After you have completed such readings, you are competent to judge. Your first judgment will naturally be one of taste. You will say not only that you like or dislike the book, but why you did or did not like it. The reasons you give will, of course, have some critical relevance to the book itself, but in their first expression they are more likely to be about you—your preferences and prejudices—than about the book. Hence, to complete the task of criticism, you must objectify your reactions by pointing to those things in the book which caused them. You must pass from saying what you like or dislike and why, to saying what is good or bad about the book and why.
There is a real difference here. No one can disagree with a man about what he likes or dislikes. The absolute authority of his own taste is every man's prerogative. But others can disagree with him about whether a book is good or bad. Taste may not be arguable, but critical appraisals can be assailed and defended. We must appeal to principles of esthetic or literary criticism if we wish to support our critical judgments.
It the principles of literary criticism were firmly established, and generally agreed on, it would be easy to enumerate briefly the main critical remarks that a reader could make about an imaginative hook. Unfortunately— or fortunately—that is not the case, and you will sympathize with my discretion in hesitating to rush in. I shall, however, risk suggesting five questions which will help anyone form a critical judgment on fiction, (i) To what degree does the work have unity? (2) How great is the complexity of parts and elements which that unity embraces and organizes? (3) Is it a likely story, that is, does it have the inherent plausibility of poetic truth? (4) Does it elevate you from the ordinary semiconsciousness of daily life to the clarity of intense wakefulness, by stirring your emotions and filling your imagination? (5) Does it create a new world into which you are drawn and wherein you seem to live with the illusion that you are seeing life steadily and whole?
I shall not defend these questions beyond saying that the more they can be answered affirmatively, the more likely it is that the book in question is a great work of art. I think they will help you to discriminate between good and bad fiction, as well as to become more articulate in explaining your likes and dislikes. Although you must never forget the possible discrepancy between what is good in itself and what pleases you, you will be able to avoid the extreme inanity of the remark: "I don't know anything about art, but I know what I like."
The better you can reflectively discern the causes of your pleasure in reading fiction, the nearer you come to knowing the artistic virtues in the literary work itself. You will thus gradually develop a standard of criticism. And unless you happen to be a professional literary critic—tortured by the need to express the same few insights differently for every book, and driven by competition to avoid the obvious—you will find a large company of men of similar taste to share your critical judgments. You may even discover, what I think is true, that good taste in literature is acquired by anyone who learns to read.
- 4 -
Having gone so far toward generalizing the art of reading, by translating the expository rules into their fictional equivalents, I am impelled to take the last step and complete the job. You now have rules for reading any book. But how about rules for reading anything that is fit to print? How about reading newspapers, magazines, advertising copy, political propaganda? Can the rules be stated so generally that they apply to everything?
I think they can. Necessarily, as they become more general, the rules become fewer in number and less specific in content. In place of three sets of rules, each including three or four, the directions for reading anything can be summarized in tour questions. To read anything well, you must be able to answer these four questions about it. In the light of all the discussion that has preceded, the questions need little explanation. You already know the steps you must take in order to answer these questions.
But, first, let me remind you of the basic distinction— between reading tor information and for understanding— which underlies everything I have said about reading. For the most part, we read newspapers and magazines, and even advertising matter, tor the information they contain. The amount of such material is vast, so vast that no one today has time to read more than a small fraction of the available sources of information.
Necessity has been the mother of several good inventions in the field of such reading.
The so-called news magazines, such as Time and Newsweek, perform an invaluable function for most of us by reading the news and reducing it to its essential elements of information. The men who write these magazines are pri marily readers. They have developed the art of reading for information to a point far beyond the average reader's competence.
The same thing is true of Readers Digest, which manages to reduce almost everything that is worth our attention in current magazines to the compact scope of a single, small volume. Of course, the very best articles, like the best books, cannot be condensed without loss. If the essays of Montaigne or Lamb appeared in a current periodical, we would scarcely be satisfied to read a digest of them. A summary here would function well only if it impelled us to read the original. For the average article, however, a condensation is usually adequate, and often even better than the original. because the average article is mainly informational. The skill which produces Readers Digest each month is, first of all, a skill in reading, and only then one of writing simply and clearly.
It does for us what few of us have the technique —not merely the time—to do for ourselves. It cuts the core of solid information out of pages and pages of less substantial stuff.
But, after all, we still have to read the periodicals which accomplish these extraordinary digests of current news and information. If we wish to be informed, we cannot avoid the task of reading, no matter how good the digests are. And the task of reading the digests is, in the last analysis, the same task as that which is performed by the editors of these magazines on the original materials they make available in more compact form. They have saved us labor, so far as the extent of our reading is concerned, but they have not and cannot entirely save us the trouble of reading. In a sense, the function they perform profits us only if we can read their digests of information as well as they have done the prior reading in order to give us the digests.
