, of course, abstract. But so are those of science. No general knowledge is expressible except in abstract terms. There is notliing peculiarly difficult about abstractions. We use them every day of our lives and in every sort of conversation. If you substitute the distinction between the particular and the general for that between the concrete and the abstract, you will have less fear of abstractions.

  Whenever you talk generally about anything, you are using abstractions. What you can perceive through your senses is concrete and particular. What you think with your mind is always abstract and general. To understand an "abstract word" is to have the idea it expresses. "Having an idea" is just another way of saying that you know a general aspect of something, to which the mind can refer. You cannot see or touch or even imagine the aspect thus referred to. If you could, there would be no difference between the senses and the mind. People who try to imagine what ideas refer to befuddle themselves, and end up with that hopeless feeling about all abstractions.

  Just as the inductive arguments should be the reader's main focus in the case of scientific books, so here you must pay closest attention to the philosopher's principles.

  The word "principle" means a beginning. The propositions with which a philosopher begins are his principles. They may be either things he asks you to assume with him, or matters which he calls self-evident.

  There is no problem about assumptions. Make them to see what follows, even if you yourself have contrary presuppositions. The clearer you are about your own prejudg-ments, the more likely you are not to misjudge those made by others.

  It is the other sort of principle, however, which may cause you trouble. I know of no philosophical book which does not have some initial propositions the author regards as self-evident. These propositions are like the scientist's inductions in one respect. They are drawn directly from experience rather than proved by other propositions.

  The difference lies in the experience from which they are drawn. The philosopher appeals to the common experience of mankind. He does no work in laboratories or research in the field. Hence to understand and test a philosopher's leading principles you do not need the extrinsic aid of special experience. He refers you to your own common sense and daily observation of the world in which you live.

  Once you have grasped a philosopher's terms and principles, the rest of your task in reading his book raises no special difficulties. You must follow the proofs, of course.

  You must note every step he takes in the progress of his analysis—his definitions and distinctions, his ordering of terms. But the same is true in the case of a scientific book.

  Acquaintance with the evidence, in the one case, and acceptance of the principles, in the other, are the indispensable conditions for following all the remaining arguments.

  A good theoretic work in philosophy is as free from oratory and propaganda as a good scientific treatise. You do not have to be concerned about the "personality" of the author, or investigate his social and economic backgrounds. There is utility, nevertheless, in doing extrinsic reading in connection with a philosophical book. You should read the works of other great philosophers who dealt with the same problems.

  The philosophers have carried on a long conversation with one another in the history of thought. You had better listen in on it before you make up your mind about what any one of them says.

  The fact that philosophers disagree does not make them different from other men. In reading philosophical books, you must remember, above all, the maxim to respect the difference between knowledge and opinion. The fact of disagreement must not lead you to suppose that everything is just a matter of opinion. Persistent disagreements sometimes locate the great unsolved and, perhaps, insoluble problems. They point to the mysteries. But where problems are genuinely answerable by knowledge, you must not forget that men can agree if they will talk to one another long enough.

  Do not worry about the disagreement of others. Your responsibility is only for making up your own mind. In the presence of the long conversation which the philosophers have had through their books, you must judge what is true and false. When you have read a philosophical book well —and that means sufficient extrinsic reading as well as skill-tul interpretation—you are in a position to judge.

  The most distinctive mark of philosophical questions is that every man must answer them for himself. Taking the opinions of others is not solving them, but evading them.

  They are answered only by knowledge, and it must be your knowledge. You cannot depend on the testimony of the experts, as you may have to in the case of science.

  There are two further points about extrinsic reading in connection with philosophical books. Do not spend all your time reading books about the philosophers, their lives and opinions. Try reading the philosophers themselves, in relation to one another. And in reading ancient and medieval -philosophers, or even the early modems, do not be disturbed by the errors or inadequacies of scientific knowledge which their books reveal.

  Philosophical knowledge rests directly on common experience and not on the findings of science, not on the results of specialized research. You will see, if you follow the arguments carefully, that the misinformation or lack of information about scientific matters is irrelevant.

  This second point makes it important to note the date of the philosopher you are reading. That will not only place him properly in the conversation with those who came before and after, but prepare you for the sort of scientific imagery he will employ to illustrate some of his points. The same urbanity which makes you indulgent of those who speak a foreign tongue should lead you to cultivate a tolerance for men of wisdom who did not know all the facts we now possess. Both may have something to say that we would be fools not to listen to, simply because of our provincialism.

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  There are two classes of books I have tailed to mention specially. One is mathematics, the other theology. My reason is that at one level of reading, they do not present special problems. And at another, the problems they present are much too complicated and difficult for me to handle here. Perhaps I can say a few simple things about them, however.

  In general, the type of proposition and the type of argument in a mathematical book are philosophical rather than scientific. The mathematician like the philosopher is an armchair thinker. He does no experiments. He undertakes no special observations. From principles, which are either self-evident or assumed, he proves his conclusions, and solves his problems.

  The difficulty in reading mathematical books arises in part from the kind of symbols the mathematician uses. He writes in a special language, not that of ordinary speech. It has a
special grammar, a special syntax, and special rules of operation. In part, also, the precise method of mathematical demonstration is peculiar to this one subject matter. We have already seen many times that Euclid and others who write mathematically have a distinctly different style from that of other authors.

  You must know the special grammar and logic of mathematics if you are to become an accomplished reader of mathematical books. The general rules we have discussed can be applied intelligently to this subject matter only through understanding them in the light of special principles. I might add that the logic of scientific argument and of philosophical proof are also different,' not only from mathematics, but from each other.

  The insight I would like you to get here is that there are as many special grammars and logics as there are specifically different applications of the rules of reading to different kinds of books and subject matters.

  A word about theology. It differs from philosophy in that its first principles are articles of faith adhered to by the communicants of some religion. Reasoning which rests on premises to which reason can itself attain is philosophical, not theological. A theological book always depends upon dogmas and the authority of a church which proclaims them.

  If you are not of the faith, if you do not belong to the church, you can nevertheless read a theological book well by treating its dogmas with the same respect you treat the assumptions of the mathematician. But you must remember that an article of faith is not something which the faithful assume. Faith, for those who have it, is the most certain form of knowledge, not a tentative opinion.

  There is one kind of extrinsic reading peculiar to theological works. Those who have faith believe in the revealed word of God, as that is contained in a sacred scripture.

  Thus, Jewish theology requires that its readers be acquainted with the Old Testament, Christian theology with the New as well, Mohammedan theology with the Koran, and so forth.