The four questions I shall now state as guides tor reading anything apply equally to material which can inform us or enlighten us. To use these questions intelligently as a set of directions, you must know, of course, what it is you are after—whether you are reading for one purpose or the other. If you are wise, your purpose will accord properly with the nature of the thing to be read. Here are the four questions, with brief comment: I. What in general is being said? (To answer this question, you must perform all the steps of structural reading, according to the rules already laid down.) II. How in partocular is it being said? (you Cannot fully discover what is being said unless you penetrate beneath the language to the thought. To do this you must observe how the language is being used, and how the thought is ordered. Here, then, you must follow all the rules of interpretative reading.)
III. Is it true? (Only after you know what is being said, and how, can you consider whether it is true or probable. This question calls for the exercise of critical judgment.
You must decide to accept or reject the information being offered you. You must be especially alert to detect the distortions of propaganda in renderings of the news. In reading for enlightenment, you must decide whether you agree or disagree with what you have come to understand. The rules you must follow here are those of the third, or critical, reading.)
IV. What of it? (Unless what you have read is true in some sense, you need go no further. But if it is, you must face this question. You cannot read for information intelligently without determining what significance is, or should be, attached to the facts presented. Facts seldom come to us without some interpretation, explicit or implied.
This is especially true if you are reading digests of
information which necessarily select the facts according to some evaluation of their significance, some principle of interpretation. And if you are reading for enlightenment, there is really no end to the inquiry which, at every stage of learning, is renewed by the question, What of it? ) These four questions summarize all the obligations of a reader. The first three indicate, moreover, why there are three ways of reading anything. The three sets of rules re spond to something in the very nature of human discourse. If communications were not complex, structural analysis would be unnecessary. If language were a perfect medium instead of a relatively opaque one, there would be no need for interpretation. If error and ignorance did not circumscribe truth and knowledge, we should not have to be critical.
The fourth question turns on the distinction between Information and understanding.
When the material you have read is itself primarily informational, you are challenged to go further and seek enlightenment. Even when you have been somewhat enlightened by what you have read, you are called upon to continue the search for significance.
Knowing these questions is, of course, not enough. You must remember to ask them as you read and, most of all, you must be able to answer them precisely and accurately.
The ability to do just that is the art of reading, in a nutshell.
- 5 -
Ability to read anything well may be the goal, but the goal does not indicate the best place to begin acquiring the art. You cannot begin to acquire the right habits by reading any sort of material; perhaps I should say that some kinds of material make it easier to acquire the discipline than others. It is too easy, for instance, to get something out of newspapers, magazines, and digests, even when one reads them poorly and passively.
Moreover, all our bad habits of perfunctory reading are associated with these familiar materials. That is why, throughout this book, I insisted that trying to read for understanding rather than information—because more difficult and less usual—provides you with a better occasion tor developing your skill.
For the same reason, reading good books, or better, the great books, is the recipe for those who would learn to read. It is not that the rigors of difficult reading are the punishment which fits the crime of sloppy habits; rather, from the point of view of therapy, books which cannot be understood at all unless they are read actively are the ideal prescription for anyone who is still a victim of passive reading. Nor do I think that this medicine is like those drastic and strenuous remedies which are calculated either to kill or cure the patient. For in this case, the patient can determine the dosage. He can increase the amount of exercise he takes in easy stages. The remedy will begin to work as soon as he begins ind the more it works, the more he can take.
The place to begin, then, is on the great books. They are so apt tor the purpose, it is almost as if they were written for the sake of teaching people how to read. They stand to the problem of learning how to read almost as water does to the business of learning how to swim. There is one important difference. Water is indispensable for swimming.
But after you have learned to read by practicing on the great books, you can transfer your abilities to reading good books, to reading any books, to reading anything. The man who) can keep afloat in the deeps need not concern himseif about the shallows.
ut why you did or did not like it. The reasons you give will, of course, have some critical relevance to the book itself, but in their first expression they are more likely to be about you—your preferences and prejudices—than about the book. Hence, to complete the task of criticism, you must objectify your reactions by pointing to those things in the book which caused them. You must pass from saying what you like or dislike and why, to saying what is good or bad about the book and why.
There is a real difference here. No one can disagree with a man about what he likes or dislikes. The absolute authority of his own taste is every man's prerogative. But others can disagree with him about whether a book is good or bad. Taste may not be arguable, but critical appraisals can be assailed and defended. We must appeal to principles of esthetic or literary criticism if we wish to support our critical judgments.
It the principles of literary criticism were firmly established, and generally agreed on, it would be easy to enumerate briefly the main critical remarks that a reader could make about an imaginative hook. Unfortunately— or fortunately—that is not the case, and you will sympathize with my discretion in hesitating to rush in. I shall, however, risk suggesting five questions which will help anyone form a critical judgment on fiction, (i) To what degree does the work have unity? (2) How great is the complexity of parts and elements which that unity embraces and organizes? (3) Is it a likely story, that is, does it have the inherent plausibility of poetic truth? (4) Does it elevate you from the ordinary semiconsciousness of daily life to the clarity of intense wakefulness, by stirring your emotions and filling your imagination? (5) Does it create a new world into which you are drawn and wherein you seem to live with the illusion that you are seeing life steadily and whole?
I shall not defend these questions beyond saying that the more they can be answered affirmatively, the more likely it is that the book in question is a great work of art. I think they will help you to discriminate between good and bad fiction, as well as to become more articulate in explaining your likes and dislikes. Although you must never forget the possible discrepancy between what is good in itself and what pleases you, you will be able to avoid the extreme inanity of the remark: "I don't know anything about art, but I know what I like."
The better you can reflectively discern the causes of your pleasure in reading fiction, the nearer you come to knowing the artistic virtues in the literary work itself. You will thus gradually develop a standard of criticism. And unless you happen to be a professional literary critic—tortured by the need to express the same few insights differently for every book, and driven by competition to avoid the obvious—you will find a large company of men of similar taste to share your critical judgments. You may even discover, what I think is true, that good taste in literature is acquired by anyone who learns to read.
- 4 -
Having gone so far toward generalizing the art of reading, by translating the expository rules into their fictional equivalents, I am impelled to take the last step and complete the job. You now have rules for reading any book. But how about rules for reading anything that is fit to print? How about reading newspapers, magazines, advertising copy, political propaganda? Can the rules be stated so generally that they apply to everything?
I think they can. Necessarily, as they become more general, the rules become fewer in number and less specific in content. In place of three sets of rules, each including three or four, the directions for reading anything can be summarized in tour questions. To read anything well, you must be able to answer these four questions about it. In the light of all the discussion that has preceded, the questions need little explanation. You already know the steps you must take in order to answer these questions.
But, first, let me remind you of the basic distinction— between reading tor information and for understanding— which underlies everything I have said about reading. For the most part, we read newspapers and magazines, and even advertising matter, tor the information they contain. The amount of such material is vast, so vast that no one today has time to read more than a small fraction of the available sources of information.
Necessity has been the mother of several good inventions in the field of such reading.
The so-called news magazines, such as Time and Newsweek, perform an invaluable function for most of us by reading the news and reducing it to its essential elements of information. The men who write these magazines are pri marily readers. They have developed the art of reading for information to a point far beyond the average reader's competence.
The same thing is true of Readers Digest, which manages to reduce almost everything that is worth our attention in current magazines to the compact scope of a single,
small volume. Of course, the very best articles, like the best books, cannot be condensed without loss. If the essays of Montaigne or Lamb appeared in a current periodical, we would scarcely be satisfied to read a digest of them. A summary here would function well only if it impelled us to read the original. For the average article, however, a condensation is usually adequate, and often even better than the original. because the average article is mainly informational. The skill which produces Readers Digest each month is, first of all, a skill in reading, and only then one of writing simply and clearly.
It does for us what few of us have the technique —not merely the time—to do for ourselves. It cuts the core of solid information out of pages and pages of less substantial stuff.
But, after all, we still have to read the periodicals which accomplish these extraordinary digests of current news and information. If we wish to be informed, we cannot avoid the task of reading, no matter how good the digests are. And the task of reading the digests is, in the last analysis, the same task as that which is performed by the editors of these magazines on the original materials they make available in more compact form. They have saved us labor, so far as the extent of our reading is concerned, but they have not and cannot entirely save us the trouble of reading. In a sense, the function they perform profits us only if we can read their digests of information as well as they have done the prior reading in order to give us the digests.
The four questions I shall now state as guides tor reading anything apply equally to material which can inform us or enlighten us. To use these questions intelligently as a set of directions, you must know, of course, what it is you are after—whether you are reading for one purpose or the other. If you are wise, your purpose will accord properly with the nature of the thing to be read. Here are the four questions, with brief comment: I. What in general is being said? (To answer this question, you must perform all the steps of structural reading, according to the rules already laid down.) II. How in partocular is it being said? (you Cannot fully discover what is being said unless you penetrate beneath the language to the thought. To do this you must observe how the language is being used, and how the thought is ordered. Here, then, you must follow all the rules of interpretative reading.)
HOW TO READ A BOOK Page 28